Sweet Mother, I Cannot Weave.
sweet mother, i cannot weave.
playlist pairing: kassandra the eagle bearer x fem!reader word count: 5.2k description: kassandra was the eagle bearer. a misthios feared by all, nearly by the gods themselves. an unstoppable force, a deadly creature on the battlefield, and considered supernatural by many. and yet, you had her wrapped around your finger. tags: smut (18+), definite historical innacuracy, inaccurate ancient greek terms of endearment, period typical misogyny (not from kassandra), takes place in the midst of the peloponnesian war, risk of being caught, kassandra is a munch, reader is a bit of a pillow princess. a/n: i know most of ya'll know my blog for house of the dragon (aka my one jacaerys fic), but kassandra was my first love so she needs appreciation. this is my first time writing for wlw pairing so... please bear with me :)))).
Summertime in Athens was a lazy thing, hazy with a simmering heat and the smell of ripened fruit.
It seemed as if Apollo himself kissed your skin as you basked within the late afternoon glow. His rays brushed over your cheeks, illuminating you in gold. Your eyes were shut, your pliant body laid out against a cushioned kline. You were a beauty not even sculptors could mold out of marble. Everything about you spoke of your careless luxury; silk chiton ruffled from your relaxation, gold earrings glinting in your ears, and the scent of myrrh perfume that filled the room.
A pitcher of wine sits with a full cup on a nearby table. You’d already downed your first cup, you could feel the slight buzz of it in your veins; a gift from Dionysus. Everything felt lazy and quiet. The afternoons often stretched on endlessly, with little entertainment.
You had no other responsibilities to fill your day than to bask like a napping cat.
The bustle of your home city can be faintly heard from the balcony connecting to your rooms. The bartering of merchants in the marketplace, the boisterous laughter of a group of men who had overindulged, the din of many people moving along streets. Despite the temperature, the city still breathes.
Athens seemed to overflow with life, in spite of the Spartan siege resting just outside her walls.
Your father made sure you’d stayed far from that danger, shut safely inside your home. Where a woman should be, he tells you. He feels the brunt of this war and he does everything in his power to keep you from it. Your relationship with him was an odd one, for you were no son. However, since your mother’s life had faded during her labors, a daughter is what he must settle for. But no matter how chilled the bond between you grows, your wellbeing is paramount.
A dead girl cannot be married off for dowry.
He keeps you sheltered away behind the carefully constructed walls of wealth.
Well, until you’d met Kassandra.
The misthios had appeared one day at your villa’s doorstep, imposing and lithe as a lioness. She’d had business with your father, a contract that needed his attention. Standing before your father, who himself was stout and muscular, she outshone him like the sun does the moon. She’d seemed to be crafted specially by the gods themselves. For no other hands could’ve sculpted those lips and shoulders with such care.
You’d watched her approach, sneakily observing from above upon a terrace.
Kassandra was unlike any other woman you’d seen before. Her demeanor was relaxed and held something akin to arrogance. Armed to the teeth, toned, and protected by gold and leather… she knew nothing would dare to touch her. The mercenary could almost be considered a demigod, blessed with Zeus’ eagle to circle above her head. She was everything opposite of what you’ve been instructed to be.
She donned armor that you’d previously only thought belonged to men. It glinted as the sun struck it, illuminating her as if she was Athena coming to walk amongst mortals. The metal she wore for protection also served to accentuate her musculature, fit and lean. You’d never seen such athleticism on one woman, only ever exposed to the soft curves of yourself and your maids.
She was striking in every sense of the word, well-loved by Aphrodite herself. She had the sharp eyes of a hawk, umber and gleaming when the light hit them just right. They did not miss you, either.
Amidst a hushed conversation with your father, her gaze had found yours. It was fleeting, merely a glance. But she’d known you were there, even from your hiding spot. Even from your distance, you could see the pull of a smirk on her lips.
And there was a strange stirring in your stomach... It was something you’d only felt a few times before.
It was never in the presence of any of your father’s soldiers. The men often smelled of sweat and wine, the sight of them left a sour taste in your mouth. But around your maids, you’d noticed that recently your eyes have started to linger. Whether it be on the curve of their sternums, the beauty of their eyes, and the plushness of their lips. You’d often wonder what they might feel like upon your own. It was a secret you kept close and never dared to act upon.
But Kassandra was bringing a tidal wave of attraction upon you, even from first glance. She looked strong like a man but she was still… most definitely a woman. She was beautiful.
You should’ve known from that moment that you were doomed.
She was around often, having an objective that required constant movement around Athens. It often involved your father, the influential general that he was. You were not able to speak with her often, your father feared she might instill a sense of womanly rebellion in you. Though, you stole a few moments of furtive eye contact and quiet, imploring words.
It was upon her fifth visit that her head became buried between your thighs for the first time.
The mercenary had the unfortunate (fortunate) chance of visiting when your father had not been home. The man had been called away on some urgent business you hadn’t cared to pay attention to. What use would it be? You wouldn’t be allowed to help anyhow.
You’d welcomed her in, under the facade of the demanding rule of hospitality.
Her fingers brush against yours when you hand her a cup of sweet wine. A few words are exchanged; she asks after your father, you ask about her eagle, she compliments the wine.
One thing leads to another and your back is against a wall covered in mosaic tiles, breathy moans leaving your mouth. She has one of your thighs over her large shoulder, your silk chiton rucked up to your hips. She made a temple of your body, an altar in between your legs, and a sacrifice with her tongue.
It was your first time lying with a woman, lying with anyone. She made you feel like you were in Elysium.
She visited more often after that, no longer just to see your father.
You often awaited her at night, when she would climb up through your balcony to find your embrace. The woman could scale just about anything, it seemed.
She was something holy; borne from the gods, no doubt. You believed that even more when she played your body like a finely tuned lyre.
Every visit has you feeling like Penelope, welcoming Odysseus back to Ithaca.
Though, lately, you’ve gotten the feeling that she will soon be moving on to other places.
There was a far away look in her eyes when she gazed at you now, hidden beneath amorous hues. Her touches began to stray with a softness that had not been there before. She’s begun to linger after your satiation, lips reverently brushing over your temple when she has to depart. It made you uneasy… the affection was welcome, but it was tinged with a bittersweet omen. You did not wish for her to go.
This arrangement was not one borne of longstanding love and commitment; it was all-consuming, passionate, and free of false promises. However… you cannot deny the blossoms of affection that have been planted from all your shared intimacies with the mercenary. She would sometimes bring you fresh figs she picked along her travels, and then you would insist on sharing. Or there were times when she could not stay for long… so she’d tuck an anemone she’d saved behind your ear with a press of plush lips to the corner of your mouth.
Kassandra rarely allowed herself to have such tenderness. There were those out there who would do anything to tear away anything she cared about. It was all too easy to fall into the role of careless mercenary, only in it for the drachmae. Perhaps, if it was just her and Ikaros against the world, things would be easier.
But, there was you… saccharine and delicate, with a heart purer that King Midas’ gold. You felt like the closest thing to home she’s had in a long time.
Everyone had their vices.
There were times that she did not crave you for lust at all. Sometimes she would crawl into bed beside you with a sigh… wounded or bruised. The look in her eyes, then, tugged at your heart. They were so tired… almost sad. You could see, she needed the comfort of your sweet words and to fall asleep in a safe place. The way you rubbed the muscles of her back, pressed chaste kisses to her bruised cheekbones, and undid her braid made Kassandra believe that maybe… she could afford to have this one shred of kindness.
It was a secret, just for the two of you. Something forbidden by the laws of men, two women partaking in such carnality, but what laws had Kassandra ever abided by?
Muted footsteps catch your wandering attention, sandals across smooth stone, bringing you back from your thoughts.
You're pleased to see the familiar outline of your lover in the doorway.
Kassandra was imposing even in the simplest of times. The sun catches half of her face, causing one eye to look molten, the other dark umber in the shadows.
She utters your name in a low familiar greeting, her tongue curling over the syllables. The left corner of her lips tug up in a slow smile.
You cannot help but rake your eyes over the way her body looked in her usual armor. Her chestplate accentuated the strong slope of her arms. You admired her well-built shoulders and biceps, one marred by the scars left by an animal she’d conquered in her past. You often liked to brush your lips over it to make her shudder. Her leather pteruges rustled with each movement; accentuating the long lines of her legs. Every detail of her did not escape your notice; a vein along one of her hands, the cut of her calves, the small strands of hair that always escaped her braid.
You also do not miss how her heated eyes take you in. Like you were a nymph or nereid, basking in the sun.
To her, you were otherworldly.
The shoulder of your silk wrappings had slid down one of your shoulders, revealing a tantalizing slip of skin. The sun illuminated you like a beacon. You lounged like a big cat, easy and wanton. As you gazed at her through lazy, half-lidded eyes; she felt a familiar heat simmering between you both.
The two of you were like a conflagration, coming together to burn.
“Kassandra.” You drawl in greeting, eyes tracking her as she steps into the room.
“I thought I might find you here.” The sellsword muses, sharp eyes flicking around your rooms. She takes in the open balcony, the goblet of wine by your side, before her gaze traces you again.
“Did you?” You cannot hide the quiet tease of your voice, something salacious hidden beneath your lilting words. She hums in agreement. You shift where you lie, a strategic move that lets your dressings slip even further down your chest, revealing almost too much of your sternum. You let one of your legs fall to the side of the kline, creating an inviting cradle between your thighs.
Kassandra notices. You can see the way she tracks the movement with a heated gaze. When she meets your eyes again, she raises an amused brow.
“You’re done speaking with my father, then?” You inquire. There is a hope in your tone you cannot hide, and haven’t been able to for a while now. You cannot deny you greatly look forward to Kassandra’s visits… and you yearn for her when she is not around. She is an excitement in your dull life, a taste of the outside world you haven’t seen.
There comes that look upon her face that you are so used to seeing now. Something more somber and serious than her usual teasing facade.
“Yes… I have just completed my final task for him.”
You feel a sinking in your stomach. Your earlier flirtations now feel… silly.
“You’ve been paid then..?” You venture to ask, brows drawing together. The clenching in your chest and the downturn of your lips strangely feel like disappointment.
“I have.” Kassandra states simply. She sighs, eyes glancing out towards the balcony for a moment. She seems to be thinking something over. She takes a step closer, knees almost bumping into your shins where you recline.
“I will be leaving Athens soon… my-” She hesitates. Does she tell you everything now? Her whole purpose in coming to the city? Her quest? The cult? Her family? “... contracts now lie in other places across the Aegean. I will leave with my ship tomorrow morning.”
“What?” You ask, almost startled. She was leaving? So soon? “Leaving-?” Your voice is, embarrassingly, tinged with panic. You begin to push yourself up on your elbows, chiton sliding across your skin to become entirely improper. You could care less.
Then, Kassandra does something you don’t expect.
She kneels before your kline, body half hovering over yours. The proximity is enough to have your words catching in your throat. A pretty flush settles over your cheeks as you're forced to meet her eyes. The smell of leather, olive oil, and sandalwood fills your nose.
Her strong arms cage you in at either side, your noses are almost brushing against one another. The heat of her body is palpable, even through her armor. You can feel her leather pteruges brushing your calves, the leather softly rasping over your skin. Her chestplate digs slightly into your thighs.
“Come with me.” She murmurs, tone low. The words are meant just for you.
Surprise overcomes any other emotion you’re feeling.
“What-?” Your whispered exclamation is cut off quickly.
“Come with me. Travel with me, on the Adrestia.” She implores once again, ducking her head. Her lips brush across your jaw. You make a soft noise, it sounds like a surrender. You tilt her head and you feel her brushing chaste kisses down your throat. Her touch makes you shudder, your heart kicking up its pace as your body begins to perk up.
“See the world with me. Feel the ocean breeze across your skin for the first time, leave these city walls, let me show you freedom.” Each word is murmured against you. Her warm breath fans across your skin, mingling with the clime of the day.
A gasp is torn from your lips as she nips at the junction between your neck and shoulder, trailing her lips to your exposed shoulder. You melt back into the cushions beneath you. She follows you down. It feels like molten heat is settling in your stomach. You do not know how she pulls this lust from you so easily, but you’re not complaining.
Your hands slide to her arms, feeling the well-built muscles under your palms. Your head tilts back against your pillows, lips parted with quickened breath. Her callused hands brush up to your hips, causing your chiton to bunch. She kneads into your pliant flesh.
“I could teach you to sail, have you stand with me at the helm. You would be free to do as you wished…” Kassandra breathes out over your skin, trailing lower and lower. She’s still trying to convince you, even when you haven’t given her your answer.
You knew what you wanted, wholeheartedly. Of course you would go with her. The truth is, you’d fallen deeply in love with the mercenary… You could hardly let her go. She completed you, made you whole. She was the sunlight streaming through your bedroom doorway, the honeyed taste of figs on your tongue, and she was the freedom of the eagle soaring outside. She was hard and callous, but held a gentleness reserved just for you. It was as if you’d cracked past the exterior of a pomegranate, finding the sweetened seeds within.
Besides, if you stayed, all that awaited you was a loveless marriage and a possible death on your birthing bed.
However, Kassandra isn’t leaving you in a state to speak these poetic thoughts to her.
One of her hands finds the slipping hem covering your chest. With a simple tug, she bares your chest to her.
You give a small squeak of surprise, a flush spreading to your ears. She shushes you, heated eyes meeting yours as her lips tug into a small smirk. Then, she descends upon you.
Kassandra brushes her lips over your collarbone, nipping playfully at the skin. It’s clear she intends to leave a mark… then she trails lower and lower… before she’s kissing around the mound of your breast.
You shudder, a sigh of pleasure leaving your lips. One of your hands finds her nape while the other tangles into her brunette tresses. It messes up her carefully woven braid, but neither of you really notice. You pull her closer like you can’t get enough of her, like you can meld your bodies together. Her touch is as warm and filling as the sun. It sets you ablaze, threatening to burn.
When she laves her tongue over your peak, you give a weak cry. To her, it sounds better than any song the muses could ever sing. You moan so prettily for her. She could get drunk off of that alone. No flask of even the finest bacchanal wine could make her feel as you do. She begins to lap at you in earnest, tugging whines from your lips..
“Kassandra.” You mewl, an encouragement. You do not care if anyone in the household hears.
“You always taste so sweet.” The words are murmured against your skin, skilled tongue curling around the syllables. Her voice causes a fluttering in your stomach. She trails her mouth to your other breast, kneading the previous in her hand. Her eyes are half-lidded through her long lashes as she drinks in your every reaction. Your eyes shutter, arching into her brazen touches. The want radiating through your body pools, thick and cloying, between your thighs.
She has hardly even begun, and yet you’re melting in her hands.
“I could teach you to hunt, to live for yourself. You would be beautiful with a bow. You could put the daughters of Artemis to shame.” The warrior speaks against your skin. The words are murmured between swipes of her tongue, her lashes fluttering with the ecstasy of tasting your skin.
Once she has you squirming for her, just from her mouth on your chest, you feel her body begin to slide down against yours. Her hands brush down over your thighs as her lips travel over your covered stomach… then abdomen.
“And every night… I could take you to shore. Every night would be just like this. Wouldn’t you like that?” Her words are husky and heated, leaving you more breathless by the moment.
“Y… Yes… Gods…” You nod shakily, struggling to be coherent. You shift where you lie, twitching your hips towards her.
“There are no gods here. It’s just you and me, erasmia.” The term of endearment rolls easily from Kassandra’s mouth.
Her calloused palms brush over your ankles as she gently parts them.
You blink open your hazy hues to gaze down at her… and the sight would’ve made you weak in the knees had you been standing. She’s gorgeous, the paragon of your desire. Her broad shoulders gently nudge your thighs open, she guides them to rest over her arms. She’s smiling, you realize, her head turned against the inside of your knee. You wish to see its radiance but you wouldn’t dare move her from where she is. The movement causes the silk of your skirts to bunch, dangerously close to exposing you.
Your paramour hums in satisfaction at the reveal of your bare skin. Her dark eyes are trained on your expression; eyes doe-like with soft parted lips. You feel her dangerous mouth skim across your knee, up to your thigh. They’re gentle, butterfly kisses. The way she touches you is reverential in nature.
She has never believed in the gods, for they had never done anything for her. But… having you like this… maybe there were supernatural beings in this world. Perhaps there were gods, perhaps Aphrodite had borne you from a rose. You were anointed with beauty that could rival any goddess… though she would not curse you by speaking the words aloud.
You suck in a breath as her lips skim to your inner thigh, holding it in anticipation for what you know comes next. A warm breeze blows through the open terrace. It caresses your bare chest, making you shudder. Every fibre of your being was wound with need.
But Kassandra was nothing if not a tease. You can feel her grin against your skin as she nips at your thigh. Her sharp canines travel across your plush flesh, leaving blooming red marks in their wake. It causes your muscles to twitch, shifting over her shoulders.
“I would keep you safe, of course. Nothing would touch you, nothing would even come close. Not while I’m around.” She speaks against your skin, the words almost muffled. Her nose nudges into your thigh as her face presses even closer.
You whine in frustration as the woman between your thighs travels her lips higher. She’s distinctly avoiding where you want her most, wet and weeping. Instead, her hands push you chiton around your waist. You're open, exposed for the taking. But she doesn’t seem to care. She sucks a mark into the jut of your hip bone, warm palms skimming over your thighs. She makes sure you stay open for her.
The mercenary is a terrible (beautiful) combination of passionate and possessive, often leaving marks that you struggle to hide from your father. Your body is a canvas for her marks of lust.
It is when she starts kissing across your stomach that you begin to beg. You feel close to trembling, losing yourself to the need she has (all too quickly) built you up to. There is not a sweeter torture.
“Kassandra… please.” You breathe, lips forming into a slight pout as she showers kisses on the flesh of your tummy. “I need you. Don’t be cruel.” Your voice is pathetic, tinged with desperation. You’re too entranced by her to be embarrassed by it.
She laughs softly against you. But… she can never resist you for long. You were a test of her self-control, one she often failed. You were her Achilles heel. She would do anything for you, that is what makes you so dangerous. If the knowledge of her only weakness got into the wrong hands… she could lose everything.
But Kassandra can’t help but need you anyways. She has lost so much in her life… she should at least have this luxury.
“I’ll give you what you need, o khara… I always will.” It sounds almost like a promise.
And it is. One she intends to keep.
She rips a quiet gasp from your throat as she skims her lips down your navel… and, this time, she does not stop her descent.
Kassandra, first, presses a kiss against your core. The touch surprises you and it is not nearly enough. You open your mouth to tell her such, but you’re quickly silenced.
Your lover wastes no time, perhaps just remembering that your father was still in the house or the fact that your maids could walk in at any moment. She flattens her tongue against you, tasting your essence. She groans into you, your ambrosia like honey on her tongue. You can feel the vibrations of it travelling through your body.
Your choke on your breath for a moment, hands scrambling to hold onto something. One hand tangles into her hair as the other grips the couch beneath you. She grunts at the pressure but does not protest. In fact, she follows your guidance, pressing closer.
