He didn’t say a word, just sat next to you, and dragged his fingers over his forehead, the gesture making his leather jacket creak. 

You used to love that jacket, Javi was wearing it when you met for the first time in that bar. But now it was a witness to his encounters with other women, and you hated it. 

It was easier to hate the jacket than him.

You cut him off just as he was about to speak.

“Don't lie to me, Javi,” you warned, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the table.

He stood up, his chair sliding so loudly on the floor that it made your ears ring and your heart bleed, then he grabbed a whiskey bottle and filled two glasses. He placed them on the table, one in front of you. You still weren’t looking at him when he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his seat. He sat down and began swirling the glass between his fingers as you downed yours in one gulp and took a drag.

“You swore to me it would never happen again. You swore to me, Javi. Why do you keep doing this?” you asked and he lit a cigarette, probably buying himself some time, thinking about the right words to use, the ones that would calm you down. 

But those which slipped through his gritted teeth after he drank his whisky only pushed the blade in your heart deeper. 

“Doing what?” he grumbled, his eyebrow shooting up, then took a drag and exhaled the smoke, thumb brushing at his lower lip. He was fully closed off, playing an asshole as usual when he didn’t know how to handle something, or didn’t want to. 

But he was unable to even look at you. The soft Javi, the one you were so in love with, hidden behind his thick shell.

“Are you fucking serious?” you replied, anger back in full swing. His Adam apple bobbed heavily when he swallowed his saliva. 

Seconds passed as none of you talked. You considered leaving him there, alone in the kitchen, and going out to get some fresh air. 

You didn’t really know what else to do. You were lost, your heart in shambles. 

“I don't know why,” he finally said, voice softer, tinted with a hint of regret as if he wanted to erase his previous words and tone.

“You can talk to me, you can use me to forget.” Your trembling voice was coated with despair. “Why don't you use me if it’s the only thing that makes you forget about your job?”

“It's not the same. I care about you.”

His words felt like a slap and hurt you more than he could imagine. 

Or maybe Javi knew, used them consciously as self protection, as a shield or a weapon depending on his inner tournament.

“Fuck you,” you spat. “You care about me but not enough to be faithful.”

“It’s not like that. It doesn’t mean a thing to me,” he said, as if he was talking about something meaningless.

“Really? It doesn’t mean a thing to you? Well thank you for caring about me so much, because it means something to me, Javi,” you replied, voice breaking and tears about to fall, the cigarette shaking in your fingers. 

The furrow between Javi’s eyebrows deepened, as he seemed to realize how fucked up his answer was.

“I know. I'm sorry, cariño,” he apologized, sliding his hand towards yours. But you couldn’t bear the idea of letting him touch you. Not when his hands were on someone else an hour ago.

“Don't fucking touch me. Her smell’s still all over you. Go take a fucking shower, at least I won’t smell her cunt on your fingers anymore.”

Shame lingered in his eyes, and he disappeared in the bathroom while tears drowned yours.

You went to bed and turned your back to his side, your pillow quickly wet with tears. 

Javi slipped under the sheets after the shower and laid on his back. You imagined him staring at the ceiling, thinking about getting dressed and leaving the apartment to lick his wounds like a stray cat that had just been in a fight and didn’t want to be seen.

He surprised you when his low voice broke the silence. “Can I hug you?”

Part of you wanted to scream, to tell him he was an asshole. The other part wanted to feel every ounce of affection he could offer.

“No, you can’t.” 

You fell asleep when you had no more silent tears to cry.

When you woke up a couple hours later, the moon was lighting the room and his side of the bed was empty and cold. You looked at his nightstand and at the Polaroid of the two of you that he kept there.

You felt lonely, vulnerable, as if your ribcage was wide open, leaving your heart bare, unprotected with nowhere to hide.

You thought back to the moment you had met, to the certainty you had felt in your deepest core that he would break your heart sooner or later. 

The night you met you were unable to resist the temptation, waving aside bright red flags floating around him like the swirls of his cigarette smoke and the smell of neat whisky. 

The only thing you could see and focus on was his fragile soul that he kept hidden deep beneath multiple layers of arrogance, sarcasm and black humor, but that called out to you when your eyes met. As if it were waiting for you. 

It didn’t feel like an act of a smooth talker who just wanted to get you to bed. With Javi, his vulnerability seemed genuine, waiting for the right person to show off.

Yet you didn’t expect the right person not to be enough to appease him.

You poured your heart and soul into the relationship, telling yourself that you would wash away his pain with all your tears if you had to. 