Her tongue slides against your entrance, eagerly tasting all of you where you leak for her. You can feel her nose nudging into your pearl, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine. You moan, biting your lip to try and keep quiet.
She tsks, pulling away much to your dismay. Already, her lips are wet with your arousal.
“None of that, I want to hear you.” She rasps. You could argue, bring up the fact that anyone could very much be here. But gods, you don’t want her to stop.
You nod dumbly, tugging her face back to the apex of your thighs. She goes, chuckling at your easy compliance. You sigh in relief as her tongue swipes through your folds once more.
Your hips arch into her ministrations. You crave more… so much more. You think, in times like these, that you understand how Icarus must have felt. A strong forearm slings across your hips, pressing you flat against the cushions for her taking. Her other slides to your haunch, gripping the pliant flesh. She keeps you spread for her.
Kassandra drinks from you like she is dying of thirst. She is messy, trying to taste every bit of you. The woman was skilled with her tongue. You can feel as she dips her tongue teasingly at your entrance before lapping over your clit, suckling until she repeats the pattern again. It has you melting for her… helpless to do anything but take the gift she gives you.
She is godlike, radiant from the late sun. She could be Eros incarnate, beautiful and salacious between your thighs.
You writhe, even under her strong hold. You tug, not too hard, at her hair. You need more. You mewl with every pass of her tongue over you…
“Ah…” Your lips are parted with exerted breaths, breasts heaving with the force of them. Kassandra is enraptured by the sight, fiery eyes locked on you from where she feasts. “Kassandra.. Mm.. don’t you dare stop.” It sounds like an order from your mouth.
Soon, she zeroes in on your pearl. You think she might suffocate from how she presses her face into your cunt. If she was a lioness, she’d be mauling you. She suckles at your clit, causing your body to twitch from the overwhelming feelings of pleasure. Your eyes flutter closed, mellisonant sighs and cries of ecstasy pouring from your pretty lips.
“So beautiful…” Kassandra murmurs against you. Her hand slides from your thigh to prod at your entrance, testing. “Taste so good, can never get enough of you. And you’re always so wet…” You don’t have the awareness to feel embarrassed by her teasing.
She slides two long fingers inside you, huffing as she feels your cunt flutter around the digits. You shudder, body not knowing how to handle the twin sensations. She continues to lap at your nub. But her fingers begin a slow slide, curling within you just right.
The wet sounds between your thighs are obscene. You can feel your own slickness and her saliva on the inside of your thighs, combined with the sting of where Kassandra had marked you earlier. Her attention is never ending.
Every thrust of her fingers inside of you wrenches a moan from you. They filled you so deeply, much better than your own. She has ruined you for anyone else. Embarrassingly, you can feel your peak approaching already. Desire pools in your stomach, a coil tightening.
Kassandra can evidently feel it too, the way you flutter around her. Gods… you got so tight when you were close. It was maddening. She doubles her efforts, moaning into your cunt as she flattens her tongue over your pearl.
Her free hand moves to your hips, encouraging you to grind against her face and fingers. You do, settling into a shaky rhythm. She was giving you everything. Your breathing is labored, hardly able to moan through your panting. It’s desperate and so dirty…
Every pass of your hips as her fingers pressing closer, digits finding the spongy spot inside of you. It only takes a couple more grinds of your hips before you’re falling over the edge.
“That’s it… look at you.” Kassandra praises, voice low and heady as she guides you through your peak. She continues to murmur dirty praises into your skin as you lose yourself to hedonistic ecstasy. Her fingers slow into gentle pushes, letting your release pool between them. Waves of pleasure roll through you, and you take them gladly. There is a faint perspiration upon your brow and your cheeks are flushed prettily.
Your partner presses kisses against you, digits sheathed till you whimper in overstimulation. You nudge her head away with your palm and she takes the signal. You shudder as she pulls her fingers from you, watching with half-lidded eyes as she licks them clean. Her chin glistens with evidence of your carnal sin.
You tug her up into a kiss, pliant lips against her own. She follows your direction easily. Your arms slide around her shoulders, feeling her warmth. Her hands are planted on either side of your head, firm body balanced above you. You can taste yourself on her tongue. Your body is still buzzing from satiation, lazy and full.
Kassandra hums into the kiss. Slowly, you pull away for breath. Both of your breathing is still labored. Gently, you brush your fingers along her tan cheek. She leans into the touch, nose brushing your own. The look in her eyes can only be described as loving devotion.
“Of course I will go with you.” You utter against her, voice shot from all your keening. “There is nowhere else I would rather be than at your side, Kassandra.”
Her grin is more radiant than the stars..
-
That very night, she climbs your terrace once again.
But this time, you’ll be leaving with her.
She coaxes you out of bed with a multitude of kisses across your cheeks. There are quiet shushes and giggles as you get out of bed to dress.
Kassandra drapes a shroud around your shoulders, making sure it obscures your face. She gently guides you from your bedroom, her hands at your waist help you climb down the ivy that clings to the rough clay walls. You travel like silent mice, the guards none the wiser to your midnight escape.
Her loyal steed, Phobos, awaits you a distance away from the villa walls. She hoists you up easily, settling you onto the knit pad on the horse's back. Phobos stands still for you, quiet and patient.
She joins you, clicking her tongue and nudging her heels into the animal's side. The beast’s stride is smooth and sure, and soon enough your villa is fading into the starry sky behind you.
Kassandra’s body is warm at your back, arms strong and heavy as she holds you. She guides your head back to rest on her shoulder, murmuring words of affection into your hair.
You ride together under the protection of Selene, off to a new life you would build. Together.
More Posts from Espressheauxs and Others
BOOMSHAKALAKA YES LAWWWWDDDDDDDD
Go give THAT FIC ALL THE LOVE YALL ITS DELICIOUSSSSSSSS
The way this is literally me & @gothcsz’s interpretation of sugar daddy Marcus Acacius like uggggg. Everybody go read our doc child: SAFETY NET for clear skin. 5 likes and we’ll work on chapter two and make it extra nasty for everybody. 😁🤭
https://instagram.com/p/BUb2t2aDgco/
I need this man in a way that is concerning to feminism.
What is he DOING I JUST SAW THIS VIDEO ON TWITTER
The fucking bedroom eyes THE SLUTTY OPEN COLLAR WHAT IS HE DOING WHAAAATTtatatat
he looks so fucking good GET OUT 😭
meeting jack on some dating app and being completely taken by his profile. it’s a confident swipe right, with the hopeful presumption of a match with the handsome doctor.
Jack Abbot, Md. - 49 | Operating on 1 1/2 legs, but can do wonders with my two hands
that was a couple weeks and 3 dates ago. it was refreshing and exhilarant to meet someone like jack— who had as much reluctance as you towards the dating app world, but open to the idea. he was good conversation, luring you in with his relaxed disposition and electrifying gaze— he had you craving more of him in such a short amount of time. that’s how you found yourself at his workplace, unplanned and unannounced. the sweet blonde nurse said he’d just come in just moments ago, his shift starting soon, giving you a beaming smile and kindly ushering you off to the side to wait so he wouldn’t miss you. his features read as strongly concerned when he finally did approach you, “hey— what are you doing here? is everything okay?” as he gave you a brief once over. you assured him you completely fine, just wanting to catch him before his shift, “i’m totally fine!! i was on a walk and stopped into that bakery off of virginia avenue. you’d mentioned wanting to try their chocolate croissant, so i got you one of those and a scone the recommended. Oh, and a coffee— black with enough room for cream because I wasn’t sure.” handing off the paper bag and white to-go cup to him, hoping he can’t read how nervous you feel showing up out of nowhere. he doesn’t say anything. the silence that drags on between you feels excruciatingly loud and glaringly obvious that you crossed an undefined boundary. “oh my gosh. i— i totally must have misread things between us. i’m so so sorry. I shouldn’t have— i’m just gonna go.” you don’t even bother to wait for a response, immediately taking off in search of air that feels less suffocating and the farther away from this now failed thing between you two, the better. “wait—“ you’re about half way down the ambulance entrance to the hospital when you hear jack trying to get your attention before you get any further, “wait! please— that was an asshole move back there. i’m sorry, it’s just that nobody’s ever done anything like that for me before and i— I didn’t know how to react. i’m sorry and thank you.” you can tell he’s nervous and it makes your stomach do that little giddy flip it’s been doing since your first date. “you’ve never had anyone do something nice for you?” “No— i mean— yes, i have. it’s just been a long time. since i’ve dated. since i’ve really liked someone and wanted it to work out.” a shiver of goosebumps spreads over your skin as his hand cups your face, his thumb gliding softly across your cheek. “well, i think you’re worth doing nice things for. and i really like you too.” he hadn’t kissed you before now, not truly. respectfully pressing his lips to your cheek before bidding you a good-night is nothing compared to the way he’s kissing you now. all-consuming and toe-tingling. leaving zero room for doubt as he devours you— letting you know just how fiercely he likes you and how desperately he wants you. “what are you doing later?” “more than likely i’ll be in bed, sleeping.” “let me take you out when i get off.” “you’re going to be tired, jack. you need sleep too.” “sleep is for the weak. and if losing sleep means more time with you, then I’d give up a lifetime of rest without a second thought.”
Protect and Honor
Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader
Summary: Marcus Acacius promised his best friend he would look after his wife if he ever perished in battle. What he didn't expect was to fall in love.
Warnings: OC death (reader's husband), grief, descriptions of battle/wounds/blood, guilt, angst, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, dry humping, cum eating, pining, language
WC: 6.6K
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
The entire city of Rome slept when the army returned. Warships quietly entered the port with another victory to announce, along with countless lifeless bodies in the hulls. Tomorrow, the emperors would rejoice, filling the streets and arena with games, wine, and laughter. But many families would be in mourning over the loss of fathers, brothers, children, and husbands.
It was those families Acacius thought about when he stood in between the young leaders of Rome, accepting praise and applause for leading those brave men into battle, then leaving their loved ones with holes in their hearts.
It wasn't unusual for him to feel burdened with responsibility and grief when he returned from war, but this time was especially painful because he lost someone very important: Antonius Sattius. His right hand man in battle, and his close friend since he was a boy. The man he celebrated with when he was married one year prior was now carefully carried from his ship, body draped in clean linen and emblazoned with gold.
His heart felt heavy in his chest as he made his way up the winding road to your modest home. Even though it was the middle of the night, he couldn't fathom not telling you the news right away. You deserved to know directly from him and not rumors that would inevitably flow through the streets at first light.
He knocked on your door, then stood with his head bowed and his hands clasped firmly at his waist. He wore his amour, although now clean, out of respect. His muscles were weary and everything ached, yet the thought of his own soft bed was distant in his mind when you swung open the door a moment later with a small lantern in your hand.
"Acacius?"
His head lifted and he met your gaze, eyes filled with sorrow, and watched while your expression changed from confusion to despair when you realized the reason he was alone at your door in the middle of the night.
"My lady, may I come in?"
Your lower lip trembled when you nodded and stepped aside, allowing his hulking frame to engulf your small sitting room as you hurried to light some candles with shaking hands.
"Was it quick?" you asked with your back to him. He nodded, standing stoically next to your furniture.
"Yes. He did not suffer."
Flashes of your husband's bloodied, dirt streaked face clouded his vision. He remembered voices shouting, swords clanging, and distant cries of pain as he hunched over Antonius's body, searching for signs of life.
You sighed and turned to face him, silent tears staining your cheeks, then slumped into a chair.
"Please, sit."
He relented and chose to sit across from you, perched on the edge of his seat, poised and ready but for what, he did not know. He watched you stare down at your tangled fingers in your lap, giving you time to process your loss.
"How will I ever go on? What am I going to do?" you whispered softly. Marcus pursed his lips, his heart breaking.
"I shall help you with anything you may need," he said. "I made a promise to him long ago. He was able to die with peace in his heart, knowing you would be watched over."
You gave him a weak smile. "And what was he to do for you, Acacius, if you had fallen first?" you asked. "No wife. No children. I have never heard you speak of family."
"He was my family," Marcus replied. "He promised to return my body to Rome, to be buried next to my mother and father."
You nodded solemnly and looked around the candlelit room. He could see the anguish flitting across your face as you tried to reconcile with the new life you would have come morning.
"If I had a choice, I would have taken his place."
"Do not say that," you said firmly. You narrowed your watery eyes at him and he fell silent. "We lost him for a reason. The gods - they have their reasons. Perhaps one day, we will discover what those are."
He held your gaze for a moment, a heaviness hanging in the air between you until the tears began to spill down your face and your vision blurred. Without considering decorum, Marcus stood and crossed the room to sit by your side. Tentatively, he reached for your hand, and you eagerly took it before leaning into his shoulder to sob quietly. All the while, Marcus sat strong beside you, letting you cry yourself out until your body sagged and your eyes could no longer remain open.
You didn't ask him to stay and he didn't ask permission. Once you disappeared into your bedroom, he removed his armor and made himself as comfortable as possible on your lounging chair before crossing his arms and willing himself to sleep.
The following morning you weren't surprised to hear Marcus stirring in your sitting room, no doubt being woken up by the two girls you had employed to assist with meals and laundry. A luxury, you realized, you would likely have to forgo as a widow.
You wrapped yourself in a fresh stola and splashed some water on your puffy face, trying to make yourself look halfway decent before exiting your bedroom. Marcus was just securing his armor when he turned to face you.
"I hope you were able to rest," he said. You saw some movement from the kitchen and your gaze slid over his shoulder to the two sets of eyes peering around the door. The girls saw you and quickly disappeared, but it didn't stop your face from warming when you realized they must have been whispering about Marcus being in your home so early in the morning.
"Some, yes," you replied. You swallowed thickly and stretched your arm towards the dining area. "Would you join me before you leave?"
"Of course, thank you," Marcus said, straightening his spine and following you into the room to sit at your table, where the two servants had already begun to place some food.
After you had filled your plates, you ate in silence, the only sound coming from the cleaning being done in the kitchen. As you stared down at your plate, you felt your stomach churn. The thought of eating while your husband lied dead somewhere in the city made you sick.
"What happens now?" you asked. Marcus set his fork down to look at you. "His body? Where is it? What do I need to do?"
"I was hoping to take some of his clothes to the mortuary while I am here," he said. "Whatever you prefer he be buried in, of course. If it is too much, I can assist in planning the ceremony."
"I do not wish to make a spectacle of it," you told him. "Antonius would not have cared for that."
"I will be sure to keep it small. The men will understand."
Marcus kept his promise. He planned most of the ceremony on your behalf and even stood valiantly at your side the entire time. He supplied the two coins for you to place upon your husband's closed eyes, then led you back home. You cried more tears you ever thought possible in the eight days you spent mourning while soldiers came to pay their respects in small groups, all the while Marcus sat by your side like a pillar of strength.
Once the typical mourning period passed, you expected Marcus to go back to his life where he might occasionally check in on you to uphold his promise, but to your surprise, he stopped by your home every day. It wasn't always the same time of day, nor for the same length of time, but every single day for months, you saw one another.
Eventually, you fell into a routine once a week where he would escort you to the markets. With your basket looped around one arm and your other hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, you meandered down the street together, wandering slowly from stall to stall until you gathered all the goods you needed for the week.
"I wish you would have kept the girls," Marcus told you for the third time that week. "I would have paid-"
"It was not about money," you reminded him, picking up a ripe piece of fruit and testing the firmness between your fingers. "It was unnecessary, I told you this already. What do I need servants for? To cook food for one? I hired them in anticipation of having children. My dream of being a mother is gone."
"You could remarry."
You scoffed and rolled your eyes before placing the fruit back and moving on.
"You know as well as I that suitors look for an untouched woman," you said quietly so that you couldn't be overheard.
Marcus remained silent by your side as you continued to stroll. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining but it wasn't terribly hot, and there was a slight breeze in the air, bringing with it the scent of lemon trees from a nearby orchard. You were about to open your mouth to remark on the perfect weather when Marcus spoke.
"I could help you find a suitor."
You twisted around and looked up at him in surprise. The sun glistened off his tanned, battle-scared face, his dark eyes gazing down at you without the faintest glimmer of humor.
"You are serious."
"If you like," he said, "I know there are some higher ranking officers who are still unwed. I would never bring any man who Antonius would not approve of."
The idea of moving on left you speechless. It was something you knew you should do, that otherwise you would live a long and lonely life, but it still unsettled you.
"Perhaps," you said slowly, then looked away. Marcus noticed your discomfort and patted your hand.
"If you are not ready, we can wait."
You nodded, pinching your lips together as you pretended to look at some flowers.
"And what of you, Acacius?" you asked, changing the subject. "Are you searching for a bride?"
Marcus chuckled and shook his head. "I fear the emperors have chosen war as my betrothed. It was a rare act of kindness they have allowed me this time of rest and mourning."
Your heart clenched in your chest, realizing for the first time that some day soon, Marcus would be sent off to a faraway land once again, leaving you all alone. Suddenly, the perfect weather and the sounds of the market was not enough to keep a smile on your face. You struggled to make sense of the mixed emotions you were feeling but did your best to shrug them off and carry on.
What you didn't realize that right next to you, Marcus was wrestling with the same uncertainty.
Just as you both expected but didn't want to acknowledge, three weeks later Marcus received word he was to lead Rome's army across the sea to conquer yet another distant city. When you heard the soft knock at your door far too early one morning, you sat up in bed, dread filling your chest.
With a cloak wrapped tightly around you, you slowly padded towards your door, only opening it timidly after taking a deep, shaky breath.
Marcus stood on the other side, clad in his black battle armor with a look of regret once again. Your heart sank as you tried not to slump against the doorframe.
"Come in," you said meekly. He nodded, jaw tense, and stepped inside your home the same way he had been every day for six months, only this time he set his sword by the door and turned to address you.
"I have my orders," he began, "I will be gone for a month or two, but I have asked a trusted retired general to check in on you in my absence."
You nodded and blinked away the tears that welled up in your eyes, but you weren't quick enough. Two fell down your cheeks and your lower lip quivered when his face softened and he stepped forward.
"Be brave," he murmured, cupping your jaw and swiping the tears away with his thumb. It was the most intimate thing he had done since you have known him. "I will return and escort you to the market in no time. Until then, do try to stay out of trouble. I do not want Julius to write of you injuring yourself chasing after the crows in your garden again."
You laughed as more tears spilled down your face. "I will try."
He smiled down warmly at you, eyes scanning your face and palm still cradling your jaw. You both felt something shift in that moment. The air grew thicker when your eyes met and your heart flipped when his gaze briefly fell to your lips. Your fingers itched to touch him, to pull him close and dispel of the gap between you, but you hesitated. Unknowingly, Marcus was doing the very same, swallowing nervously at the butterflies in his stomach, something he hadn't felt in years with a woman. But neither of you acted on your feelings, for the ghost of your husband still lingered in the room.
You cleared your throat and gently took his hand, the one that was pressed against your cheek, and pulled it down to hang between you.
"Please try not to die."
Marcus grinned and the air in the room instantly lifted.
"I will try."
Begrudgingly, he let go of your hand and took a step back. "I will return before you know it. And when I do," he said, bending to pick up his sword, "I expect to be inundated with all the exciting rumors around the city, first thing."
You bit your lower lip and swiped the back of your had across your cheek.
"I promise."
Marcus gave you one last lingering glance before forcing his feet to move. You watched with a heavy heart as he made his way down your walk, towards the road, towards the direction of the sea. From where you stood, you could just see the tops of the warships, their sails already fluffed in the dimness of the sliver of sun peaking over the horizon.
As it turned out, Julius was quite good company. He was old enough to have all grey hair and deep wrinkles around his eyes. He walked with a limp, which was assisted by a cane he had whittled when he was a much younger man. He would share a meal with you or sit in your garden a couple times a week, and he would tell you stories of war, his family, and the exciting adventures he had experienced throughout his long life.
"My wife passed on three years ago," he told you one morning while you watched the sun break through the clouds and warm up your vegetable garden, which was growing at a substantial rate. "She had grown quite ill for a long time. She suffered greatly, and it broke my heart to not be able to ease her burden."
You frowned and gently took his hand in yours. "I am so sorry, Julius. But I am sure she was grateful for every moment she had with you."
He smiled at you, yellowing teeth peeking out behind his lips.
"We had a lovely life together. I feel such sadness that you and Antonius were not afforded the same luxury."
"As do I," you sighed, then turned to look back out at your peaceful little garden. "But the time we had together was good. He was a kind and strong man. Marcus told me once in this very garden how he died. That he was saving the life of a young, scared soldier. He sacrificed himself for that young man, because that was the type of soul he had. Always looking out for others."
Julius ignored your slip of the tongue, using Marcus's informal name, and instead hummed quietly next to you as he considered your words.
"He sounds as though he would want you to find another," he said after a beat. "Am I wrong?"
You shrugged and fiddled nervously with the hem of your tunic.
"I suppose he would."
"So... will you allow yourself to find happiness once again?"
You pressed your lips together, gaze falling to your lap. "I would like to, but..."
You trailed off, cheeks burning from guilt. Julius gave you a moment before he spoke again.
"Do not tell me you cannot find any suitors. You are a beautiful woman."
You laughed and shook your head.
"I have not been interested in seeking out a courtship," you said, but Julius could hear the hesitation in your voice. Slowly, realization dawned on him.
"Acacius is a good man."
You whipped your head to the side, eyes wide with shock. "What are you implying?"
Julius shrugged. "He told me he has been here to visit you every day since the passing of your husband. He knows much about you, about your life. Spoke to me for what felt like hours before he left."
"Well, yes, he has been assisting me due to a past obligation he promised my husband," you assured him, sitting up straight.
"And what if he has been assisting you simply because he enjoys your company?" Julius asked. "That, perhaps, something has grown amongst the anguish, tethering his heart to your doorstep?"
You sputtered in surprise, struggling to come up with something to say. Julius just chuckled and patted your leg before standing.
"I am simply an old man," he told you, grabbing his cane and putting all his weight on the wood. "But I have experienced love. Despite what you may think, Acacius cares deeply for you, of that I am certain. And I do believe you feel the same for him."
He left you frozen on the worn bench in your garden, mind reeling and heart fluttering wildly in your chest. He spoke the very words you wished you could admit. Even in the solitude of your home, you could never say just how much you had grown to care for Marcus. And now that the words were out there, floating around in the summer breeze, you couldn't think about anything else.
Marcus had been gone nearly three months. Not one. Not two. But three whole months. Fear gripped your throat every passing day until finally you were walking along the shore one morning and far off in the distance, you could see the ships on the horizon. They were just a handful of black triangles, but you couldn't stop grinning. As each hour passed, they got closer and closer, pulling in groups of people all day long to watch, but they were so far away that by the time the sun set, all had retreated to their homes. It was too dark to watch the ships arrive, and citizens knew there would be a celebration in the morning, so everybody chose to go home and rest.
Everybody except for you.
You sat on the shore, the sea breeze whipping through your hair and cutting across your cheeks. You shivered from the spray of the ocean but you stood your post valiantly. When the first of the ships reached the docks, you stood and bounced nervously from foot to foot, yet still kept your distance.
It took nearly an hour for the ships to unload, but even in the darkness of night with only the dull flames from their lanterns to guide them, you saw a flash of bright red and your hands clamped excitedly over your mouth.
He was home. He lived and he was safe.
He was calling out orders to his men and ushering workers onto the ships to assist with the fallen and injured soldiers, his red cape draped around his broad shoulders, billowing in the wind. When he turned away to walk up the dock, head hung low and bones likely weary from battle, you couldn't hold back any longer.
"Acacius!"
His head snapped up and his eyes locked onto you immediately. Instantly, his face brightened and he smiled wide. His pace quickened to reach you and yours did the same until you finally found yourselves standing just a mere foot away, gazing up at his tired but happy face.
Neither of you knew what to say. Instead, you both let your eyes rake up and down the other, examining each other for any differences or maybe just to confirm it wasn't all a dream.
"You did not die," you breathed, both of you laughing.
"I did not," he said, smile still stretched across his face. A shiver shot down your spine at the sight of him, all tall and imposing and real. He quickly shed himself of his cape and wrapped it around your shoulders, pulling you close against his armor and breathing you in.
"You smell of the sea. How long have you been here?"
"All day," you confessed, already feeling warmer. He tutted under his breath and nodded towards the sleeping city.
"I will walk you home and tomorrow, we shall celebrate."
You allowed him to lead you through the streets, listening to him tell you tales, but none of battle. He told you of the different animals he saw, about a terrible storm that gripped the army for three straight days, and how a drunken solider swore up and down he spotted a mermaid and had the whole ship poking fun at him for the remainder of the voyage.
You walked past the statue of him that was erected in the center of the city after his last victory and you grinned.
"I have not seen you in so long, I began to think this is what you looked like."
Marcus rolled his eyes and tugged you closer. "I am sorry it took longer than expected. I trust Julius kept you in good company?"
"He was wonderful," you told him honestly, then nervously added, "but I would have preferred you."
If it wasn't so dark, you would have seen his face flush.
"I have been told we will remain home for several months now," Marcus told you. "Emperor Geta has sought a bride. He wishes to spend the next few months planning a wedding. It sounds as though his bloodlust has been assuaged for now."
"Ah, so you are saying I get you all to myself once again?"
Marcus laughed as his face grew even warmer than before. "So it seems, my lady."
He walked you up the familiar path to your door, waiting patiently as you unlocked it and hurried inside to fetch your lantern. When you returned, you sheepishly handed him his cape with your thanks.
He did not toss it over his shoulders. Instead, he gripped it in one hand while his eyes roamed over your beautiful face. He had missed you so much that it caused an ache in his chest the whole time he was gone, mind riddled with thoughts of you to the point where he felt like a madman.
Inviting him inside would be forward and untoward. You racked your mind for a legitimate reason, but you couldn't think of a single one. So, you resigned yourself to feeling grateful he was alive and unscathed, that you could sleep peacefully knowing he was home and you would see him tomorrow.
"You will be by in the morning?" you finally asked when the silence had gone on long enough. Marcus blinked and focused on your eyes.
"Yes," he said, "first thing. I shall be here as if no time had passed at all."
You grinned and bit your lip. "Wonderful. Then... I suppose I will release you. Please go home and rest, General, you have earned it."
He nodded in agreement, then forced his feet to move away from you, even though every fiber of his being screamed at him to go the opposite direction, into your arms.
"Sleep well," he croaked, eyes still glued to your face. You smiled shyly, the reaction so endearing it had his heart leaping.
"You as well. I am glad you are home safe."
He stumbled backwards but continued to gaze at you until you giggled and slowly shut the door. Once you were hidden in the safety of your home, you took a deep, ragged breath and fanned your face. Your pulse was racing and your blood was pumping so fast, you were certain you wouldn't sleep a wink all night. Instead, you set your lantern down and began to pace around your sitting room, wondering what you should do to exhaust yourself when suddenly, you heard a sharp rap on your door.
Without thinking, you rushed to open it, already knowing exactly who it was.
"Marcus," you breathed when you laid eyes on him once again. He looked slightly different now, a little more disheveled and filled with determination. "W-what is wrong?"
You watched his throat bob nervously before he stepped forward and cupped your face.
"My apologies," he said, "but I should have done this months ago."
His neck craned down and his lips pressed urgently against yours. You melted immediately, throwing one arm around the back of his neck to pull him inside so he could kick the door closed behind him. His tongue flicked across your lower lip and your jaw dropped, granting him access to deepen the kiss.
His hands dragged down your sides, fingers plucking at the fabric of your stola as you lead him further into your home.
When you staggered into your bedroom, his eyes popped open to look around. It was modest, just like the rest of your home. A soft, large enough bed sat in the middle of the room, along with a small wardrobe and a chair that sat next to it. It was quaint and unassuming, just like you.
"Wait," he whispered, breaking the kiss. His palms still pressed against your cheeks, fingertips curling around the backs of your ears. You looked up at him, lips wet and parted, panting for air. "Are you quite sure this is what you want? We can slow down, we can wait."
"I am sure," you replied. Your hands fell to the tie on your stola, blindly undoing the knot as you continued to hold his gaze. "I thought of you every day. I feared something would happen to you and you would never know my true feelings. My heart could hardly handle the stress."
You felt the fabric slip loose and fall to the floor. Marcus's eyes darted down and with pride blooming in your chest, noticed the hungry way he looked at your naked body for the first time.
"Thoughts of you were the only thing that kept me alive," he murmured, walking you backwards to lay you down on your bed. He began to unhook his armor, all the while his eyes remained roaming over you. "You saved me more ways than I could count, my lady."
You almost told him that he saved you, as well. But something about the look in his eye told you he already knew. After the loss of Antonius, you were not the only one who felt despair. You both were broken, the memory of Marcus's dearest friend, your husband, weighing heavy on both your hearts. But finally, after months and months, you came to the realization that Marcus was your husband's final gift to you.
Once he finally rid himself of the last of his clothes, you allowed yourself a moment to take him in. He was strong and broad, just as you imagined, and his body was littered with old scars. By all accounts, he looked like a rough man, but much to your delight, his touch was soft and his kiss was tender. When he climbed on top of you, settling his hips between your legs and sliding his tongue leisurely past your teeth, you didn't feel scared. You felt safe.
The tip of his cock nudged against your inner thigh when he shifted his weight. The subtle reminder of his thick length you had only gotten a glimpse of caused you to inhale sharply.
"You are so soft," he mumbled against your mouth. His calloused hand drifted up and down your side, gently grazing along your skin before it rested on your breast, cupping the heavy flesh in his palm and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You moaned and lifted your back off the bed, pressing into his hold while your fingers got lost in his hair.
Something stirred inside of him when he heard the noise of pleasure escape your lips. His hips ground against you and his mouth trailed down to suck a mark on the sensitive skin of your throat, eager to pull more sounds from you. It took no time at all before you were whining and rolling your hips in rhythm with his, relishing in the feeling of his cock gliding between your folds, taunting you with his size.
The very same hand that took countless lives with the blade of his sword slipped between your bodies so he could stroke two fingers through your pussy, testing your arousal and making a pleased noise at what he found.
"Does that feel good?" he asked lowly. His chest had pressed against yours, desperate to feel as close to you as possible, with only his arm separating you.
"Yes," you gasped while wrapping your legs around his waist. It seemed you wanted to be closer, as well. "I wish to feel you. Please, my general, do not make me beg."
Marcus chuckled against your throat, fingers still petting at your entrance. "I am willing to wager you would sound so pretty begging for my cock."
You squirmed impatiently underneath him and nipped playfully at his scratchy cheek, making him smile.
"Fine. If I really must," you sighed, "please, Marcus. I have spent countless nights dreaming of all the ways you would make me yours." You felt his muscles tense and his lips paused against your neck. "I would lie in this very bed wondering what kind of lover you are, your favored position to take a woman, and how incredible it would feel to be split open by your thick cock."
Marcus reared back with a growl, fisting himself before lining up his cock at your opening. Blind with lust and need, he pushed forward, entering you with one swift pass. Your head flew back into the sheets at the sudden fullness, mouth opening and closing pathetically, unable to formulate a single sound.
"Breathe," Marcus reminded you when he fell forward to rest on his forearms which were braced on the sides of your head. "Breathe for me, my love."
You forced yourself to drag in a shuddering breath, the pressure between your legs stealing all your attention. You couldn't stop yourself from glancing down, mouth agape, to see where you were joined, almost as if you couldn't believe it unless you looked. Seeing yourself stretched around his considerable girth shook loose a shattered noise from the back of your throat. His nose brushed against the side of your head and you heard a similar noise from him when he followed your gaze.
"Look how beautiful," he murmured before slowly pulling back his hips, leaving just the tip of his cock nestled snugly inside your cunt. Your eyes widened when you saw how his length glistened in the candlelight, soaked with your arousal, then moaned his name into the night air when he sunk back inside you, parting your walls and carving a spot for himself to claim as his own.
"You are so tight," he grunted, jaw clenched from the way you squeezed around him every time he thrusted back inside you. "Next time, I will make you come from my tongue and fingers first. But tonight, I simply could not wait."
You huffed a breathless laugh and dragged your eyes up to meet his. "I had no idea the fearsome General of Rome was so indecent."
Marcus lifted the corner of his mouth in a smirk. "I look forward to showing you just how indecent I am."
With every thrust, he drove himself deeper, knocking the air from your lungs each time the tip of his cock met a place inside you that had your back arching off the bed and your nails leaving red marks down his back.
Your hips burned from how wide you stretched and your skin tingled everywhere his lips touched. He was gentle, but assertive, a lethal combination you didn't know you needed until it was between your legs, whispering filth in your ear while ramming himself inside of you over and over.
You whispered his name, voice broken and raspy, then said, "I am close... please, please-"
Before you had a chance to realize what was happening, he rolled over, pulling you with him so you sat slumped over his chest. You blinked and looked around before pushing yourself up. Straddling his hips, you gazed down at him, eyes unfocused and hazy with desire.
"I now see why I never felt the urge to seek out a wife," he whispered, watching when you got your bearings and began to bounce in his lap. His fingers gripped your hips, indenting your skin and helping you move. "None could ever compare to you. You are more beautiful than any flower, taste better than any sweet-" He groaned when you began to circle your hips faster, grinding down on him and breathing heavily. "Your eyes shine brighter than any star. And this fucking cunt-" he growled, roughly grabbing at your ass so he could pull you up and down on his shaft. You cried out, fingers scrambling for purchase on his chest. "Best fucking cunt I ever had. Gods above, Rome could be in flames and it would not keep me from between your legs."
"Marcus," you whined, gasping for air while the pressure mounted low in your belly. "So deep... s-so deep, I can hardly breathe."
"Come for me," he commanded, "come on my cock. I wish to see the look on your beautiful face when you fall apart."
Moments later, you did just as he asked. Your eyes squeezed shut but stars burst behind your lids as your orgasm rolled through you, hitting you in waves that had you cursing and crying his name. The blood rushing in your ears was so loud, you didn't even realize he was speaking until his massive hands lifted you off with an urgency that had your eyes snapping back open. When you looked down, he was furiously stroking his cock, chin tilted towards the ceiling and bronzed chest glistening with sweat.
As quickly as you could, you slid down to the floor, kneeling between his thighs and pulling on his free hand for attention. When he saw you gazing up at him with your mouth open, spent but eager for his seed in your mouth, he whimpered and pushed himself up.
"Stick out your tongue," he whispered. You did as he asked, a shiver shooting down your spine when you heard his voice so thick with desire.
The fat head of his cock rested on your warm tongue. When his eyes met yours, you preened at the instant look of relief you saw half a second before he spilled down your throat.
His jaw hung open wide, hypnotized as he watched thick streams of his seed paint your lips and tongue. It wasn't until he was milked dry and exhausted that he let go of his cock. With parted lips, he gently lifted your chin, closing your mouth and nodding at you to swallow. He gave you a satisfied smile when your throat bobbed and you licked your lips, shaking his head in disbelief.
"And you speak of indecency," he said, voice hoarse.
You giggled and climbed into his lap, slinging your arms around his neck and nuzzling against his throat. With a deep sigh, he leaned back, pulling you with him until your bodies were stretched out across your bed, limbs tangled together while you caught your breath.
"Will you stay?" you asked meekly as you traced invisible shapes over his chest. He kissed the top of your head and gently squeezed your arm.
"Of course."
You laid just like that, holding one another with only the sound of insects outside your window filling the silence. Eventually, Marcus shifted a bit and your chin tilted up.
"Are you..." he began, then you watched him swallow nervously as his eyes darted up towards the ceiling before trying again. "Do you feel any regret? Or... guilt?"
You turned so your chin rested on top of his chest. "No. Do you?"
He shook his head but kept his eyes pinned to the ceiling.
"Not anymore. But months ago, when I began to see you differently... yes, I did."
You pressed a soft kiss against his skin, making his eyes drift back down to you. "I believe I denied my feelings for a very long time for the same reason," you admitted, "but while you were gone, it afforded me the time to think. And I have concluded Antonius sent you to me for a reason. He requested you take care of me should anything happen." You shrugged and rested the side of your head against his shoulder. "I believe he trusted you more than anybody in his life. He would have been happier I chose you rather than some stranger."
He considered your words for a moment before nodding and turning on his side. You smiled up at him sleepily with your head resting on the inside of his bicep. He cupped your cheek and, after searching your eyes, slotted his lips with yours for a tender kiss.
"Do you think we can share a fruitful life together?" he asked with his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your cheek.
"Oh, yes. You ought to see my vegetable garden. I hardly need to go to the market for much any more," you joked.
He laughed, dark eyes sparkling in the dim candlelight.
"That is a good start," he said, and you giggled. When you both quieted down, he gave you another kiss before saying, "I would be honored to take care of you for the rest of our days, if that is something you want."
"It is," you replied a little too quickly.
His face lit up at your eagerness. "Good. Then let us rest. Tomorrow at the ceremonies, I shall announce our pending nuptials."
And although it felt a little fast, you didn't argue.
Marcus followed through with his promise, as he always did. The following morning, you both dressed in your finest clothes to attend the celebrations being held at the arena. It was never something you enjoyed attending, the ritual of sacrifice feeling barbaric, but on that particular day you didn't mind. You sat with Marcus in the emperor's box, a place you only ever saw from afar. He introduced you to the emperors and you tried your best not to let your nerves show. Before the games began, Marcus announced his plans to wed, which was met with polite acclaim by those seated in the box.
"That was a little scary," you admitted quietly to Marcus once everyone had found their seats and the first fight began. The loud cheering and yelling drowned out anything you said, but you still kept your voice low.