Now you simply didn't know how much longer you could hold on. Joy started vanishing off your face weeks ago, life drained from your veins and your heart.

But each time you considered packing your bags and leaving Javi, his softer side, the real one, always showed up. His gaze, on the verge of tears, ready to release everything that was haunting him since he joined the DEA in Colombia, everything he refused to show to anyone else but you. Crawling into your arms, his heart beating so fast that the only thing calming him down was your hand pressed to it and the other one cradling the back of his neck.

You got up and found Javi sitting on the couch. You thought about the first time he had fucked you here, the day you had met. How you had fallen in love with him, fastly and deeply, and more and more each day.

It felt like a million years ago. It even felt like another life.

You sat down next to him and took a deep breath, before saying, “I can’t go on like this, Javi.”

He looked at you, his sad brown eyes fixed on your face. Tears welled up in his eyes, his index finger pressed against his temple.

“Don’t say that, cariño.”

“Javi, I… I don't know what to do anymore. You’re hurting me, I hate the idea of sharing you with other women. It’s breaking my heart because I know you're so much more than that, but… I can’t be the only one carrying our relationship.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“Then say something!” you exploded, not caring about the neighbors, what they might hear or say. “Fight for us. For me,” you begged.

He didn't answer, didn’t say a word. He gave you nothing.

So you went back to the bedroom, put on a dress, grabbed your travel bag and placed it on the bed. Tears were blurring your vision as you were packing it with your clothes. You wiped them with a back of your hand when you heard his footsteps in the hallway. He stood by the door, and your smile was cold when he asked you not to leave. He was wearing only shorts, and under other circumstances, you would have admired his beautiful face, walked towards him, cupped his cheeks and kissed him, but now you were resigned, exhausted, and started making peace with the fact that your last reserves of strength had abandoned you.

“What would you feel if I were the one looking for something by fucking other men?”

A mix of emotions passed over his eyes -  possessiveness, sadness and regret- and his whole body tensed.

“I’d be devastated. And I'd want to kill them. Hurt them.”

The violence in his words created a reaction in your stomach that you didn’t expect. You always loved him feral and possessive, when he acted in opposition to his usual cold behavior, but you hated the way your body was still aching for him, falling for desire so easily even now, in that moment.

“Then why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I’m an asshole,” he replied coldly, eyebrows shooting up once again.

“Yes, you are. And I’ve endured enough.” You turned your back to him to keep packing.

He watched you put away the rest of your things,  staying silent.

When you reached the door, travel bag on your shoulder, you said, “Move, Javi.”

He did.

Your tears were falling when you walked towards the exit. You took a big breath when you grabbed the handle, trying not to sob loudly. 

You swallowed a gasp when his hand seized your arm, and he closed the door with the other one, caging you against it.

“It’s over, Javi. Let me go,” you murmured. You were so exhausted that you had no anger in you any more. You just wanted to go and cry alone, again and again, until you drowned yourself.

“Let me tell you what happened. Please.”

“I don't care. It’s too late-”

“We shot a kid,” he cut. “Someone… someone shot a kid. Just like that, in front of me, in the street. They were all kneeling and he killed one of them in cold blood. Shot him in the head.”

You were facing the door, horrified, not knowing what to say.

“And… I don’t know, I disassociated. Didn’t even realize where I was until I… and then I threw up. Came here. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please, believe me… I didn’t know what I was doing. Didn’t want it.”

You turned around to confront him and found yourself facing your Javi. The one you loved, the one who couldn’t hurt you, and it broke your heart when he cupped your cheeks with his hands, showing you his soul and flaws, then whipped a rolling tear on your face. 

But how could you separate him from his other self? How could you forgive him when you knew that other side of him was still there, in that dark part of his soul, lurking, ready to reveal itself and take over again.

You shook your head and seized his hands to pull them away. 

“You will never quit your job and I would never ask you to, anyway. And I’ll never be sure that it won't happen again. I knew I was taking a gamble by getting into this relationship. I thought I was stronger than that, but I’m not. And honestly, the fact that you didn’t come back to me, that your subconscious didn’t choose me last night, is telling. I’m not the right person for you, Javi. And you’re not the right one for me either.”

“It’s not true,” he countered. “I never loved anyone the way I love you, you know it. Give me a chance. One last chance,” he begged.

You shook your head again, but you made one mistake when your eyes dropped to his lips. He immediately moved closer to you, brushing his nose against yours, whispering “one last chance. Please, cariño,” against your lips before kissing you. It was tender and filled with everything he had to offer you.

You let him slide into your mouth, let his tongue brush yours. 