"Nothing to be scared of, my lady," he assured you with the squeeze of your hand. You smiled when he brought your knuckles to his lips for a brief kiss. "I told you I would protect you for the rest of our days."
Happiness bloomed in your chest, excited for what your future held. But there was one thing you knew for certain:
As long as Marcus was by your side, you would never know sadness again.
Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️
i want you, i need you, i love you (4)
harry castillo x reader
series
word count: 12.8k
warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.
It had been three weeks.
Three weeks since the gallery night.
Since the bath. Since her in his robe. Since the moment she stepped into Harry Castillo’s penthouse and changed everything.
And somehow, despite the chaos, despite who he was, despite who she was—they hadn’t combusted.
They’d settled. Sort of. Not into a relationship. Not into anything that had labels or expectations.
And she wasn’t in any rush to be branded. But they were something—and whatever it was, it had slowly started bleeding into the rest of their lives.
He gave her a key on a Tuesday. He didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Just set it on the kitchen counter next to her takeout container, glanced up and said, “So you don’t freeze your ass off waiting for me if I’m not home.” That was it. No smile. No explanation.
Just Harry being cold and mean in the most absurdly tender way.
She didn’t say thank you out loud, but she kissed the corner of his mouth that night a little longer than usual. And he didn’t pull away.
They didn’t talk about what they were. They didn’t need to. But the rhythms were there.
He kept orange juice stocked in the fridge because she liked it. She started leaving hair ties on his bathroom counter. And a pink razor in his shower. He bought the cereal she liked. She figured out how to work his espresso machine before he did.
And they saw each other constantly. Not every day—he was still Harry Castillo—but almost.
He texted her at odd hours. Late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Early mornings when he was at the gym at an inhuman hour and saw something that reminded him of her. Articles. Memes.
Yes memes.
Photos of outrageously overpriced apartments that had bathtubs with built-in fireplaces and chandeliers.
He had sent one at 2:13 a.m.
Old man Harry ❤️👴: Would you complain if I bought this?
You: If you bought it and never invited me over, yes.
His response came five minutes later
Old man Harry ❤️👴: You have a key. I’d be forced to.
And that was that.
She didn’t stay over every night. But when she did, she found herself waking up warm. Not just physically—but emotionally. And that scared her more than anything else.
Because Harry Castillo wasn’t easy.
He was brooding. Quiet. Obsessive in ways that only became clear the longer she knew him. But he was consistent. And that? That mattered. He didn’t lie. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. And slowly—slowly—she started letting him in.
It wasn’t until the second week that he found out about her jobs. Plural.
She had just finished showering in his bathroom—wet hair down, wearing one of his button-downs, no pants—when her phone lit up on the bed.
Marco (Flowers): u good to deliver that midtown order today or should I send Gio?
Harry saw it. He blinked. Then stared at the screen like it had personally offended him.
When she stepped out, towel in hand, humming softly to herself, she stopped dead in her tracks.
His eyes were locked on her phone.
She froze. “What?”
Harry lifted it. “Who’s Marco.”
“…Someone I work for.”
“You work where.”
She sighed, already knowing this was going to be a thing. “A flower shop. I help with deliveries sometimes.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Since when.”
She arched a brow. “Since always?”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
That made something flicker behind his eyes—sharp and cold and maybe a little unhinged. He set the phone down carefully, then reached for his own.
“Harry—”
“I’m not mad,” he muttered, typing something.
She squinted. “You’re typing like you’re mad.”
“I’m not—” he cut himself off. “I’m just trying not to throw my phone at the fucking window.”
She blinked. “Jesus. Okay, calm down.”
“How many jobs do you have.”
She hesitated. And that was his answer.
He looked up. “How many.”
“…Three.”
“Three?”
She nodded.
Harry exhaled sharply, standing up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “You said you were a server.”
“I am.”
“And?”
“I bartend on weekends. And I do flower deliveries during the day sometimes. Under the table. It’s not a big deal—”
“It is a big deal.” His voice was low now. Controlled. Furious. “You work three jobs and walk home late at night and don’t tell me?”
Her brows lifted. “You’re not my boyfriend.”
“Don’t—” he snapped, pacing now. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into a thing. I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to understand why the hell you think it’s normal to exhaust yourself until you collapse.”
She stared at him. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. She softened, just a little. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
He stopped pacing. Turned to her. “It matters,” he said, quietly now. “It matters to me.”
And that? That shut her up.
Because Harry Castillo didn’t say things like that. Not unless they were true. The next morning, he asked for the addresses. All of them. She refused at first.
“You’re not picking me up from work.”
“Why not.”
“Because you’re Harry fucking Castillo. You don’t drive. You don’t do Midtown traffic.”
He stared at her. Said nothing.
Then pulled out his phone and typed something. An hour later, she got a notification from Find My iPhone.
Old man Harry ❤️👴 has requested your location.
She stared at it. Then looked up. He smirked.
“Add me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’ll come find you anyway.”
“You don’t even know where my flower job is.”
“Not yet.”
She groaned, shoving his arm. “You’re insane.”
“I don’t want you walking home.”
“I have legs.”
“You have shit shoes.”
“I—”
Harry raised a brow. “Let me take care of you.”
That was it. Just a soft command from a cold man who didn’t beg.
She rolled her eyes. But she added him.
The first time he picked her up, it was raining.
Not the soft, aesthetic kind. No—it was New York level chaotic. Sideways sheets of water, umbrellas flipping inside out, cars honking like they were allergic to patience, subways getting flooded by the second.
She was soaked. Her hair plastered to her forehead, her phone dead, her hands freezing.
And then? A black BMW pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. And there he was. Driving.
She stopped in the rain and blinked. “You…drive.”
Harry stared at her, unimpressed. “Get in.”
“I thought you were allergic to steering wheels.”
He rolled his eyes. “I took a car from my old place. Get in before you drown.”
She slid in, dripping onto the leather seats. “This feels illegal.”
“Your shoes are illegal. What are those, socks with holes?”
“Don’t start.”
He tossed her a dry sweatshirt from the backseat—his, of course. “Put this on.”
She did. And the car smelled like him. From then on, it became a thing. Not official. Not daily. But often enough that she started waiting for it. Harry would show up outside her server shift around 11:15 p.m., texting her with a simple
Old man Harry ❤️👴: Here.
Or he’d pull up to the bar on Fridays, leaning against the hood like he hadn’t spent the day managing millions of dollars and threatening CEOs. Sometimes he brought coffee. Sometimes just a dry shirt and a scowl. But he always showed. And she never had to ask.
Their nights together stayed the same.
Mostly.
She’d enter the penthouse quietly. Leave her shoes by the door. Sometimes he was already home, waiting with dinner or a clean towel or just himself—half-dressed and reading on the couch wearing his glasses that make him look like an even bigger old man.
Sometimes he got home after her, muttering about meetings, his voice hoarse, jaw tense from hours of pretending he didn’t want to text her every five minutes.
But they always ended the night the same way. In bed. Tangled. Quiet. Bodies pressed close under too many sheets and not enough words.
He never said he missed her. But he texted her at 3:07 p.m. once after a brutal meeting with the board...
Old man Harry ❤️👴: This room is full of people who make me want to kill myself. You would’ve made it bearable.
She smiled when she read it. Didn’t respond right away. Let him sit in it. Later that night, when she curled up beside him, he didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around her waist like a reflex.
On Sunday mornings, they got bagels. It started accidentally. She had mentioned a craving for egg and cheese one night in passing, barely awake, face pressed into his chest.
He said nothing.
Then the next morning? Bagel. Wrapped in foil. Sitting on the counter.
She blinked at it.
“Did you—”
“I didn’t want to hear you complain later,” he muttered.
So now it was a thing. Bagels on Sunday. No talking until coffee. Her in his oversized shirts. Him in sweatpants with his hair pushed back, watching her read something on her phone while chewing with her mouth open.
“You’re disgusting,” he’d say.
“You’re in love with me,” she’d fire back.
He never answered. Just stared. Like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t wrong.
Three weeks in and they still weren’t a couple. Not in public. Not in labels. But in the way he made her tea when she lost her voice. In the way she slipped notes into his briefcase. In the way he bought her new socks and refused to acknowledge it.
They were something. Something real. Something building. And neither of them wanted to name it yet. But maybe they didn’t have to.
Because Harry wasn’t used to letting people stay.
And she?
She had the key.
And Harry knew he was fucked.
It was raining. Again.
Not the romantic kind, either. Not the bullshit people wrote about in novels. This was relentless New York rain. Cold, gray, street-soaking, ankle-wrecking rain. The kind that blurred the skyline and made everything feel too still and too loud at the same time.
His office windows, floor-to-ceiling and usually pristine, were streaked with water. He could barely see the city through them. Which was probably for the best. Because if he could see the Lower East Side right now, he might actually snap and send a helicopter.
He hadn’t heard from her since she’d texted around 9 p.m., after he dropped her off.
You: Frances is being dramatic tonight 🙄
That was it. No follow-up. No photo. Not even a meme. Just that. And now it was past 1 a.m.
Harry leaned back in his chair, phone resting facedown on the edge of his desk, his thumb twitching with the impulse to check it again.
He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He already had. Fifteen times.
“Frances,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.
Across the room, Danny—half-asleep on the leather couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place—perked up.
“What?”
Harry didn’t look at him. Just ran a hand through his hair, glaring at the window like it had personally offended him.
“She texted me earlier. Said Frances was being dramatic.”
Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Ooooh.”
Harry sighed. “Don’t.”
“Do you know who Frances is?”
“I assume…someone in her building?” Harry said, like it was obvious. Like that didn’t already make his throat itch with jealousy.
Danny sat up, cracking his neck. “You assume Frances is a neighbor?”
“Yes.”
“You sure Frances isn’t her ex?”
Harry froze. Very still.
Danny raised a brow, voice far too casual. “I mean. Sounds like something you'd say about someone you know well. Like an ex.”
“Don’t,” Harry warned again, but it was too late. The image was there now.
Frances. Laughing on her couch. Feet on her coffee table. Touching things that didn’t belong to him. Sleeping in a bed that did.
Harry’s jaw ticked.
“Maybe she’s a woman,” he said, but it didn’t land. Not when the image had already nested behind his eyes. Not when the silence that followed made him feel like a kicked dog.
Danny yawned, stretching. “Well, if she comes back tomorrow limping, we’ll know.”
Harry looked up so fast the pen in his hand dropped.
Danny cackled.
“Kidding.”
“Get out.”
Danny didn’t. He just flopped back down, arms behind his head. “You’re unwell.”
Harry didn’t argue. Because he was. He was so far gone he could feel it in the base of his spine. He’d sent the whole team home hours ago—mid-pitch.
He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t finish the goddamn Italy paperwork. The Italy contract—the Italy contract—was sitting open in front of him. A landmark deal.
A decade in the making. Acquisition of a sustainable architecture firm based out of Florence. Tens of millions. Possibly more, if the valuation shifted after Q2.
He was supposed to fly out on Thursday. There was a dinner with the lead architect, a walking tour of the property grounds, some presentation on green luxury Harry couldn’t pretend to care about.
They’d blocked out four days. Harry had almost signed it. Almost. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her in Italy.
He wanted her in a sundress and sunglasses she bought at a corner shop. He wanted to take her to restaurants where no one knew who he was—where they’d drink wine that tasted like cherries and share plates of pasta so good she’d groan with her mouth full.
He wanted to watch her tan—really tan—on a hotel balcony in nothing but one of his button-downs and sunscreen.
He wanted her bare legs kicked up on the dashboard of a rented car while he drove with the windows down and her hand on his thigh. He wanted her bored at a vineyard tour.
Wanted her to lean in and whisper something filthy in his ear just to see if he’d blush.
He wanted to fuck her in a hotel shower with the windows open, the Tuscan hills in the distance and her moaning into his neck like it was a prayer.
He wanted to fall asleep with her in a bed that smelled like citrus and sex, the sound of her breathing syncing with the rain on the villa roof.
He wanted to live with her. Just for a week. Just enough to make it real. To prove it wasn’t some New York fantasy.
Danny cleared his throat.
“You’re still here.”
Harry didn’t look up. “So are you.”
“Because I’m trying to get you to finish the Florence paperwork.”
“I will.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Danny stared at him. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you.”
Harry didn’t answer. He stood.
“Jesus,” Danny muttered, grabbing his jacket. “You’re in love.”
Harry grabbed his own coat. “Drop me off.”
Danny blinked. “It’s 1 a.m.”
“I know where she lives.”
Danny didn’t argue. He just followed. They always got in separate cars. Harry always took the backseat. But tonight, he climbed into the passenger seat of Danny's Mercedes.
Danny glanced over. “You nervous?”
Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The rain kept coming down. The roads were slick. The city lights blurry. But when they pulled onto her street, Harry felt it—
That low thrum in his chest. That ache. Because he knew this block. Knew it like a scar. She wasn’t just a girl he saw now. She was a rhythm in his life. A piece of the architecture.
Danny pulled up to the curb. Parked. Then turned, lips twitching.
“Good luck,” he said. “Maybe Frances wore her out.”
Harry shot him a look that could’ve killed. Danny just sent him a smirk. And Harry stepped out into the rain.
The air was sharp with that metallic wetness unique to New York downpours. Streetlights flickered against puddles. A pizza box floated past the curb like a makeshift raft.
And still—Harry didn’t rush. He took his time walking.
Her street in Lower East Side, uneven pavement, corners that smelled like cigarettes and Chinatown egg rolls—was familiar now.
He knew the rhythm of her block. He knew that the laundromat two doors down always had one broken dryer. He knew which deli overcharged for grapes.
And he knew the exact slab of sidewalk where she told him she once tripped while texting him. It was cracked slightly, a jagged edge of concrete peeking up like a warning. She’d texted him from the pavement, too.
You: You made me fall, jackass. I was smiling too hard.
That text had stayed in his phone longer than it should have.
He passed the bodega next. The one she claimed had the best dried mangoes in the city. She’d once spent thirty minutes ranting about the owner’s theories on aliens and glitter. Yes glitter.
Now Harry found himself slowing in front of the doors. Peering in. Wondering if the guy knew her name. Wondering if he knew about him.
By the time he reached her building, his shoulders were soaked. His shirt clung to his chest, collar sticking. His suit jacket was definitely ruined. But he didn’t care. He needed to see her. He hit the buzzer.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Nothing.
Then—finally—crackled static.
“…Hello?” Her voice was sleepy.
“It’s me.”
A pause. Then—
“Harry?”
His jaw clenched. “Yes.”
More static. Then a muffled, rustling sound. “It’s—uh—4C. Come up.”
The buzzer rang. The door clicked. He took the stairs. She didn’t have an elevator. Of course she didn’t.
By the time he reached her floor, his heart was hammering for no reason. The hallway smelled like weed and soup dumplings. The walls were covered in scuff marks, and someone had drawn a crooked heart on one of the exit signs.
4C had a little sticker on the door. A cartoon ghost holding a margarita. He stared at it for a beat. Then knocked.
She opened the door in one of his shirts—his black one, faded from too many washes—hanging off one shoulder, loose like a dress. Her legs were bare except for cotton boxers with tiny strawberries on them. Her hair was pulled up messily. She looked flushed. And sleepy. And worried.
“You’re soaked,” she said immediately, pulling him inside by the lapel of his jacket. “Jesus, Harry.”
Her hands were already working to unbutton his coat. “Why didn’t you text? I thought you were working.”
“I couldn’t focus,” he said, watching her.
“You’re going to get sick,” she muttered, peeling the jacket off his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves. “Come here—hold still—”
He let her work, silent. She was warm hands and furrowed brows and concern in motion.
Once the jacket was off, she yanked at his tie. “This too.”
He raised a brow. “Undressing me already?”
“You showed up looking like the stock market,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
He smirked.
She disappeared for a second, then tossed him a pair of old gray sweatpants.
He caught them. Eyebrow raised. “You keep men’s sweats on hand?”
She groaned. “They’re Maya’s ex’s. Don’t get excited.”
He stepped into the living room fully now. And froze. Because for the first time, he was seeing where she lived.
Where she lived when she wasn’t with him.
The apartment was small. Lived in. Cluttered—but in a way that made it feel warm, not chaotic. Like every single thing inside of it had a story.
The living room was split between two mismatched couches—one thrifted velvet, the other beige corduroy with a sag in the middle. There were throw blankets in every texture imaginable—fleece, knit, faux fur.
The coffee table was covered in books, old takeout menus, half burnt candles in jars labeled sandalwood, fig, vanilla.
The walls were cluttered with art—some of it clearly Maya’s, some vintage posters, The Virgin Suicides, Before Sunrise, Blade Runner, Patti Smith’s Horses album, and a random framed photo of a pigeon wearing sunglasses.
The fridge in the kitchen was a museum of magnets and notes. There was even a shopping list written in red marker on the fridge door. It read
oat milk
cheez-its
limes
incense
Maya’s weird vegan yogurt
tampons
trash bags
candles (sex ones, not funeral ones)
wine
frozen waffles
cat food
Harry blinked at the last item.
“You have a cat?”
She paused. “...Yes?”
His jaw tensed. “Frances?”
She frowned. “What?”
He turned to her, eyes sharp. “You said Frances is being dramatic tonight.”
She blinked. Then laughed. Actually laughed. And pointed behind him.
Harry turned. And saw a large, grumpy-looking tabby cat perched on the windowsill. Staring at him with narrowed eyes like it knew he’d imagined something inappropriate.
“That’s Frances,” she said, snorting. “She’s named after Frances McDormand. She’s 16 and hates everything exept my heating pad.”
Harry stared at the cat. Then back at her. Then at the cat again.
“You thought Frances was a man?” she said, grinning.
“I thought Frances was your ex.”
She covered her mouth to keep from laughing louder. “You showed up in the rain to confront me about an elderly cat?”
Harry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Shut up.”
She kissed his cheek. “You’re a mess.”
He looked around again. At her world. At the chipped mugs on the dish rack—each one different. One said World’s Okayest Bartender, another had a faded drawing of a walrus. The scarf hanging from a coat hook was purple velvet, half-unraveled at one end.
There were keys on a lanyard that read BOSTON UNIVERSITY, and a half-full tote bag with a produce sticker still stuck to the bottom corner.
The shelf by the entryway overflowed with mail, cracked sunglasses, a tiny hand-painted dish full of bobby pins, and a single, slightly burnt birthday candle shoved into a chunk of ceramic shaped like a frog. The coffee table had three coasters but none of them matched. There were stickers slapped across the side of the fridge—Protect Roe, Biden Harris 2020, Elvis is Alive and So Am I.
In the bathroom, he passed by the open door and caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with rosewater toner and humidity. The mirror had streaks of lipstick.
Tampons sat on the counter beside an open tin of bobby pins. Dry shampoo. A chipped compact. An old mascara wand lying next to her makeup bag that looked like it had seen war. A pack of pink razors balanced on the edge of the sink like it might leap to freedom any minute.
The hallway wall had a row of hooks, all cluttered—coats, purses, canvas totes, one very fluffy pink bathrobe, and what looked like a dog leash even though she didn’t own a dog. The floor creaked in the middle.
And her bedroom—
Her bedroom was even more intimate. Twinkly lights looped around the ceiling like a soft halo. One strand flickered near the corner. The walls were covered—Cléo from 5 to 7, Velvet Underground, a retro ballet poster, another that read Prince's Purple Rain.
Dried lavender hung upside down beside a Polaroid photo strip taped above her dresser mirror. The dresser was cluttered with rings in tiny dishes, perfume bottles in varying levels of emptiness, tangled necklaces, and an open book of poetry facedown like she’d been reading and got distracted halfway through.
The bed wasn’t made. Worn sheets. Muted floral comforter rumpled down to the foot. A stuffed lamb with one ear bent sat on the pillow beside a pile of soft, mismatched throw blankets. There was a hoodie—his—draped over the headboard.
Her nightstand was pure chaos. A cracked phone charger plugged into an extension cord wrapped in colorful washing tape. A half-eaten cookie. Lip balm. A lighter. A box of allergy medicine. A stack of receipts, one with eggs, incense, LaCroix, cat treats, cherry cough drops scribbled on the back. An empty glass, a hair clip, and a worn paperback with the corner folded as a bookmark—The Secret History.
There was an incense holder shaped like a tiny hand. And beside that, a photo of her and a little girl in matching sunglasses, both sticking out their tongues. It was soft. Lived-in. Completely her.
And absolutely the opposite of Lucy’s old apartment. Lucy’s world had been cold glass vases with eucalyptus branches, arranged like she Googled elegant minimalism. White couches no one could sit on. Art that cost thousands but said nothing. A color-coded closet and a bathroom that looked like a Glossier pop-up—sterile, spotless, unloved.
This? This was chaos and warmth and late night pizza crumbs and nail polish spilled on tile. This was home.
And for reasons Harry couldn’t articulate—didn’t dare admit even to himself—he wanted to be a part of it. Even if it scared the hell out of him.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said finally.
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You didn’t. I mean, you did. But I’m glad.”
He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in. Lavender shampoo. Something floral. Her. Frances meowed loudly, interrupting the moment.
She pulled back. “She wants food. Hold on.”
As she went into the kitchen, Harry stood in the middle of her room, still dripping slightly, holding borrowed sweatpants in one hand and the ghost of something warmer than he knew what to do with in the other.
He was fucked. So, so fucked. And he didn’t want to leave. So that night Harry stayed. The rain hadn’t let up.
It fell in steady sheets against her bedroom window—so constant it was starting to sound like static. Or breath. Or the thud of a heartbeat pressed against his ear.
She was in boxers and one of his shirts.
He was in borrowed sweatpants from a man who didn’t matter.
And they were brushing their teeth together in a bathroom that smelled like rosewater and lavender. She bumped into him twice. Once on purpose. Once not. He didn’t care.
He’d forgotten what this felt like. Being near someone. Really near.
Not polished. Not curated. Not part of some long game. Just… here. In a too small bathroom. In her world. She leaned into the mirror to swipe a lip mask on her lips.
He watched her. Like she was art.
When she turned, he was still staring.
“What,” she asked, mouth soft.
“Nothing,” he said, voice lower than he meant. “I just like looking at... you.”
They left the light on. Left the door cracked. The apartment was dark except for that glow and the warm flicker of the TV.
Her bed wasn’t big. A full, maybe. But it held them both. Barely.
She threw the comforter over them, then curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her eyes were heavy, but she wasn’t ready to sleep. He shifted beside her, body pressed along the curve of hers. Not touching yet. Just close enough that the space between them buzzed.
And then she clicked on the remote. The TV was an old one—boxy, with a DVD player built into the side. It hummed softly as the disc spun.
He blinked. “Is that Sex and the City?”
She nodded. “Season four.”
He glanced down at her, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You have the DVDs?”
“I’m not a heathen.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I haven’t seen a DVD player in a decade.”
She shrugged. “You’re missing out.”
The episode began. Carrie was monologuing. Samantha was best dressed. Charlotte was earnestly hopeful. Miranda was eating Chinese food in bed.
She rested her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his ribs. He felt it everywhere. The rain thudded gently on the window. Frances padded into the room and began eating delicately from her tiny floral bowl in the corner.
Harry reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “She always eats this late?”
“She’s nocturnal. Like me.”
He hummed. “You’re soft at night.”
She smiled against his skin. “You’re not.”
“No,” he agreed, brushing her arm with his fingers. “But I want to be.”
She turned to look at him. “Why?”
“Because you are.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Her body shifted, draping over his. One leg between his. One hand under his shirt, splayed against his stomach. She wasn’t trying to start anything. She just wanted to feel him.
And Harry? He let her.
He rested his cheek against the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Let the scent of her hair—lavender and something distinctly her—anchor him.
He wanted to tell her right then. About Italy. About the dinner. The villa. The way he imagined her laughing while wine sloshed in her glass. The way he pictured her sunburnt and barefoot, dancing in a linen dress she’d haggled for at a street market.
He wanted to tell her he’d already asked Danny to add a plus one. Wanted to beg her to come. To wake up with him somewhere coastal and quiet, where he could watch her dip into cold water and wrap herself in a towel and ask him what they were going to eat next.
But instead—
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Careful.
She sighed.
“Your heartbeat’s fast,” she murmured.
“You’re laying on my chest,” he said. “Of course it is.”
She smiled. “Mine too.”
Frances jumped up onto the bed and circled twice before curling against the back of Harry’s legs. Her fur was soft. Her breathing slow.
The rain pressed harder against the windows. The radiator clinked. The light from the TV flickered over the posters on the wall.
Onscreen, Carrie was questioning whether men were biologically capable of monogamy.
Harry whispered, “Jesus.”
She snorted. “Don’t take it personally.”
“I take everything personally.”
Her hand slid over his stomach again. A slow drag of her fingers, like she could calm something inside him. And maybe she did.
Because that night—
Harry Castillo slept in a tiny bed with a woman who wore his clothes and brushed her teeth with glitter-handled toothbrushes. He slept through the storm. He slept through Carrie’s voice.
He slept through the ache of every part of him that used to hurt.
Because in her world—this small, messy, beautiful world—he didn’t have to be the version of himself that scared people. He just had to be hers. And that was enough.
The morning soon came and of course he woke up first.
She was still asleep when Harry stirred. Pressed against his chest like she belonged there.
Which—by now—maybe she did.
The light coming in through the bedroom window was soft and overcast, the kind of gray that made you want to stay under the covers forever. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the air still smelled like it—clean, cool, quiet.
Harry was warm. Ridiculously warm.
Frances was curled up on his feet again, the cat’s soft purring vibrating faintly against his ankle.
And her—
She was wrapped around him. One leg tossed over his hip. One hand curled beneath his shirt—her shirt—she decided to throw on him last minute before bed. Face pressed to his neck, breath ghosting over his pulse.
He hadn’t moved for hours. Didn’t want to. The bed was small, but it had held them both. Just barely. There was something absurdly perfect about that. About how they fit.
He let his eyes drift open, blinking up at the ceiling plastered with glow in the dark stars. He hadn’t noticed them last night. She’d stuck them up there, probably years ago, probably drunk, maybe high. They weren’t aligned properly—some clustered too close, others spread out too wide—but it made Harry smile.
It was so her.
Then—
The door creaked.
His eyes shot to it, his arm tightening around her instinctively. And there she was.
Maya.
In sweats, hoodie up, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and half a bagel in her mouth. She froze in the doorway, chewing slowly as she saw them both.
Harry blinked. She blinked back.
And then—
She smiled.
“Morning,” she said, voice casual, still chewing. “I got bagels.”
His brows lifted. “Maya?”
“Mmhm.” She stepped fully into the room, walked past the bed like this wasn’t completely surreal, and set a brown paper bag on the desk. “One’s egg and cheese, one’s veggie, one’s plain. I got a discount so I went wild. You're not vegan, right?”
“I’m not.”
Maya nodded. “Cool.”
He opened his mouth to respond but then she stirred beside him.
She blinked. Then groaned. “Maya?”
“Hey, you.” Maya turned, already backing out. “Don’t get up. I’m leaving again. Nate broke one of the frames while carrying it up the stairs and I have to go reconstruct it before the opening or I’ll die. Eat your bagel.”
“Maya—”
“Love you, mean it.”
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut behind her. Harry turned slowly.
She rubbed her eyes. “That’s Maya.”
“She seems…unfazed.”
“She walked in on me giving my high school boyfriend a blowjob in this same bed,” she mumbled. “This is practically G-rated.”
Harry choked. “Jesus Christ.”
She grinned, finally stretching. “Sorry.”
He shook his head, still blinking at the door. “She left you a bagel.”
“She’s thoughtful like that.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The air was warm. The room smelled like her shampoo and toasted everything bagels.
She sat up, reaching for the bag. “You want half?”
“I want the whole thing,” he muttered, watching the way her sleep shirt—his shirt—slipped off her shoulder as she handed it to him.
She raised a brow. “Of the bagel or me?”
Harry took a slow bite of the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before answering.
“Yes.”
She laughed—quiet and groggy—and curled back into the blankets beside him while he finished eating.
The disc in her old TV menu-looped quietly in the background. And that was when Harry realized—
He didn’t want to leave. Not this apartment. Not her bed. Not this mess of a morning that felt like something he hadn’t let himself hope for. He looked down at her, at the way she was nibbling the corner of a veggie bagel and letting cream cheese smear across her knuckle without noticing.
And that was it. That was the moment. He didn’t plan it. Didn’t rehearse. Didn’t run it through his head a hundred times the way he usually did with big decisions. Because this wasn’t business.
This was her.
“Come to Italy with me.”
She blinked. Mid-bite. Mid-smear of cream cheese.
“What?”
He set his half-finished bagel on the napkin beside them.
“I want you to come to Italy with me,” he said again, softer now. “I leave in three days.”
Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the joke. But there wasn’t one. Harry was deadly serious.
She swallowed. “You’re inviting me on a trip. To Italy.”
“It’s not a trip,” he said. “It’s a…thing. For work. Big contract. Private villa, vineyard dinner, all that bullshit. I need to be there to finalize some logistics.”
She blinked again.
“You want me to tag along to a work trip in another country?”
“I want you to be there.”
A pause.
“I want to see you sunkissed,” he murmured, voice dipping. “I want to watch you eat pasta with your fingers and lick sauce off your wrist. I want to soak with you in some overpriced marble tub with your legs wrapped around me, pretending we’re not real people.”
Her breath caught.
“I want you to hang off my arm and point at things in little shops and tell me they’re ugly and buy them anyway. I want you to fall asleep in my lap on a train. I want to hear what you sound like in another language.”
She didn’t speak.
Just stared at him.
“And yes,” he added, reaching out to brush a smudge of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. “I want you there at the dinner. I want you in a dress with your hair up and that little necklace you always wear. I want to introduce you as someone who makes the rest of this shit feel worth it.”
She swallowed hard. Tried to laugh. Failed.
“You’re really pulling out the big guns, huh?”
He nodded. “I’m old. I don’t have time for subtlety.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then said, “Frances can’t come.”
He blinked. “The cat?”
“She’s bad on planes.”
He laughed—genuine and warm—and reached for her hand beneath the sheets.
“You don't need to pay for a flight,” he said. “I have a jet. I want you there.”
She looked down at their hands. His thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles.
“Three days?”
He nodded.
“Do I have to wear heels?”
“Only if you want to kill me.”
She smiled. Bit her lip. Thought.
“Okay.”
Harry’s heart thudded in his chest.
“Okay?”
She nodded again, smaller this time. “Okay. I’ll come to Italy with you, old man.”
He didn’t grin. Didn’t smirk. He just leaned forward and kissed her hand. Soft. Simple. Grateful.
Frances leapt up onto the bed, meowing loudly.
“Guess she wants to come too,” she said, scratching behind the cat’s ears.
“She’s not allowed.”
“She’ll sue.”
“She can try.”
They laid back down—Harry still half-clothed, her shirt riding up at the hem—and just breathed for a moment. Rain tapped lightly against the windows again. The smell of warm bagels lingered in the air.
And Harry Castillo? For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or numbers or failing. He was thinking about sunlit train rides. About her in linen. About the taste of wine off her mouth in a country that didn’t know who they were.
He was thinking about falling in love.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
She was too.
They didn’t move for a while after that. Just laid there in the warmth of her small, chaotic bedroom—bagel crumbs on the sheets, Frances purring between them, her bare leg draped over his thigh like it belonged there.
Eventually though, real life crept back in. It started with a stretch. Then a yawn.
Then her mumbling, “I should shower.”
To which Harry responded, “I’ll die if you move right now.”
But she did. Of course she did.
She slipped out of bed with that effortless, half-asleep grace, hair tangled, his shirt riding up over her thighs. She padded barefoot across the hardwood and vanished into the bathroom without another word.
Harry stayed in bed for another five minutes. Just… thinking. About Italy. About her. About the fact that she said yes. Then—he got up. Went to the kitchen to get water. That’s when he opened her fridge.
And paused.
It wasn’t empty, exactly.
Jars of random sauces. A half-used block of feta. Mismatched Tupperware with exactly two bites of leftovers. A dozen eggs, one cracked. A bag of spinach that looked like it had been forgotten in a war zone. Five different types of hot sauce. A single mini vodka.
There were ingredients. But no actual food.
And Harry?
Harry had spent the last decade with a private chef and a housekeeper. His pantry looked like an organic catalog.
This? This was something else.
She padded back into the kitchen, hair damp, teeth brushed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “What?”
He turned from the fridge, holding up a sad little container of pickled onions. “This is your dinner?”
She shrugged, unbothered. “Sometimes I make pasta.”
“Out of hot sauce and… half a lemon?”
“Adds flavor.”
Harry looked at her like she was a war orphan. She grinned.
He shut the fridge. “We’re going to the store.”
“Harry—”
“I’m not letting you live like this.”
She leaned against the counter, playful. “You trying to domesticate me?”
He walked past her, smacked a kiss on her temple, and muttered, “Put on real shoes.”
They stopped at his penthouse first.
“I’m not going to the store in a suit,” he explained as they stepped off the elevator.
She looked him up and down. He had put his suit back on after she left it hanging up to dry overnight.
“You look like you’re about to close on a skyscraper.”
He loosened his collar. “Exactly. I want to buy produce, not acquire a hedge fund.”
She made herself comfortable while he changed. Shoes off. Feet up. Sitting sideways on his pristine leather couch with Frances curled beside her in her tote bag like a queen.
When Harry emerged again, everything shifted. He was in a navy fleece. Dark jeans. Clean sneakers. His hair was pushed back carelessly, and he looked—God, he looked like a boyfriend. Like a rich, brooding, ridiculously hot boyfriend who didn’t like other men looking at his girl.
Which he proved five minutes later.
The market was close. Not some chaotic Manhattan chain store.
This place was a little upscale. A little overpriced. The kind with hand-written chalk signs and fancy cheese displays and a barista in the corner who actually knew what cortado meant.
He parked on the street and opened the door for her.
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“So why do you?”
“Because if I don’t, some other asshole will.”
She blinked then laughed. “Jesus.”
Harry took her hand as they walked inside.
Casual. Like it was just a thing he did. But when two guys standing near the tomato stand turned to stare at her—eyes lingering a second too long—Harry’s entire body tensed.
She didn’t notice. But he did. Every glance. Every flick of attention. Every half-smirk and second look.
It wasn’t just because she was beautiful. It was the way she walked. The way she moved. The way she laughed when she picked up a can of whipped cream and shook it at him.
“You ever had this on strawberries?”
He blinked. “...No.”
She grinned. “Tragic.”
He didn’t respond. Just added two pints of strawberries and the whipped cream to their basket. She pushed the cart. He added things quietly as they passed them.
Olive oil. Sea salt. Fancy cereal she probably didn’t even like but the box looked pretty. Pasta made by a brand with an unpronounceable name. Parmesan wrapped in wax paper. Fresh basil.
He let her pick the bread. Watched her fingers dance over the loaves before finally choosing one with sesame seeds. He’d never cared what bread tasted like before. But now?
He wanted to watch her butter that slice and eat it on his couch with her knees tucked under her, wearing one of his shirts again.
They turned down the wine aisle.
She held up a bottle. “This one?”
He checked the label. “You like reds?”
“I like this red.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s twenty-one dollars.”
Harry raised a brow. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and added it to the cart anyway.
He followed behind her, watching the way her fingers curled over the cart handle, the way she tapped her nails when she was thinking.
A guy walked past. Looked directly at her ass.
Harry moved instantly—slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek like it was nothing.
The guy looked away. Quickly.
She leaned in, amused. “Was that possessive or horny?”
“Yes,” Harry murmured.
At checkout, she pulled out her wallet. Harry didn’t even blink. Just slid his card into the reader before she could open it.
“Harry—”
“You’re heading to a whole other county with me.”
“So?”
“So let me buy you fucking groceries.”
She sighed. “You’re annoying.”
“You love it.”
She didn’t respond.
Just kissed his jaw and whispered, “Thank you.”
They carried the bags back to the car, her arms full, the air still damp from the rain.
Frances meowed softly from her tote, swatting at the handle of the bread bag.
“Frances, if you break my focaccia, you’re not going to Italy.”
“She’s not going to Italy.”
“She’s gonna file a complaint.”
“She’s gonna stay with Maya.”
They both laughed.
Back at her place, they unpacked side by side. She tossed him a bag of spinach.
He raised a brow. “You’re gonna use this?”
“Maybe.”
“Uh huh.”
“Don’t judge me.”
“I am judging you.”
She elbowed him.
He stole a piece of her cheese.
Frances curled up on the window sill.
The kitchen smelled like basil and citrus and something that could have been the beginning of a life.
Harry leaned back against the counter. Watched her move. Watched the way her fingers brushed crumbs off the cutting board.
And he thought—
This. This was what he’d been missing. Not the girl. Not just her body. But the mundanity of it.
The way she stood barefoot while she put the yogurt in the fridge. The way she hummed to herself while sorting the pantry. The way her hand brushed his like it meant nothing—and everything.
He couldn’t remember what it was like not to want this. And maybe he didn’t want to.
It was the day before they left for Italy.
And Harry was folding her socks.
That alone would’ve been enough to send Danny into early retirement if he’d seen it.
Moments like this, when Harry Castillo, billionaire, former tabloid cryptid, was sitting on a floor of a cramped Lower East Side apartment, cross-legged, carefully rolling tiny pairs of white ankle socks into little cotton donuts and lining them up in the corner of a borrowed suitcase in her bedroom—made her feel happy.
So fucking happy.
“You’re doing it wrong,” she mumbled from the bed, half-asleep, cheek pressed into the duvet.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re rolling them like they’re cigars.”
“They’re supposed to be tight.”
“They’ll stretch out.”
Harry didn’t look up. “They’re socks.”
“Yeah, and you’re acting like you’re assembling high-grade explosives.”