You let his hands grip your hips, let him show you how hard he was.

Javi growled when he felt you surrender to his touch, and nudged your cheek with his face to bury it in your neck, while he freed his cock from his shorts. 

He growled when your whole body shivered, as he slid his hand under your dress and pushed your panties aside, nestling his tip at your entrance.

He growled when he felt how wet you were, already ready for him. He pushed in slowly and your nails dug into his shoulders when you realized that you were unable to hold back a moan of pleasure when he filled you perfectly.

Javi rolled his hips, giving you the time to welcome his girth, and grabbed your thigh to put it against his waist. 

“You always feel so good,” he murmured, and you bit your lip to suppress a sob, trying to deal with your emotions, your sadness and your need for him despite everything.

“Come here, cariño,” he murmured, leading you towards the couch where he made you lie down, pushing on your thighs to open you up for him.

You seized his cock, circled his length and jerked it, then slid it against your wet folds up to your throbbing clit, the sensation making him moan.

His tip was oozing over your bud, covering it with precum, making him move so easily against your slit.

You focused on your sensations, desperate to forget the reality.

Forget where he was last night.

Forget how a part of you hated him.

His eyes were fixed on your hand wrapped around his cock, his tip brushing against your clit.

He was whimpering, a set of moans escaping his throat as you were using him.

“Lemme see you come. Make a mess, baby,” he said as he unbuttoned your dress and exposed your breasts.

He leaned forward, sucking on one nipple then the other before. taking it in his mouth and nibbling at it, licking it, slowly moving his hips back and forth to match your movements until you came, your clit throbbing against his crown.

He kissed your neck, and kept moving slowly until your whimpers subsided.

When he stepped back slightly, he seemed amazed by the sight of his drooling tip and your quivering pussy, but his gaze changed when he met yours, knowing fully well what you couldn’t hide, the thought of stopping right there, denying him the pleasure of filling your cunt. But the fear of never feeling him inside you again made you yield. When he saw it in your gaze, as if you were an open book, his obsidian eyes grew piercing and he pulled off his shorts, letting them drop by the couch.

He dragged the head of his cock along your folds, covering it with your wetness then slid in slowly, just the tip at first, before withdrawing and pushing back in, going deeper with every thrust, each one leaving you breathless.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Shut up. Shut up, Javi.”

“Baby,” he said, cupping your cheek, his eyes diving into yours. “It won’t happen again. I promise. I don’t want to lose you.”

He kissed your forehead, pressing himself against you, then let his lips slide down, brushed your nose tenderly with his, before pressing his mouth against yours.

It was sweet and soft, like a warm embrace. You wanted to believe him, but how could you erase the evening before? And the time before that?

“I should fuck two men,” you said defiantly with a desire to hurt him, making him freeze inside you, his eyes searching for yours.

“Do it. If it makes you feel better, do it, I deserve it. But I promise, it won’t happen again.”

“I won’t do it,” you scowled. “It’s not who I am. Make me come before I tell you to fuck off and leave the place.”

He started moving again, grazing your clit with his thumb without taking his eyes off you.

You let yourself get lost in them, in the sensations you were feeling.

You let him kiss you and show you just how much he cared about you. You didn’t doubt it, but it wasn’t enough anymore.

You let him thrust inside you, again and again, and thought about how many times you fucked, how good he was at it. You thought about the good times you had together, how careful he was with you in the intimacy of his apartment. How you loved the way he wrapped his arm around your shoulders when you went out.

“I’m gonna come,” you whimpered and Javi pressed his forehead against yours, brushing your bud gently as you started fluttering around him.

“Cariño… fuck… I’m gonna come too, fuck…”

He exploded, mouth agape, sending hot spurs of cum between your folds, moaning against your mouth.

You both ended up breathless, spent, but he still had some strength to kiss your neck, until you made him stop, sat up and buttoned your dress.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he said.

But you couldn’t. 

“Javi.. I can’t. I just can’t. I’m heartbroken. I don’t smile anymore. I don’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m just…I’m just sad. So I’m gonna leave. And we’ll see if fate makes our paths cross, one day. Maybe you’ll be ready to love me fully. Only be with me.”

You stood up and he put his shorts back on and followed you.

You turned to him and shook your head, then smiled at him. It was a sincere smile, a goodbye, a way of showing him that despite everything, a part of you still loved a part of him.

“I’ll find you,” he said.

A few times Javi went back to the bar where you had met, but you weren’t there.

He threw himself heart and soul into his job, yet you never left his thoughts.

When Escobar killed Carrillo, he wondered if he would have been able to keep his promise while begging for one last chance. He hoped so. He thought so.

He hoped you were happy, that your smile was back.

Three years later, Javi resigned from the DEA. You never crossed paths, but he never stopped thinking about you. The Polaroid was still on his nightstand, and sometimes he would stroke your cheek in the picture, recalling the feel of your skin beneath his fingers.

Javi went back to the bar one last time, as if to say goodbye to your memory, hating the idea that he didn’t find you, despite his promise.

He smiled when he saw you there, sitting on the same stool as the day you had met.

You turned toward him as if you sensed his presence, and you smiled too.

“Fate,” he said.

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling at him, and offered him a seat next to you.

Javi p masterlist

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⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀* index:

part one: the lie. (coming august 14th.)

part two: the sin. (coming soon.)

also available on archiveofourown.

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀* extras:

moodboard.

fic tag.

You’re in love. 

Joel was able to transform your abstract, complex ideas into a concrete work of art. The curved oak cabinetry, ribbed and painted a muted sage. The brass and crystal light fixtures placed equidistant throughout the room. Complimentary brass hardware. The warm, walnut shelves, open to the room, a strip of warm lights installed underneath to cast a gentle glow.

But most of all, you love the counter top.

Pure white with flecks of gold and the subtlest hint of green in the vein of grey that runs through the entire slab, aligning perfectly with the backsplash to tie it all together. It’s breathtaking.

It’s even more stunning with your cheek pressed against it as Joel rails you from behind.

“Think it’s cute? Flirtin’ with him in front of me?” He grits out, rough fingers wound tight in your hair, his other hand holding your hip in a vice to keep you still as he hammers into you.

It started when he showed up to your house that morning with another guy. Not Tommy, but some young, muscled dude with a clean shaven face and the mannerisms of someone who’s never taken no for an answer a day in their life. You weren’t expecting Joel to bring someone else with him that morning, so you’d opened the door wearing one of his flannels and a thong you wanted him to rip off you later.

In the month that you’ve been spending in Joel’s company, fucking him, enjoying him, and dedicating every free moment to him, you’ve grown accustomed to your perpetual state of undress. Tommy was still on paternity leave, and would be for some time, so there was hardly a need for you to dress appropriately in your own home.

You didn’t want to. Not when you could tease and distract Joel every day wearing a simple lace bra and panties, one of his shirts, or nothing at all. 

It was a game the two of you played – one you thoroughly enjoyed despite knowing who the winner would be. While he was building your house, Joel had the discipline of a man who knew his craft, executed it well, and refused to sacrifice quality for a good fuck in the middle of the day. It was maddening, but you admired that about him, no matter how much you wanted him to plow into you at lunch time.

But as soon as he was done for the day, he’d either toss you over his shoulder and carry you up to your bedroom, or throw you onto the nearest flat surface to eat you out and reprimand you for driving him crazy all day. It was always earth shattering and always left you near speechless.

You never got dressed after, either, remaining in your panties and his flannel, or one of his t-shirts even as the two of you shared a plate of takeout and talked in bed until you fell asleep and he inevitably left for the evening.

He hadn’t spent the night yet – much to your chagrin – but it’s a line he’s maintained religiously. 

“When the job is done, I promise, honey,” he always told you, refusing to let the temptation of waking up with you prevent him from completing your house on time. Although you wanted him to sleep in your bed more than anything, it melted you at the thought that he wanted it just as badly.

So you continued to play your games instead, always answering the door wearing next to nothing. Always enjoying the way his eyes would turn to molten espresso when he saw you.

So, when you saw the other man with him on your portch, you let out a little squeak, feeling embarrassed for the first time since you started fucking Joel regularly. 

“This here’s Mike. Need his help today,” Joel said without the warmth of his typical greeting which usually involves him giving you a sweet kiss, telling you he missed you while he was away, and proceeding to trail after you for a cup of coffee and a blowjob. 

“Hi,” you greeted him, not oblivious to the way Mike’s hungry, unwelcoming eyes drank you in, a smile brightening his face. He was cute, sure. But he was no Joel.

“Good morning, Miss. Nice to meet you.” Polite. Boyish. Maybe something was wrong with you, but that did not interest you in the slightest.

Joel jerked his head toward the cabinetry he’d installed just a few days ago, sans countertop, then to the boxes containing all the light fixtures, “Start runnin’ the wiring for the lights. Attic access in the garage.”