He smirked faintly, tucking another rolled pair into the suitcase. “I take packing seriously.”
She opened one eye. “You once told me you haven’t packed your own bag in five years.”
“That was before you made me human again.”
She blinked. He kept rolling socks. Like he hadn’t just said the most quietly devastating thing of all time.
Packing had taken hours.
Partly because she kept getting distracted and forgetting what she’d already folded.
Partly because Harry had brought over a suitcase from his place—one of those sleek matte black things with TSA locks and wheels that didn’t squeak—and she kept insisting it looked like a tiny armored vehicle.
“I can’t believe I’m borrowing your suitcase,” she’d muttered earlier that day, trying to cram a bathing suit and two sundresses into it at once.
“You didn’t have one.”
“I have a duffel bag.”
Harry looked horrified. “That’s not a suitcase. That’s a threat.”
She threw a sock at him.
He ducked, grinning.
She hadn’t traveled internationally in years. Her passport was expired until recently—she only renewed it because Maya begged her to.
The last stamp it had? Toronto. Age 20. Two broke girls, a shared Airbnb, one near-death experience on a rented bike, and a night of crying on a beach with champagne from CVS.
Now she was going to Italy.
With Harry fucking Castillo. On his private jet.
And somehow, he still got excited watching her zip up a suitcase.
They barely slept the night before the flight. Too many nerves. Too many lists.
She kept checking her phone to make sure her passport was actually in her bag.
Harry watched her, amused. Said nothing.
Instead, he busied himself in her kitchen, making tea they didn’t drink and cutting fruit they didn’t eat.
He couldn’t sit still.
Not because of the trip.
Because of the envelope.
It had come two days ago.
A thin ivory card tucked inside pale pink stationary, his name written in looping gold script across the front
Mr. Harry Castillo + Guest You are cordially invited to the wedding of Lucy & John Saturday, June 8th, 2025 2:30 PM Chatham Bars Inn Cape Cod, Massachusetts
There was a note scribbled at the bottom in faint pen.
In Lucy's writing.
No pressure if you can’t come. We’d still love to see you.
Harry had stared at it for ten full minutes before tucking it under a file on his desk and pretending it hadn’t arrived.
He hadn’t told her.
Not because he was hiding anything. Not really. But because he didn’t want to bring Lucy into this. Into them.
Not when she was standing barefoot in his shirt, trying to find her phone charger and muttering about whether three pairs of jeans were “too many.”
Not when she called out, “Did I pack underwear already?” and he responded,
“Twelve pairs.”
Not when she looked at him across the room like he was something safe.
He would tell her eventually. Just…not yet.
The morning of the flight came quietly. It was still dark when the alarm buzzed.
She groaned. “What time is it?”
“2:30.”
“In the morning?”
“You agreed to this.”
“I was in love with you when I agreed. I’ve changed my mind.”
Harry smirked and sat up, sliding a hand through his hair. Frances jumped onto the bed and meowed directly into his face.
“She’s saying don’t leave me,” she mumbled into the pillow.
“She’s saying feed me.”
She rolled over and stared at him. “Do you always look like that when you wake up?”
Harry blinked. “Like what?”
“Like someone just photoshopped exhaustion and sex appeal.”
He threw a pillow at her.
By 3 a.m., Danny was downstairs in the car, already texting.
Danny: I’m not saying we’re late, but we’re late.
Danny: I have coffee. And donuts. And two kinds of Dramamine.
Harry grabbed the suitcase, double-checked her passport, triple-checked the address with Danny, and then took one last look around her apartment.
She was saying goodbye to Frances, promising her the neighbor would stop by and that Maya would be back by sunrise.
Harry just… watched her.
The way she knelt down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.
The way she whispered, “Don’t pee on my rug just to spite me, you little demon.”
He smiled to himself.
The car ride was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows.
She curled up in the back seat with his sweatshirt tucked under her chin. Harry held her hand.
Danny sat in the passenger seat, wisely keeping his mouth shut except to say, “It’s a beautiful jet, by the way. You’re gonna be insufferable about it.”
She looked up sleepily. “Is it big?”
Harry kissed her fingers. “It’s private.”
She grinned. “I feel like a Bond girl.”
The jet was waiting. Sleek. Immaculate. Tucked away on the private runway like something out of a movie.
She blinked when they pulled up. “That’s… ours?”
Harry nodded.
Danny sighed. “Yours. I still fly commercial.”
Inside, the cabin was pristine.
Cream leather seats. Soft lighting. A tiny bar in the corner already stocked with orange juice and sparkling water and espresso pods.
Harry showed her how to buckle the seatbelt. How to adjust the window shade. Where the snacks were.
She laughed. “Are you my flight attendant now?”
“Only on this airline,” he muttered.
Once they took off, she pressed her face to the window, watching the skyline disappear.
He sat beside her, legs stretched out, arm slung over the back of her seat.
Danny popped in once. Dropped off croissants. Said something about Italian cell service and their hotel driver. Then vanished again.
They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.
He watched her fall asleep mid-sentence, lips parted slightly, hair tucked under her hoodie.
He didn’t move. Didn’t work. Didn’t check his phone.
Just… stayed beside her.
And for the first time since that ivory envelope arrived—
He didn’t think about Lucy.
Didn’t think about what might’ve been.
Didn’t think about anything but the fact that in a few short hours, they’d land in a city made of light and wine and ancient stone.
And he’d get to see her walk through it.
Get to hear her gasp at things he’d seen a thousand times.
Get to hold her hand while she ate gelato and pointed at pigeons and got overwhelmed in a market stall and accidentally bought a tablecloth because she thought the vendor was complimenting her hair.
He didn’t want anyone else there.
Just her. And maybe that was enough.
Maybe it had always been.
They landed at exactly 5:32 PM local time.
The air was different. Warmer, even in early evening. The light had a honeyed edge to it—soft gold and long shadows draped across the tarmac like something out of a postcard. The jet slowly came to a stop as she blinked blearily at the window, hoodie bunched around her waist, tank top loose and clinging. No bra.
Harry glanced over at her, the edge of his mouth twitching.
"You’re going to give someone a heart attack the second we step off this plane."
She yawned. "Good. Let them die seeing something beautiful."
He almost smiled.
As soon as the door opened, the energy shifted.
Three black cars waited on the runway. Two assistants in pressed suits stood beside them, flanked by a driver and what looked like a security consultant in a tailored gray jacket. The woman in front stepped forward immediately, beaming like Harry personally discovered electricity.
One sign read: CASTILLO PARTY – VILLA LUMEN.
"Mr. Castillo! Welcome back. We’re honored. Truly."
Harry gave a brief nod, hand resting on the small of her back.
The woman turned to her next. "Mrs. Castillo, we hope the flight was comfortable. We’ve arranged everything at the villa. Please let us know if there’s anything else you need."
She froze. Blinked. But Harry didn’t correct her.
Neither did she.
He just squeezed her hip gently and muttered, "Let them think whatever they want."
The drive was smooth, luxurious, absurd.
The countryside blurred past—green vineyards, cypress trees, stone walls bathed in sunset. Their driver offered wine and chilled sparkling water in crystal-cut glasses. The seats reclined. The windows were tinted so deeply she could’ve fallen asleep again without anyone noticing.
But she stayed awake. Watching Harry.
Watching the way he relaxed by degrees, slowly, as the city disappeared behind them.
When they pulled up to the villa, she nearly forgot how to speak.
It was unreal.
Terracotta walls. Ivy-covered balconies. Lavender blooming along the path leading up to the entrance. White roses climbing up the columns. A view that stretched over the hills for what looked like miles.
Inside, everything smelled like lemon and clean linen. Marble floors, arched windows, a winding staircase made of stone.
Their hosts didn’t linger.
Just offered soft words, a bow, and a smile before vanishing with the promise, “Dinner will be served at eight. You are encouraged to rest until then.”
She just stared, slowly spinning in a circle, looking at every detail of the place.
"They put us in the west wing," Harry muttered, fingers lightly brushing her back as they were led upstairs.
"We have wings now?"
He looked at her. "We have whatever the fuck we want."
The bedroom made her stop walking.
A carved wooden bed stood in the middle, sheets white and impossibly soft. The balcony doors were open, a breeze dancing in. Beyond them—vineyards. Hills. A sky slowly turning the color of ripe apricots.
There were flowers on the nightstand.
A bottle of wine already uncorked.
Macarons in a glass bowl.
She lets out a sigh, closing her eyes as she makes her way out onto the balcony.
"Is this a honeymoon suite?" she whispered.
Harry didn’t answer.
He stepped behind her instead. Hands on her waist. Lips grazing her neck.
"Come here."
She turned in his arms, breath catching. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw tight. There was something restless behind it. Something feral.
"You’re quiet," she murmured.
He studied her face. His hands slid under her tank top.
"You smell like a fucking dream."
She arched a brow. "That’s not an answer."
"I haven’t touched you in days."
Her stomach clenched.
"I noticed."
He kissed her.
Hard.
Like he was angry at himself for waiting. Like he’d been hungry for weeks. Like her mouth was the only thing that could make him human again.
Her back hit the stone and he lifted her onto the bench, hands gripping her thighs, dragging her tank top down, mouth never leaving hers. She gasped when the cold air hit her chest—bare, sensitive—and he groaned deep in his throat.
"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back to look at her. His eyes were locked on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over them like he was memorizing. "You’re so fucking pretty. You don’t even know."
She bit her lip. "Then show me."
And he did.
He kissed down her throat, down the center of her chest, sucking, licking, dragging his teeth along soft skin until she was squirming. Until her thighs squeezed around his hips. Until she said his name like it meant something.
Then—
He dropped to his knees.
Right there.
On the balcony.
The breeze blew gently around them, the smell of lavender and wine in the air. Her tank top was shoved up, her shorts already pushed down her thighs. She slowly slid down the bench.
And Harry looked up at her like she was something sacred.
"Keep your eyes on me."
She did.
She watched him lick a stripe up her slit, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting something rare. She cried out, legs shaking, hands grasping for the stone railing behind her.
He groaned again. "You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted."
His tongue was relentless—circling, flicking, sucking. His grip on her thighs was bruising, grounding her, holding her open like he couldn’t get enough.
She tried to speak. Failed.
He slid two fingers inside her—slow at first, curling perfectly—then fast, then deeper, fucking her open while his mouth devoured her.
"You gonna come for me, baby?"
She whimpered.
He sucked harder.
"Say my name."
She did.
Over and over.
Until she shattered.
Until her legs gave out and he had to catch her.
He stood, scooping her up like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently.
Then he kissed her again—messy, hungry, licking her taste off his lips and moaning like he was drunk.
"I can’t stop," he muttered. "You do something to me. You ruin me."
She pulled at his shirt. He let her.
Let her undress him like she owned him.
And when he pushed inside her, slow and deep and all at once—
It wasn’t just fucking.
It was worship.
It was raw, reverent, almost painful in its intensity. He braced one hand against the mattress and the other curled around the back of her neck, holding her gaze like he couldn’t bear to look away. Like he needed to see every twitch of her mouth, every blink, every gasp that left her lips as he thrust into her again and again, steady and deep and so achingly deliberate.
She breathed his name like a prayer, fingers tangled in his hair, lips parted with pleasure. Her body arched to meet every movement, desperate to be closer, to swallow him whole.
Harry moved like he was etching something permanent into her—like he wanted to mark her from the inside. His mouth brushed her cheek, her jaw, her lips between every breathless exhale.
"You feel like heaven," he rasped. "You feel like mine."
She whimpered at that—at the way he said it like a truth carved into stone.
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Tongue teasing her mouth open as his hips rolled in a rhythm that was almost cruel in how good it felt. Like he knew exactly how to undo her.
One of her hands slipped down, tracing over his side, his back, clutching at him as if to make sure he stayed there. As if she couldn’t take the chance he’d pull away.
And he didn’t.
He never faltered. Never let her go. Just kept moving—fucking her with care, with need, with that terrifying depth he never shared with anyone else.
She tightened around him, legs trembling, her voice breaking as she said his name, pleaded, begged.
He whispered into her mouth, "I’ve got you. Come for me. Right now. That’s it—fuck—just like that."
Her body arched, then shattered beneath him.
And he followed.
A low groan ripped from his throat as he spilled into her, thrusts faltering, his whole body shaking from the force of it. His forehead pressed to hers. Their breath tangled. Their pulses frantic.
He didn’t move for a long time.
Didn’t say anything.
Just held her.
One hand cupping the side of her face, the other stroking her waist in lazy, absentminded circles.
Eventually, he pulled back just far enough to look at her—eyes heavy, mouth soft, expression unreadable.
Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Thank you."
She blinked. "For what?"
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
He just kissed her shoulder, slow and reverent, and stayed there.
Outside, the Tuscan night whispered around them—
Soft. Endless. Real.
The air inside the villa was thick with the ghost of everything they’d just done. Her skin still tingled. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady waves. She was sprawled across the sheets, hair a mess, limbs boneless, skin flushed with afterglow and the faintest imprint of the linen texture pressed into her back.
The room still smelled like sex and sunlight.
Harry was quiet beside her.
Not cold. Not distant.
Just...quiet. Like the kind of silence that comes only after something tectonic. Like he was letting the earth settle. Like something had cracked open and they were both just standing in the new air, breathing it in.
His thumb moved absently along her waist, tracing lazy circles. He was still half-hard, still close, but not demanding more.
Not yet. He just needed to be here. In it. With her.
She rolled over onto her side, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. His skin was warm and smelled like wine and her perfume and faint lavender from the villa sheets. Familiar and new at the same time.
Neither of them said anything for a while.
She let her fingers trail along the curve of his chest, nails faint, almost ticklish. She counted the moles across his sternum. He hummed at that, deep in his throat, then exhaled slowly, one big hand sliding up to rest on the back of her head.
“You’re going to be late,” she mumbled against his collarbone.
“No, I’m not.”
“You have a dinner.”
“I said what I said.”
She laughed quietly. “Harry.”
“I don’t care if we show up looking like we just fucked.”
“We did just fuck.”
“Exactly.”
She nudged his rib with her knee. “You have to shower, old man.”
He groaned. “You’re the reason I’m sweaty.”
“You’re the reason you’re grumpy.”
He cracked one eye open. “You wanna say that again?”
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Shower. Now.”
Eventually, they moved.
Reluctantly.
Limbs tangled as they rolled off the bed. Her thighs ached. She was sore in the most decadent way. Her body felt loose and tender and entirely his. He offered a hand as she stepped down from the mattress—mock-gentlemanly, fake regal—and she accepted it with a smirk and a dramatic curtsey.
The bathroom was all marble and glass. Golden light spilled in from the balcony, painting the countertops in warm hues. The shower was massive—big enough for two, maybe three. Probably four if they stacked right.
She turned the water on.
He watched her.
Always watching.
When the steam curled around their bodies, she stepped in first. Hot water sluiced down her back, her shoulders, her spine.
She sighed as it hit her skin. A low sound. Almost grateful. Almost reverent.
Harry followed.
No words. Just hands.
Big hands. Careful hands. Hands that had held her like she might vanish, that had gripped her thighs and touched the softest parts of her like they were sacred. Like she was.
He grabbed the soap first.
Rubbed it between his palms, lathered slowly. Then—gently, reverently—dragged his hands over her back.
Her shoulders. Her arms. Her stomach. Her hips. Down to the back of her knees.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
He washed her like she was precious. Like she was something ancient and delicate and holy. He kissed the top of her spine. The curve behind her ear. Rinsed her hair with long, slow strokes. Massaged her scalp until she leaned back into him, humming.
She returned the favor.
Lathered his chest. His arms. Dragged the soap down the deep lines of his stomach with slow, teasing fingers. She worked the shampoo into his hair, watching his eyes flutter closed. When she got to his thighs, he groaned.
“Behave.”
She didn’t.
He pulled her close, water cascading over their bodies, their skin slick and clean and flushed with something almost unbearable.
She reached for a cloth and gently wiped behind his ears.
“I’m not your child.”
“You’re acting like one.”
He grabbed her waist and yanked her flush against him.
They stayed like that until their fingers pruned.
Then—finally—they dried off.
She wrapped herself in one of the impossibly soft robes from the villa.
Harry did the same, though his looked comically small on him. She giggled when it barely covered his thighs.
“Say a word and I’ll throw you into the courtyard.”
“Promise?”
He rolled his eyes. “I have international security clearance. No one would know.”
Back in the bedroom, the air had shifted. Still warm. Still gold-lit. But now it felt like transition. Like preparation. Like a pause before the world returned.
The suitcase sat open on the bench at the foot of the bed. A half-folded silk dress draped over the edge. His suit jacket hung on a chair.
“Unpack?” she asked.
He nodded.
They worked together.
Unpacking side by side.
She folded his shirts. He folded her underwear.
Her fingers danced over his cologne bottle, the one she always associated with him. She set it gently on the nightstand beside a small glass of water. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced over. Noted it.
He placed her hairbrush beside the bathroom sink, untangling a few of her strands caught in the bristles.
She rolled her socks and tucked them into the drawer. Folded her pajamas. Lined her skin care in a neat row.
He lined his ties on the shelf like a ritual. Stacked his cufflinks in the tray she passed him.
They shared the space. Merged into it. No questions asked. No territory claimed.
She hung up her dresses into the villa wardrobe. He adjusted the hangers. Steamed the back of her dress when she wasn’t looking.
She noticed his charger cable was frayed. She pulled one from her tote and handed it over without a word.
He opened a small velvet box and revealed a delicate necklace he’d packed for her without telling her.
“Wear this,” he said simply.
She blinked. “You packed jewelry?”
“You didn’t.”
Her lips curved.
The moment lingered.
Then—getting ready.
She stood at the vanity, pulling a comb through her damp hair. He stood beside her, shaving. Both in their robes. Moving in tandem. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. The kind of rhythm you can’t fake.
She did her makeup slowly, lip balm first, then liner, then a whisper of mascara. A little blush.
He adjusted the collar of his shirt beside her, fingers methodical. Buttoned his cuffs. Straightened his sleeves.
She reached for perfume. He paused, watching.
“You use that every day huh.”
“I do.”
He leaned down. Smelled her neck. “Still there.”
Then he asked if she could spray some on him.
She smiled.
He walked into the closet to grab his belt. She watched the way his robe opened slightly as he moved, the lines of his body still lingering with the softness of their morning.
Then—clothes.
She slipped the silk dress over her shoulders. It was pale. Bare-backed. Barely structured. The kind of dress you wore in Italy when you weren’t sure if you were someone’s date or someone’s downfall.
Harry froze when he saw her in it.
She turned.
“Too much?”
His jaw flexed. “You’re not changing.”
She smirked.
He moved closer. Adjusted the straps like they were made of glass. Tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Let his thumb brush her collarbone.
“You’re going to make this very hard for me.”
“You invited me.”
“I didn’t know what I was inviting.”
“Yes, you did.”
He said nothing.
Just buttoned his shirt.
Put on his watch.