The smile didn’t leave Mike’s face as he nodded his acquiescence and made his way to the garage. Once the door was shut, Joel gave you a hard look, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a different flannel today, a blue and white one that made your skin heat.

“Why’re you wearin’ that? I told you to be decent,” he snapped. The heat in his voice laced with underlying concern. Affection, even.

You frowned, looking down at your bare legs, buttons of the shirt askew, cleavage very visible. “You didn’t tell me someone else was coming!”

Heaving a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Darlin’, yes, I did. Maybe you don’t remember ‘cause you had your pussy full ‘a me. But I told you.”

Your cheeks heated, trying to recall whatever conversation he was referring to. Last night after he’d finished installing all the hardware on the cabinets, you ordered a pizza for the two of you to share. You curled up on the couch with him to watch a movie – you can’t even remember what it was – and ended up riding him hard and fast until you were both coming undone.

As he softened inside you, peppering your neck with kisses and stroking your hair gingerly, you vaguely recalled the low hum of his voice as he told you the countertops were being delivered tomorrow, and that he’d need help with that, as well as the electrical for your kitchen. 

Oh.

He saw the realization dawn on you and nodded, “Fuck, you drive me crazy,” he hissed, reaching for you. Your heart skipped in your chest, fighting off a smile.

His hands went to your face as he kissed you hard, backing you against the wall. You fisted your fingers in his shirt and arched into him. He didn’t seem angry. Only annoyed that another man was in your house and he couldn’t fuck you to his heart’s content. That annoyed you too, if you were honest. You liked spending time with him.

When he finally pulled away, you chased his lips, but he shook his head, breath harsh on your cheek, “Go put something decent on, baby. Don’t want Mike gettin’ any ideas.”

You gave him a little pout before nipping at his chin and sauntering up the stairs. You wiggled your ass for good measure. You only returned when you were sufficiently covered, a pair of yoga pants and a tank top – it’s still summer and it’s still a little warm. You don’t want to be uncomfortable in your own house just because Joel wants you covered head to toe.

When you sauntered back down the stairs, you found Joel attaching something to his drill that looked like a cylinder with jagged teeth. He pulled the trigger briefly and it whirred to life. Satisfied with the drill, he set it aside and grabbed his tape measure. When he spotted you, his eyes flashed.

“Darlin’,” he grumbled.

“What? I’m wearing pants, Joel. And an entire shirt,” you argued, a slow smile spreading when he narrowed his eyes at you and turned back to his work.

“Fine.”

After giving him a kiss, you loped back upstairs to get some work done. It warmed something in your belly to know that he was a little possessive of you already. Even if you had only really been seeing him for a handful of weeks. You were smitten, and it made you giddy to know that he didn’t want another man’s eyes on you.

And maybe that’s where you went wrong. Or right, depending on your point of view. 

Because you wanted to mess with him. Test his restraint, see how far you could actually take it before he snapped. Either in front of Mike or after Mike was gone for the day. So, you played with fire, stoking the flames until he exploded.

It started when you went downstairs to offer Mike a cup of coffee. He’d just finished running the wires in the attic and Joel was on a ladder drilling holes in the ceiling. You bit your lip as you slid a full mug toward him, eyes just to the left of his head where Joel was glaring at you, muscles tight under his flannel. It worked like a charm. Poor Mike thought you were flirting when you were really imagining Joel’s big strong arms pinning you down and fucking you on the kitchen table.

“Thanks, Miss,” Mike said, his cheeks lacking the trademark dimple that endeared you so thoroughly to Joel. He was cute, but that’s where it ended.

He sipped the coffee and almost sloshed it over the side of the mug when Joel barked, “Mike, I’m not payin’ you to stand around. Unbox the lights and hand ‘em up.”

Mike shot you an apologetic smile and set the coffee aside, “Duty calls.”

The poor guy thought he had a chance.

As he turned around to get the light fixtures unpackaged, Joel’s agitated, disgruntled glare settled on you. Playing dumb, you tilted your head in a silent question, jutting your lower lip out in a pout. He only shook his head and turned back to his work, leaving you to skip away and plot your next strike.

At lunch, you made them both sandwiches, admiring the way your new lights glittered above you. Mike complimented your eye for design, the touches of color you’d chosen for the walls that would blend seamlessly with the counters and backsplash, and made small talk as he ate his sandwich across from Joel at the rickety table in the kitchen. You sat adjacent to Joel, running your foot along his calf, his hand gripping your knee under the table a little harder every time Mike gave you a flirtatious smile or tried to charm his way into your pants..