Slid into the jacket like he was donning armor. Sharp and deliberate.
She watched from the bed.
Hair pinned up now. Lipstick barely there. One heel dangling from her foot. Legs crossed like temptation.
“You look mean,” she said.
“I am mean.”
She grinned. “But you smell nice.”
He offered a hand. She took it.
They stood in front of the mirror together.
Perfect opposites.
Dark suit. Soft silk. Sharp jaw. Warm smile. Something dangerous, something beautiful.
Together.
They didn’t say much after that.
Just breathed.
The dinner.
Work.
But for now—
It was just them.
But not for long.
Because at exactly 8:17 p.m.—fashionably, just barely, late—the knock came.
Three soft raps on the thick villa door, followed by a polite, accented voice calling, "Mr. Castillo? Your guests are seated. The drinks are being served."
Harry exhaled slowly. A breath through his nose. One final glance at her.
She looked unreal.
Silk dress. Loose updo. That faint smudge of color on her lips that made his mouth twitch every time he looked too long. Her necklace—the one he picked—rested delicately on her collarbone like it belonged there.
He didn’t say anything.
Just offered his arm.
She took it.
And down they went.
Dinner was being served under a pergola lit by strands of woven golden lights. The villa’s courtyard stretched out before them like something out of a dream—white linen table, wine glasses already half-full, the sound of crickets humming in the background.
Candlelight danced across bottles of olive oil and bowls of olives, and the scent of rosemary and garlic wafted from a nearby kitchen. Cicadas buzzed low in the distance, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the rustic stone tiles.
There were twelve seats.
Ten already filled.
Harry’s partners were an intimidating mix—Italian, British, and New York-bred tycoons with slick smiles and suspiciously quiet watches. Their wives, dressed in silk and linen and quiet diamonds, turned when Harry and she arrived—eager, observant, their eyes already cataloging every detail.
Like predators sizing up a rare animal at the watering hole.
Lorenzo and Marcella sat closest to the head. Lorenzo was tall, leonine, late fifties, with thick white hair and a voice like a cello. Marcella wore a linen suit and pearls, her Italian accent soft and theatrical. She was always watching.
Next to them—Livia and Paolo. Livia had a sharp chin, a sharper voice, and a body that looked sculpted from Florence marble. Paolo wore a navy suit that screamed Milan, his cufflinks catching the candlelight.
And at the far end, Francesca and Luca.
Francesca looked like a Donna Tartt character. Blunt bob, smudged eyeliner, a cigarette nearly lit. She wore a sheer black blouse over a vintage slip and held her wine glass like it was an accessory. Her smile was the kind that knew secrets.
Luca barely spoke. Just watched. Calculating.
And then there was Danny.
"Harry!" Marcella called, standing with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "We were starting to think you’d eloped."
Harry rolled his eyes. “You’d know. It’d be on the news within the hour.”
There were polite laughs. The kind that had more teeth than warmth.
He pulled out her chair before taking his own. It was a subtle motion. Protective. Possessive. Deliberate. A quiet claim staked in linen and candlelight.
Francesca’s eyes sparkled.
Marcella tilted her head. “And this is…?”
Harry rested one hand on the back of her chair. "My girlfriend."
Silence.
Then—
Marcella blinked. "Girlfriend?"
Livia raised a brow. “That’s new.”
Paolo chuckled. “She’s beautiful. Young, too. You’ve been holding out on us, Castillo.”
Harry didn’t smile. Just picked up his wine.
“She’s not a secret. She’s just not your business.”
Marcella laughed, waving her hand. “You know us. We’re nosy. Besides, the wives are all dying to know. We have a betting pool.”
“Jesus,” Harry muttered, under his breath.
Francesca leaned over to her. “Don’t mind them. They’re all bored and drunk on red wine and old money.”
She smiled.
“I’m Francesca,” the woman said. “And you—are fascinating.”
The meal began.
Plates of antipasti. Olive tapenade, roasted tomatoes, shaved fennel, slices of prosciutto that melted on the tongue. Tiny burrata drizzled with balsamic. Warm focaccia with rosemary. Bowls of almonds and figs.
It was decadent without trying to be. Effortless luxury.
Harry stayed quiet for most of it. Sharp-eyed, tense-shouldered. Only relaxing slightly when she brushed her leg against his under the table. She could feel the energy buzzing off him—wary, protective, always watching.
She found herself in conversation with Francesca quickly.
Books.
They talked about books.
“I just reread The Secret History,” Francesca said, swirling her wine. “Still makes me want to commit academic murder.”
She grinned. “I always wanted to be Bunny. Not in spirit. In wardrobe.”
“Tragic prep chic.”
“Exactly.”
Harry glanced over at that. Quiet approval in his gaze.
Francesca lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her in elegant swirls. “Who are your favorites?”
She shrugged. “Zadie Smith. Donna Tartt. Ottessa Moshfegh, but only when I’m feeling unwell. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of Didion.”
Francesca beamed. “You and I are going to get along dangerously well.”
Livia leaned in across the table. “How did you two meet?”
Harry stiffened.
She opened her mouth.
He beat her to it.
“Page Six is going to run that story in a week. Ask them.”
More laughter. More glances. More eyes like spotlights.
Marcella pressed on. “It’s just surprising, Harry. You’re not… known for romance.”
He smirked. “I’m not known for a lot of things I am.”
Paolo raised his glass. “Is she moving in?”
Harry stays silent, starting to scowl at Paolo.
“Soon?” He pushes. He keeps on fucking pushing.
Harry didn’t answer. But his hand brushed hers under the table.
Francesca spoke instead. “Let them be. Love doesn’t have a lease agreement.”
Marcella sipped her wine. “But surely it’s serious. You brought her to Italy.”
Livia leaned in again. "And what’s the age gap, if you don’t mind me asking?"
Harry’s jaw ticked.
“I do mind.”
Marcella laughed, shaking her head. “We’re just curious. You know how it is. Older men and beautiful women. It’s a tale as old as time.”
“She’s not a tale,” Harry said flatly. “She’s a person.”
That shut them up.
For a beat.
Then—
Lorenzo, quiet until now, finally spoke. “And what about Lucy?”
The table paused.
Her stomach dropped.
Harry didn’t blink. “What about her.”
Lorenzo shrugged. “Just surprised to see you here with this girl, that’s all. I'd thought you'd be reeling from shock over Lucy sending you an invitation to her wedding.”
How did he know.
How the fuck did he know?
She froze next to him.
Her hand stopped rubbing his out of comfort.
Harry’s jaw ticked. “We haven’t RSVPed.”
Marcella’s eyebrows rose. “Wait. You were invited?”
“Apparently.”
“Wow,” Livia said. “That’s bold. Isn’t she marrying that waiter?”
“John,” Paolo supplied.
“Oh, right. The bohemian.”
“She's not my girlfriend anymore, so stop bringing her up.” Harry said. Cold. Even.
Livia raised a brow. “But she was.”
Silence.
He stared down at Livia. “She isn’t now.”
She didn’t say anything.
But her body went still.
Francesca noticed. She shifted slightly, nudging her foot against hers under the table. A quiet, unspoken solidarity.
The conversation moved on.
Sort of.
She laughed at something Francesca said about poetry readings and obscure authors who only write in lowercase.
But inside—
Something tightened.
He hadn’t told her.
About the wedding.
About the invite.
About any of it.
She smiled. She clinked her wine glass. She even leaned into his arm when dessert was served—some kind of lemon tart with burnt sugar and pistachio.
But something shifted.
Just slightly.
A hairline crack in the evening.
Not enough to break it.
Just enough to notice.
Francesca asked her if she’d read Bluets.
She nodded. “Three times.”
They talked about heartbreak. About writing through pain. About how nobody writes yearning like Nina LaCour.
Harry kept his hand on her lower back. Gentle. Present.
But she wasn’t fully there anymore.
When Harry looked down at her later—when the stars came out and the wine dulled most of the tension in the room—he noticed it too.
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He wanted to ask.
But didn’t.
Because he already knew why.
Hi honeybun! first off, I LOVE your stories. So creative and sexy
So my question: kinda funny
Do you think Javi P. would be more of a boobs man or an ass man? I always like thinking of these things when it comes to Pedro’s characters. Like I for sure think Joel Miller is all about the booty.
Thanks and *kiss *kiss
hiiiii thank you, i appreciate that sm and ty for reading <3
javi is 1000000000000% a boobs man like he loves a good rack and is always finding any reason to touch up on 'em
and dont even get me started on how mesmerized he gets when you're riding him and your tits are just bouncin around that man goes crazyyyy
gif examples of javi being a tits guy:
Whatamannnnnnnnn
GREEDY
─ Dr. Jack Abbot x fem! reader || WC: 3k
SYNOPSIS: You crave to feel your lover differently, and Jack is happy to satisfy your needs.
CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Age gap implied [Jack is late 40s, reader is late 20s/early 30s]. Power imbalance mention [Attending/Resident]. Established "secret" relationship. Creampie. Unprotected sex (p in v). Mentions of oral (f! receiving) & fingering. Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation. Dirty talk. Brief mentions of birth control & safe sex practices. They fuck nasty and are down bad for each other. Reader is described to have hair. Jack Abbot is a really good partner. Brief mentions of Jack’s scars & allusions to a vasectomy he had in the past.
A/N: This all came to me in a dream lmao. I just had a certain itch I needed to scratch and I wanted to talk about getting creampied by a fine ass old man, so this was the product of that thought. I hope you all enjoy this and join me in feening for this man. Proofread by moi. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated! <3
NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3
You’d never really consider yourself a greedy or selfish person, but when it came to Jack Abbot, you just couldn’t help yourself.
On your first day of residency at the Pitt, your attention instantly gravitated to him. He carried himself so confidently at times, never crossing the line of stepping into arrogance like some of the surgeons he complained about. He kept his head high, back straight, and shoulders flared as he maneuvered around patients and rooms alike, commanding every space with a calm confidence you almost envied.
Coffee and light teasing exchanged in the emergency department turned into cold beers and tipsy laughter at the local bar everyone frequented after long shifts or on their off-days. One drink too many resulted in a not-so-accidental one-night stand with the enigma of a man that was Dr. Abbot. You wondered if he regretted it by the time you woke up in the morning, hair a mess over your head, going in different directions; doing your best to bury the disappointment tugging at your chest when the other side of the bed was found empty.
Much to your surprise, light clanking from your kitchen forced you back on your feet, spotting Jack working over the stove, the smell of eggs and fresh toast wafting through your apartment. His jeans hung low on his hips, unbuttoned, with his black briefs hiding the rest of him. He turns when he senses your presence, the corner of his lips tugging upwards in a small grin at the sight of you, slightly disheveled and wearing nothing but his shirt from the night before.
“Morning. Stole some of your coffee; hope you don’t mind.”
You were doomed from the start.
It never stopped after that; a one-night stand turned into several over the course of one month, and one month turned into two. You found yourself in the consistent presence of Dr. Abbot, who was always there to satisfy your needs, whatever they may be. He learned how to read you, your likes and dislikes, your quirks, and the things that made you happy and tick in agitation. The few weeks you spent with him in secret amounted to the moment Jack popped the question of exclusivity one night, and you were more than happy to say yes.
Now here you were, Dr. Abbot’s favorite night-shift resident at work and his girl when you two were alone. You already had him wrapped around your finger, hitting close to five months of being with him and selfishly enjoying his company in this bubble you’ve created for yourselves away from prying eyes.
And yet you still wanted more.
You couldn’t quite explain what happened along the way, why you simply couldn’t stop finding any little moment to touch him, to kiss him, to taste him. You just knew you wanted every part of him to yourself, and he was ready to give it.
All but one.
Your sex life with Jack was already more than satisfactory, and even using a word as simple as that was a disservice in describing your experiences with him. Hell, you’re pretty sure he’s ruined you for anyone else, and you don’t plan on finding another to take his place any time soon. But there was this one pesky thing that still kept you separated from him.
The damn rubber.
Jack was almost too good for you—a softie despite his take-no-shit attitude, always sweet and considerate when it came to you. Of course, that translated to when he fucked you, prioritizing your safety and pleasure above all else, including maintaining recommended sexual habits. You can’t blame him; he’s not an idiot, and neither are you, but at times it irks you to still have something getting in the way of feeling him the way you wanted.
It almost pissed you off how badly you craved him, desperately holding on to him and pulling him closer when he was too busy fucking you into the mattress. His face dug into the crook of your neck, grunting as your walls fluttered around his length, your arousal covering the thin non-latex material that separated your bodies. Just the thought of it made you whine, clawing at his shoulders and wrapping your legs tighter around his waist.
You knew he was getting close from the way his breathing rumbled deep within his chest, his grip on your hips tightening as his thrusts picked up in force. The words that had been swirling in your head for the past 30 minutes slipped out of your mouth and into his ear before you could stop them.
“Fill me up, baby.”
He groans when he hears you, slamming his hips hard against yours, a curse tumbling from his mouth as he fills up the condom. He draws a final sigh from you before pulling out to dispose of the wretched thing while you remain occupied with taking a peek at his ass as he heads to the bathroom.
Having sex without protection was something Jack didn’t think to bring up or mention. The last thing he wanted was to make you assume all you were to him was a toy to be used when it's convenient and discarded when he grew bored of you. He already had the displeasure of approaching sex that way when he was younger and reckless; he vowed to never do that again, especially with you. And of course, you didn’t want to potentially ruin the relationship you’ve worked so hard to build with your attending.
As much as he wanted to deny it, your words tormented him, playing in his mind on loop so frequently he started dreaming about feeling you with no barriers, claiming you properly. He knows once you hit that stage in your fairly new relationship, there’s no going back. From the way you struggled to hide the slightest tinge of disappointment whenever he ripped open the foil wrapper in front of you, he knew the conversation would happen eventually.
“What if next time, we just don’t use anything? Protection, I mean.” You blurt out to him in the kitchen, wringing your hands together as Jack busied himself washing the dishes after dinner. He finished up and dried his hands, pivoting to face where you leaned against the island.
“Is that what you want?” He asks carefully, his eyes boring into yours gently, the way he always did when speaking to those he cared about. “Surprises aren’t exactly what I’m worried about; we’re good on that end, but, it’s whatever you want to do, sweetheart.”
“Yes, I want to try it out.” You feel his hands coming towards your waist, a comforting gap of space between as you mess with the collar of his t-shirt. “It’s not that our sex life isn’t fun or anything; I very much enjoy sleeping with you.”
“I sure hope so considering how much I risk pulling my back doing all the work.” You playfully slap his chest, rolling your eyes at his teasing smirk.
“I just…I want to feel you, all of you. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch sort of thing, and it feels stupid explaining it, but it’s a thing, okay. Don’t fucking laugh at me.”
Jack couldn’t help but chuckle dryly at your mild panic, shaking his head as he stepped closer to you, planting a kiss on your cheek and squeezing your hips in reassurance.
“Not laughing at you, I just think it’s cute how flustered you’re getting when you’re begging me to fuck you raw.”
“Now why are you saying it like that? It sounds raunchy coming from you.” He only laughs harder.
“I think we’re way past the point of calling what we do raunchy in our relationship, don’t you think?” There’s a faint glint in his hazel eyes when he takes in your features again, his fingers pinch your chin, holding your gaze. “Besides, you aren’t the only one who’s been thinking about it. I was just waiting for you to crack first.”
That’s how you found yourself in this position now.
Your cunt pulsed from the lavish attention bestowed by the older man above, who already made you cum once using his mouth and again in combination with his thick fingers. Even with the two orgasms you gladly took, your body clenched around nothing as you watched Jack lazily jerk himself off, dark eyes raking over your bare body. By now, he’d be tearing open another one of those flimsy foil packets and slipping inside you. Instead, your legs subconsciously widened even more, beckoning him closer to you in an attempt to take you.
Notching the tip of his length at your entrance, he groaned at the feel of you, shifting his hips to grind against your heat as more of your wetness coated the underside of his cock.
“Last chance to take it back, sweetheart.” He quirked, meeting your hazy eyes—glossed over and feral as you admired his broad silhouette and tempting movements.
“Shut up and fuck me already.” You only seemed to be thinking with your downstairs brain, your thirst for more overriding common sense, not that he was complaining.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He angled himself over you, keeping his observant eyes on your face as he started pushing into you, slowly sinking deeper into your welcoming body. Jack didn’t expect you to feel so damn hot, your walls surrounding his cock like a vice, like you were made for it. Your hands flew to grasp his bicep, gasping at the bare feel of him for the first time. Eyes fluttering closed, a whimper lurched out of your mouth when he was down to the hilt, the trimmed hairs by his pubic bone rubbing against your sensitive nub, causing you to twitch around him on instinct.
As he sat inside you and let you adjust to him, you could feel everything—every ridge, every vein, every swell and throb his body gave you, even his damn pulse. It was bringing you closer to the deep end.
“Jack…” You mumbled his name, blinking slowly as his nostrils flared.
“Hold on, hold on, don’t move.” Large hands clutched your hips, keeping you pinned to the mattress with his strength. “You feel so good.”
“Yeah?” The compliment took the rest of the empty space in your head, your thighs taking their rightful place around his waist, knees bracketing over his sharp hips.
“So damn warm and wet…God.” It sounded like Jack wasn’t talking to you anymore but reiterating his own innermost thoughts, filter gone. His attention trailed down to where your bodies were joined together, shifting his hips back to watch your lower set of lips part for him, your slick covering his skin. You moved towards him, already missing the stretch of him inside you, and Jack was just as eager to give you what you needed.
“Look at her. Taking me so well, like she always does.” Thrusting forward, he didn’t spare you an inch, drawing back just to pound into you again and again.
The friction of his hips intensifies the more he gets to feel you, and soon enough the four walls of your shared bedroom are filled with the audible slapping of skin as you lose yourselves in each other. Jack’s hips pummeled into you with a force you weren’t completely unfamiliar with, but this carnal need to have more of him creeps onto the surface. Your nails raked down his freckled arms and the planes of his shoulders, encouraging Jack to buck into you harder with your sweet cries.
It all felt too fucking good, like a dream.
You didn’t want him to stop, your legs winding tighter around his torso, mewling when he hit that textured spot tucked inside you with practiced accuracy, head thrown back against the pillow as you focused on catching each one of his harsh lunges. A hand sneaked to the back of your head, grasping the nape of your neck and angling your face to look up at Jack, the smallest bit of sweat lining up on his forehead.
“Keep those eyes on me, baby. Want to see your pretty face when you come for me.” He practically snarled over you, leaning down to roughly plant a kiss, his tongue swirling around yours, swallowing all of the petulant sounds he brought out of you. “Perfect fucking pussy, and all mine.”
“All yours, Jack.” You parroted, nodding dumbly from the impact of his movements against you. “I’m all yours, sir.”
His grin turned predatory at your needy words, both hands curling around your thighs to angle them higher up, your knees now pinned to your chest, allowing him to dig just a bit deeper into you. You jolted from the change in position, one hand rushing to press against his lower stomach, fingertips skimming the raised scars along his side, long faded and meshed with the rest of him.