Once Mike had finished his sandwich, Joel didn’t even let him finish chewing before barking at him to get back to work. You snickered and took advantage of Mike rushing into the garage to grab some tools to give Joel a quick kiss and retreat to your office before he could so much as blink. 

You emerged from your office when the countertops arrived and watched in anticipation as Mike and Joel meticulously installed them. The process was interesting, and you sat at the kitchen table, enraptured as they clamped and glued and fastened it into place, Mike shooting you smiles from across the room.

It was a gorgeous, gleaming marble slab that you’d spent weeks searching for. Joel had even accompanied you to a few of the stone yards to pick it out, whistling at how pricey it was, but how good it would look in your new kitchen.

As Joel carefully cleaned and sealed the counter, Mike leaned his hip against the table and gave you what you’re sure he assumed was his best smile. It did nothing for you. It was alarming how quickly Joel’s charm and appeal had consumed you.

“So – once the job’s done, can I take you out for drinks or something?”

You saw Joel freeze behind him, his muscles rigid and his jaw clenched so hard, you thought he’d fracture a tooth. You didn’t expect him to ask you out. That was not part of the plan.

Plus, drinks? That was something you did with someone you were going to hook up with. You weren’t interested in that in the slightest. Not when you had a hunky, short tempered contractor already poised to fuck you senseless and romance you until you were simpering mess for him and him alone.

You fluttered your eyelashes at him and gave him a pouty smile, “I don’t think so, Mike.”

That didn’t dissuade him, though, and he pressed further, “Aw, come on. Just one drink.”

“I can’t,” you answered with a tight look. 

“I’ve seen you looking at me all day. Let me take you out. Or we can stay in,” he leaned a little closer, making you tip your head back to see him properly.

Even if you did like Mike, his overt display of coercion was an instant turn off. You realized you’d been right about your initial assessment of him. He always got what he wanted and wasn’t used to the word no. 

Your flirtatious facade dropped in an instant and you shook your head, “No.”

Just as he was about to push again, Joel’s voice punctured the tension, his voice sharp and steady, “You need your fuckin’ hearing checked? She said no.”

You bit your lip, eyes darting to him where he stood, closer now, his big arms crossed over his chest and his eyes dark and heady like he was two seconds away from putting Mike in his place. Something warm hummed low in your belly.

Mike shot an annoyed glance in Joel’s direction, “Stay out of it, man.”

“The hell I will. I ain’t gonna stand here and watch you make her uncomfortable in her own home,” he snapped, nostrils flaring. “She said no. Leave it be.”

“Hey, she’s been flirting with me all day! Now it’s a crime for me to ask her out?”

“Ain’t a crime. But when a woman says no, that’s it. No one teach you no means no? The hell’s wrong with you?” Joel's voice grew in volume and fury, making you shrink a little. Not that you were afraid of him. But you did feel somewhat responsible for the situation. 

Mike stood there for a moment, lips parted with a retort, but before he could muster a reply, Joel cut him off, “Get the fuck outta here. You’re done for the day.”

If Mike looked to you for help, you didn’t see it. You only had eyes for Joel, your pulse flickering rapidly against your skin as you pressed your thighs together. No one had ever done something like that for you.

The door slamming shut broke you out of your trance, and when you blinked back to reality, Joel’s back was to you and he had his palms pressed flat against your sparkling new countertops. His shoulders were tight and drawn up, the veins in his forearms standing out against his bronze skin. You tiptoed over to him tentatively, chewing on your lip.

“Joel?”

“You think this shit is funny?” He growled, making you retreat a few steps, his voice trembling with rage. It startled you, seeing him like this. Seeing how easily you’d affected him. It scared you in more ways than one.

Voice small, fingers knotting together, you said, “No.”

He whirled around on you, “Then what the hell was that?”

When his heavy stare landed on you, apprehensive and cautious, his agitation evaporated, his shoulders relaxing and his frown easing just the slightest. A visible softening at the timid, remorseful plea in your eyes.

“If it’s attention you’re after, darlin’, you have it,” he said quietly, but with no less heat. “Ain’t gotta play games with me. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Your heart squeezed, chin quivering as his words sank in. You didn’t understand how desperately you needed to hear them until now. You’d never been the center of anyone's attention before, let alone Jeremy’s. There was always an unconscious need for you to test him, to prove in some way that he still cared about you. Those games were never fruitful, but it was a habit you’d have to break with Joel, you realized.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, eyes burning with shame and regret, “I didn’t mean anything by it. I –”

Joel melted completely at your apology, folding like a lawn chair and moving across the kitchen to collect you in his arms. His lips found yours in a firm, insistent kiss, one hand digging into your hair while the other flattened against your lower back to press you against him.

“Don’t want anyone else lookin’ at you,” he grunted, tongue swiping your lips, “Touchin’ you, thinkin’ they can talk to you like that.”

Before you knew it, your back was against the edge of the counter, his hips pinning you in place as he plundered your lips and told you just what he hated about that entire exchange with Mike. It turned you to jelly, your heart a pile of mush as he declared his affection for you over and over again.

“I told you you’re mine, baby. What part of that do you not understand?” His lips were on your neck then, beard turning your skin raw and tender. All you could do was hold on, your pulse deafening you to everything but him. “‘M gonna have to show you, aren’t I? Teach you a lesson?”

You whimpered, a desperate, needy sound that made him chuckle.

“I’m sorry, Joel. I’m so sorry,” you repeated, hands fisting his flannel. You wanted it gone. You wanted everything off, all clothes between you out of the way, his cock inside you. You needed it. You needed it so bad, you couldn’t stand it. Not with the way he kissed you, how he held you, how he told you you were his.

“Easy, baby. Turn around,” he growled, flipping you around so your ass was pressed against the hard outline of his cock. You didn’t know what you expected. You didn’t know what he had planned for you as penance. Orgasm denial? A few, well placed smacks to your round ass? A little begging?

You certainly weren’t prepared for him to wrap a large, calloused hand around your throat, while the other hunted for the slick between your legs. You weren’t prepared for him to slip two, thick fingers into you with little to no prep. And you weren’t prepared for him to nibble and suck on your ear as he fingered you with the abandon and desperation of a man at the end of his tether.

His thumb found your clit, and he bit down on your neck, growling into your ear, “What are you sorry for?”

You could scarcely speak, let alone form a coherent thought beyond more and faster and deeper. He squeezed your neck to get your attention, hooking his fingers just right and making you gasp.

“Oh, sh – shit.”

“Tell me what you’re sorry for,” he commanded.

“For —“ he squeezed your neck again, his pace increasing, “For flirting with — shit — with Mike.”

“That’s right, baby. And why was that wrong?” He hummed, pushing his fingers deeper, pressing his cock against you so you could feel every inch of him against your ass.

Your mind was fuzzy, your climax approaching with dizzying speed as he strummed your clit and curled his fingers just right.

“Be— because I’m — shit, Joel,” you gasped, head resting on his shoulder, “I’m yours.”

“That’s right. You’re mine,” he repeated back to you, your hips grinding against his hand to find purchase, to seek relief, to reach your destination. But he had other plans, it seemed. 

His hand left you so quickly, you cried out, the edges of your approaching orgasm fading, ripped away from you. Joel hooked his thumbs at the sides of your yoga pants and shoved them down along with the pathetic scrap of lace you called underwear. 

Your chest heaved as you collapsed forward, pushing your ass out and resting against the cool, clean surface of your brand new counters. The clink of his belt was music to your ears, followed by the swipe of his thick cock through your folds.

“You’re not gonna do that again, are you?” He asked, but it was more of a directive. You had no choice in the matter. Even if you did want to flirt with anyone other than him, you wouldn’t. You can’t do that to him again. Your game was born from insecurity and neglect and a loveless marriage.

Joel is different. And it took until now for you to realize it.

“No,” you whimpered, his cock slipping in just an inch.

“What was that?” He withdrew, one hand gripping your hip while the other ran up your body to close around the back of your neck. “Speak up, honey.”

“I won’t flirt anymore,” you gasped, the thick head of him splitting you open as he pushed deeper, “I won’t tease you.”

“That’s right,” he grunted, his thumb gently rubbing the side of your neck under your hair, a direct contrast to the strength with which he held you down. “No one but me’s gonna have this sweet pussy.”

“No one but you,” you sobbed in agreement, “Joel.”

“I got you, baby,” he purred, shoving himself into you completely, drawing a near feral scream from you at how completely full you felt, your walls pulsing around him. From the corner of your eye, you saw his head tip back in ecstasy, “So fuckin’ tight.”

Even with him filling you to capacity, you arched your hips to take him deeper, making him grunt and shift back. He was so wide, he filled you to the brim, the stretch so good, the ache so pleasant, you thought you could lie there for hours, just taking his cock the way you were meant to.

He pushed back in and started a slow, shallow pace that had you seeing stars and writhing against the countertop. Your skin was on fire, his hands doing little to ground you, to keep you stable and conscious as he railed you without mercy.

You’d tested his resolve all day, teasing him, tempting him to stake his claim until now.