He was unfazed by your movements, holding you steady, and upped his efforts against you. Your arousal practically seeped out of you, pooling at the base of him and dripping down his balls. Another whimper echoed in the room, your clouded gaze glanced down to watch Jack fuck you, mesmerized at the shine you left over him. You didn’t need to warn him that another release was swirling in your gut; your body language did all the talking for you.
“Know you’re close, honey. Can feel you getting tighter around me, damn near choking me.” He grunts, adding a swivel to his precise advances into you. “C’mon, need you to drench me. Let me feel you.”
Three more drives into you, and your third orgasm hit you so ardently your whole body trembled, a silent cry flying out of your mouth. Jack observed your reaction with hungry eyes, cooing at your cock-drunk expression, drool starting to spill out the corner of your lip.
He knew it was only a matter of time before he hit his peak, the tension in his body building in his core, and with the way you haven’t stopped convulsing around him, it will catch him off guard sooner than later. Through the haze of ecstasy, you found your voice and mumbled at him, the lust-filled mania that started this whole ordeal possessing you.
“Jack,” his attention was drawn to your face, plump lips and warm cheeks mirroring his ravenous stare, “I need you to come inside me.”
“You want it that bad, huh?” He was struggling to keep it together, his mind already hyper-focused on finishing inside until you took every damn drop. “So desperate to have your old man fill up your greedy pussy, hm?”
“Yes! Yes!” Tears streaked down your face at the mere thought of getting to feel him like this; the promise of getting what you wanted after so long was enough to overwhelm you. “Please, Jack. I need it; need to feel it. Want to feel you tomorrow, baby.”
That fired him up; the sight of your watery eyes motivated him to flex his forearms and force you to take all of him as he chased his prolonged release. A few more jabs and he was done for, digging his face into the crook of your neck and biting your shoulder to suppress the loud growl that buzzed through him. His hips were flush with yours, giving you everything he had to give, his thighs trembling and stomach almost cramping from his violent climax.
His orgasm felt never-ending; he just couldn’t stop, your body melting from the inside out as you held him above you until he plopped on top of you, pelvis subconsciously grinding into you more, never wanting to leave your warmth.
“Jesus.” You heard Jack murmur against you, placing light kisses over the indents of his teeth on your shoulder. His mouth followed a path up to the column of your throat, your jaw, and to your lips, offering you sweet pecks. “You alright?”
“Mhm,” you hummed at his affections, the rest of your limbs becoming one with the mattress under you. “Didn’t break me yet, though I don’t think I can feel my legs.”
“Means I did my job well.” Both ends of his mouth curl upwards, mimicking his expression as he gently wipes your tears away.
Carefully, he took hold of your legs, bringing them back down to the bed, rubbing them with an apologetic smile as you quivered. With ease, Jack maneuvers himself to pull out of you, his eyes going to your pussy and the mess he made of you. He catches the way his spend drips out of your opening and stains the sheets below you, a sight he was committing to memory for the first time.
A carnal urge flares within him, his curiosity getting the best of him as he brings a hand to the most sensitive part of you, his thumb spreading you out to get a better look at you. More of his seed dribbled out of you, tainting the thick digit as he smeared more of himself over the rest of your cunt. You gasped at the sensation, his thumb circling over your slick pearl, squirming under his touch from the overstimulation.
“I get the appeal now,” he says to himself again, swiftly bringing two of his fingers to scoop the rest of him and sink them back into your hole, serving as a plug to keep his release inside you. You keened at him, clutching his thick wrist as he breached your body with his hand, your breath hitching in your throat.
“Jack…”
“So pretty when you’re so full of me.” You clench around him, the sensation sending a current of pleasure coursing through him, his cock twitching again at the thought of having you again. “You can take a little more, right?”
Who were you to say no to that? You couldn’t get enough of him, and when it came to Jack Abbot, you always made room for seconds and more.
©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!
the luckiest bastard in pittsburgh
pairing: dr. jack abbot x coffee shop night shift worker!female reader
this is mostly fluff but there's some allusions to smut/18+ content toward the end so minors do not interact!!!
a/n: i finished the pitt the other night and have been consumed with dr. jack abbot as a character and thinking about what he'd be like in a relationship. because he's such a capable doctor, but he seems like he's kind of a mess in every other aspect of his life, and i love the idea of him being a bit of a bumbling mess while falling in love. so here are some thoughts about all that.
if y'all enjoy this, i'm thinking of rewriting it as a proper series, potentially showing both points of view, and diving deeper into the smutty bits that would come later. so if you're interested in that, do let me know!
Dr. Jack Abbot doesn't even like coffee that much, even if it helps him get through the night shift. Jack finds comfort in the darkness, but on the rough nights, when the horror seems endless, it's your pretty smile that really gets him through till dawn...
it isn't long after he first sees you at the small café next to the hospital that Jack starts getting coffee every night, either stopping in before his shift or ducking out from the ER for a cup of black coffee in the early hours of the morning—if he can pull himself away.
he finds himself making excuses to linger in the coffee shop, asking you whether you enjoy the night shift, his mouth twisting in a hint of a smile when you admit that you do. it's quiet, and you like the quiet.
it takes a while before Jack works up the nerve to ask you for your name, and his knees nearly sag with relief when you give it to him freely.
there's another of your pretty smiles on your face when you tell Jack your name—and this time, it's all for him.
a flicker of warmth trembles to life in his chest, a spark of something he hasn't felt in a long, long time. he feels the need to protect it from the yawning darkness in his chest.
Jack introduces himself to you as, "Dr. Jack Abbot, but you can call me Jack." and you look at him from under your lashes, a teasing glimmer in your eyes as you murmur, "it's nice to meet you, Dr. Jack."
hearing you call him that, in your sweet voice, does something to Jack's chest and he's not quite sure what to do about it. he has half a mind to check himself out for a heart event as he trudges blindly back to the hospital, black coffee in hand.
but then he's plunged back into the chaos of the ER and he doesn't have time to think about the strange fluttering behind his sternum whenever he remembers your smile or your voice or the way you called him Dr. Jack.
he decides it's nice, actually, and that maybe he could learn to live with it.
one late night/early morning—all Jack knows is that it's past 3am but the sun hasn't started to rise yet—he's in the coffee shop, doing his best to chat with you when a car backfires outside on the street. you jump, spilling scalding hot coffee over your hand. the paper cup and coffeepot tumble to the floor, the latter shattering and sending glass flying across the tile.
before Jack knows what he's doing, he's catapulted himself over the counter. glass crunches beneath the soft soles of his shoes as he makes his way to you, moving faster than he has in years to get to you.
you're biting your lip against the pain, tears shimmering in your wide eyes—but there's no fear in your gaze, only a desperate pleading for help. Jack's heart surges in a way it never does in the ER, beating harder and faster, his nerves buzzing to life after so many years spent dormant.
thankfully, all Jack's years of training kick in and he's able to take control of the situation on muscle memory alone.
gently, he takes your arm and leads you to the sink behind the counter, kicking glass out of his way to clear a path for you. he flicks on the tap and checks that the water is cool, but not too cold, before he guides your quivering hand beneath the stream.
with his other hand, Jack tips your chin up to look at him and his chest squeezes with a concerning force when he sees that tears have spilled down your cheeks.
right then, Jack knows he'd tear out his own heart with a pair of forceps if it meant never seeing you cry again.
with fingers shaking in a way they never do when he's working in the ER, Jack brushes your tears from your cheeks. his throat is tight with a panic that feels foreign and overwhelming, but he knows it has everything to do with the fact that it's you who's hurt. through it all, he manages to murmur words of comfort.
"you're alright, i've got you. just keep your hand under the water, sweetheart. you're doing so well, just stay right there. you're gonna be ok, i'm gonna take care of you, i promise."
when the tears have stopped, Jack asks where he can find the café's first aid kit, which he fetches quickly before returning to your side.
he knows he's standing too close, crowding into your space, but he can't help himself. he needs the physical reminder that you're there, that you're going to be ok, and he's going to make sure of it.
when he flips open the first aid kit and quickly takes stock of what supplies are inside, he can't help but grumble roughly. he doesn't even know he's muttering under his breath about everything the kit is missing until a little puff of laughter escapes you and he looks up in surprise.
your eyes are still wide, a tightness around them that tells Jack you're still in pain and are being brave about it, but there's something else shimmering in the depth of your gaze. something like fondness, something warm that reaches straight into Jack's chest and wraps around his heart, squeezing in a way that's both painful and pleasant, torture and comfort.
"i'm sorry about your coffee."
your words pull jack from his scattered thoughts, and before he can think better of it, he says, "fuck the coffee." his voice is low and rough, but that doesn't seem to scare you.
his blunt words draw another giggle from you, and Jack feels practically high from the relief and rapture the sound inspires in him. distantly, he considers booking himself in for a head scan when he gets back to the hospital, but he knows the sudden off-kilter feeling has nothing to do with a potential brain injury and everything to do with the way you make him feel.
your laughter trails off too soon, but you're still smiling, looking at him from under your lashes, almost like you're suddenly shy. "if you have time, Dr. Jack, i'll brew another pot."
"i've got time," Jack says, the 'for you' left unsaid. but Jack thinks you know what he means, because your face softens, your eyes looking at him like he hung the moon, and your lips curving into the prettiest smile he's seen yet.
the two of you linger in that moment as long as possible, like neither of you want it to pass. but, inevitably, it does.
Jack looks away first, coughing to clear his suddenly dry throat. his movements are jerky and awkward at first, as he starts pulling supplies from the first aid kit's meager offerings, but his hands steady as his training takes over, and he's never been more thankful for it.
in no time at all, Jack has your hand bandaged and you tell him you're feeling a lot better. before you can thank him, he's writing down his personal phone number on the back of one of the café's loyalty punch cards and telling you to call or text him if you have any questions about treating or re-bandaging the burn.
you take the card with a gentle smile, your eyes roving over his face in a way that makes him shift his weight from foot to foot. he has to bite back a wince when he feels a twinge of discomfort from his leg rubbing against his prosthetic, but he won't stop you from looking.
you thank him for his help, and seem to hesitate before stepping close to him—so close, his heart riots in his chest and his breath catches in his throat. his entire body is lit up, his nerves feeling like live wires, even as he stands perfectly still, as if any sudden movement could spook you.
your lips brush against Jack's grizzled cheek and it's embarrassing how his body reacts to such a chaste kiss, blood flowing to places he thought were half-dead from disuse. his heart is pumping in his chest and his fingers twitch with the need to reach for you, while another part of him, below the waistband of his scrubs, also strains for you.
he wants to wrap you up in his arms and haul you against his chest. he wants to kiss you, to learn how you taste and how you'd sound coming apart on his tongue, and how you'd smile when you're wrapped up in the sheets of his bed.
he wants to map every curve of your body with his calloused hands. he wants to take you home and cook you breakfast. he wants to protect you from ever being hurt again.
Jack knows none of that is possible, that there's no way a sweet, pretty thing like you would want an old, haggard doctor like him. but he'd settle for another kiss on his cheek...
the first time you text Dr. Jack Abbot, it’s only a few hours later. the sun is high in the sky and Jack wakes from a dead sleep at the vibration of his phone on the nightstand.
he doesn’t sleep well. his body never quite unlearned the training it got overseas when he had to be awake and alert at a moment’s notice—or risk his life or those of his fellow soldiers.
but when Jack sees your name and your innocent question asking him whether it’s ok to put aloe on the burn before freshening the bandage, he calms and smiles to himself. it's a smart idea, and he tells you as much.
after he answers your message, he drops back to sleep as easily as breathing, the ghost of a smile still on his lips and the memory of your eyes in his mind.
as the burn on your hand heals, you keep texting Jack questions even though he’s pretty sure you already know the answers—but he won’t do or say anything to discourage you from texting him.
not when you indulge him by sending photos of your hand during the day. and not when you're patient with him when he checks how you’re healing every night when he comes into the coffee shop for his daily fix (though he hasn't told you yet that your smiles do much more for him than the caffeine ever could).
he praises you for taking care of your injury well, his chest warm with pride, his heart surging at the pretty little smile and soft "thank you" you give him.
eventually, the burn on your hand heals, but you keep texting Jack.
at first it’s superficial questions like whether he’s coming in that night—even though Jack is pretty sure you’ve noticed he comes in every night—or telling him about a strange order or funny customer you had.
but soon you start asking him how his night is going and what he does when he’s not at the hospital.
Jack has to scramble to come up with hobbies that aren’t sleeping and listening to the police scanner, the night shift nurses sharing a judgemental look and biting back laughter when he asks them what normal people do for fun.
when he tells you he reads and watches movies, though, you seem pleased.
everyone in the ER knows something’s going on with Dr. Jack Abbot. he’s going on coffee runs every night when they were only rare occurrences in the past, checking his phone so much it’s practically glued to his hand, and he’s smiling more—real smiles, not just the twist of his lips into the approximation of one.
Dr. Robby has even stopped finding him on the roof. or, at least, not as close to the edge.
the security guards and some of the nurses have a betting pool going for who the new person in Dr. Abbot’s life is. Jack pretends to ignore it, but he can’t keep the smile off his face when he sees the board because it reminds him of you.
it’s a few weeks later when Jack finally blurts out the question he’s been wanting to ask you since the first time you smiled at him.
“you wanna go out sometime? with me?”
your grin is wide and beaming, that teasing gleam in your eye when you respond, “took you long enough, Dr. Jack.”
on Jack’s next night off—which happens to be your night off as well—he takes you out. it’s nothing fancy, just dinner at place where you can get a good beer and burger, then you walk through a park, hands brushing tentatively a few times before he finally laces his fingers through yours. your hand is soft in his calloused one and Jack thinks he’s never felt anything quite so perfect.
he walks you home and you hesitate at your door. you don’t invite him in, but you sway into his chest, your face tilted toward his.
bathed in the golden light of the lampposts, you look like an angel to Jack, all soft eyes and a pretty smile.
the two of you linger in that moment, the hum of tension and desire thrumming in the space between your bodies. Jack is so busy marveling at your beauty and wondering why such a pretty thing has any interest in him that he nearly forgets what it means that your eyes keep drifting to his mouth, your pupils blowing wider in the low light.
but finally, he remembers.
Jack kisses you, his hands cupping your jaw and his mouth brushing against yours in the most teasing of caresses. you exhale a soft puff of air, chasing his mouth as he retreats and Jack smiles briefly before he’s giving you what you want. his lips press more firmly to yours, a groan rumbling deep in his chest.
Jack is surprised when your tongue flicks teasingly against his upper lip and he opens for you reflexively. in the next second, you’re licking into his mouth like you’re hungry for him, a gentle sound in your throat like you'll never be able to get enough of him.
the heat of you is nearly overwhelming and Jack's arms wrap around your back, hauling you tight against his chest while he kisses you back just as greedily. he prays you don’t notice how embarrassingly hard he is against your belly, a testament to how much and how long he's wanted you.
but then you moan into his mouth, your fingers carding through his silver-streaked hair, and Jack's mind goes entirely blank.
the kiss lasts forever and not long enough.
when Jack finally pulls away, he’s met with the wondrous sight of your dazed, slow-blinking eyes and kiss-swollen lips. he thinks that if he can’t keep kissing you, at least he can still look at you, your beauty leaving him just as empty-headed as your lips and tongue.
with a giggle at his slow-moving brain, you gently shove Jack away from your door and wish him a goodnight. he waits until you’ve gone inside and locked the door behind you before he retreats.
he walks home with his hands shoved in his pockets to stop himself from texting you to come back outside so he can keep kissing you, maybe even convince you he’s worth a damn—though a part of him suspects you already think he is. for whatever reason.
the next day, you text him that you had a good time on your date and are looking forward to seeing him again. it's accompanied by a selfie of you smiling, your lips still a little swollen from his kiss, and Jack nearly loses himself in his boxers at that simple sight.
his response to you is immediate, telling you he'll see you at the café that evening and he's looking forward to your next date. then he lays back in his bed, and thinks about your eyes, your smile, the pretty sounds you made when he kissed you. he imagines waking up next to you, curling his arms around your soft body and inhaling your sweet scent.
not for the first time—nor the last—Dr. Jack Abbot thinks he must be the luckiest bastard in Pittsburgh, all because of you.
hope y'all enjoyed!! again, let me know if you want to see a longer version of this story—probably broken up into chapters to be a full series. ♡ comments and reblogs are appreciated!!
-
hantheconqueror liked this · 3 weeks ago -
nineteenfortyfive liked this · 3 weeks ago -
ireneserene reblogged this · 3 weeks ago -
ireneserene liked this · 3 weeks ago
-
crispydelusionmusic liked this · 3 weeks ago -
kierancaust liked this · 3 weeks ago -
thoughtsfromlayla reblogged this · 3 weeks ago -
thoughtsfromlayla liked this · 3 weeks ago
-
chmerkovskiy-chmerkovskiy liked this · 4 weeks ago -
imjusthereforthememes69 liked this · 4 weeks ago
-
i-should-probably-get-out-more liked this · 4 weeks ago -
moonlluvr liked this · 1 month ago -
mynameisevan-essence liked this · 1 month ago -
o0uhlexa0o liked this · 1 month ago -
the-gender-gremlins liked this · 1 month ago -
princesssmars liked this · 1 month ago -
kooksncvnts reblogged this · 1 month ago -
ravenofsmalldeath liked this · 1 month ago -
electromelt liked this · 1 month ago -
chuulvy liked this · 1 month ago -
stilladumbgaydisaster liked this · 1 month ago -
teenageinternetprincess liked this · 1 month ago -
nutjob427 liked this · 1 month ago -
pacingdaydreamr reblogged this · 1 month ago -
buttholetickler800 liked this · 1 month ago -
achturas liked this · 1 month ago -
ilyptv liked this · 1 month ago -
lizzaddams liked this · 1 month ago -
lnoctis1 liked this · 1 month ago -
blossomfaeriesworld liked this · 1 month ago -
a-m-m liked this · 1 month ago -
urperfectcinnamonroll07 liked this · 1 month ago -
raspberry-lava liked this · 1 month ago -
caroljakesully liked this · 1 month ago -
lapbaby liked this · 1 month ago -
ohello0 liked this · 1 month ago -
mommykye liked this · 1 month ago -
fenrisxyang liked this · 1 month ago -
sevikasslut1 liked this · 1 month ago -
isitallreallyworthit liked this · 1 month ago
-
milfswriter liked this · 1 month ago -
femlesbianbarbie reblogged this · 1 month ago -
femlesbianbarbie liked this · 1 month ago
-
ilikechockymilk liked this · 1 month ago -
drangoking liked this · 1 month ago -
aboutdd liked this · 1 month ago -
youngcathideout liked this · 1 month ago
-
moons-indulgences19 reblogged this · 1 month ago -
daughterofthemoon99 liked this · 1 month ago -
ch1ll-p1ll-blog1 liked this · 1 month ago