“Think it’s cute? Flirtin’ with him in front of me?” He grits out, rough fingers winding into your hair, his other hand holding your hip in a vice to keep you still as he begins hammering into you. You try to shake your head, but he has full control, heavy weight pressed against your hips, pinning you in place.

“No, I promise,” you wail, back arching, his cock so thick it makes your eyes flutter.

“Take it, darlin’. Take everything I give you,” he croaks, his breath coming in short bursts as he picks up the pace. His hand slides from your hair down to grip your neck, “Knew I should’ve fucked you the moment I walked through that door. Needed it, didn’t you?”

You nod, biting back a cry as his hips slap against your ass, the sound so obscene you think you could cum from the memory of it alone.

“Yeah? Need me to fuck you first thing in the mornin’ just to keep you from testin’ me?”

“Yes –” you suck in a sharp breath as he angles his hips just so.

His deep, menacing chuckle makes your walls clench around him, “‘S what I thought. Gotta keep you nice and full, huh?”

It takes everything in you not to cum on the spot, your fingers gripping the edge of the stone slab as he fucks you mercilessly, each thrust punching the air right out of you, driving home the weight of his needs, his lesson. Because it’s not just about him owning you and claiming you. It’s about your confidence in him as a man, as a person. It’s about trust and fidelity, something you’ve never shared with your own husband.

“Joel,” you cry, squirming under his attention. His grip tightens on the back of your neck while he slips his other hand under your hips to swipe your clit. The timing of his thrusts matches perfectly, and you squeeze your eyes shut to stave off your orgasm. “I’m sorry, Joel…”

His voice is languid and saccharine as he continues his brutal pace, “I forgive you, darlin’. Now, I want you to cum for me, okay?”

You nod, the tenderness of his words and the savagery of his thrusts directly juxtaposing in the most invigorating way. You let go, your orgasm taking over, your skin prickling with the awareness of his encroaching release as he drives into you harder. Your limbs are no longer your own to control, every muscle tight, nerves spent. You’re dimly aware of the tremors wracking your body and the choked sobs tearing out of you.

“Fuck, this pussy’s milkin’ me so good, baby,” he growls as he fucks you through your orgasm. With a deep, primal groan that you feel in your bones, he empties himself inside you. Heat fills you, your body pliant and willing as you take every last drop of him. You whimper helplessly into the counter, tears burning at the corners of your eyes from the impact of your combined release.

When he’s finally spent, he leans over you, his broad, thick body pressing against you, lips ghosting over your cheek, arms wrapping around your waist.

“Christened the new kitchen,” you breathe, your cheek damp against the counter, a laugh spilling out of you in a breathless huff. You feel the rumble of his laugh against your back and your heart flutters.

“Planned on doin’ that anyway. But you forced my hand, honey,” he says, kissing the back of your neck and helping you stand up straight. As he turns you, your legs nearly give out, still wobbly and unsteady from the force of your climax.

He pulls up his boxers and jeans and fastens his belt before doing the same with you. His cum pools into your panties and you bite your lip.

“That’s what you get,” he grunts, tapping your chin with a finger and pressing a light kiss to your lips, “Now I gotta fire Mike.”

You’re still dazed and blissed out from your orgasm, so it takes you a moment to register his words. When you do, you frown up at him, “Why?”

Joel cocks an eyebrow at you, hands bracketing you on either side of the counter, “Why? He hit on a client. You. And he didn’t take no for an answer. I don’t want that kinda filth representing me or my company.”

“You’ve fucked me countless times,” you point out, reaching for him and resting your hands against his abdomen.

“That’s different.”

“How so,” you arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile.

“I’m the boss,” he grumbles, dipping his head to claim your lips. His tongue swipes yours as you open for him, standing on your toes to reach him. His beard scrapes against your chin, the sticky mess between your legs becoming more prominent as you ache for more. 

He pulls away abruptly, peering down at you with his dark, assessing gaze, “You wanna tell me why you decided to spend all day flirtin’ with him?”

Your cheeks burn and you look down at the white buttons on his flannel, toying with the end of his shirt shamefully. You want to shrug and shrink away from him. To cower away from your misdeeds. It was childish and unfair for you to toy with a man who’s been nothing but honest and direct and careful with you.

But you owe him the truth in return. His warm fingers grip your chin, lifting until your eyes meet his. He’s not angry or forceful, but open and soft.

“I’ve never –” you sniff, fighting the urge to look away, “I’ve never been the center of anyone’s attention before. I feel like I’ve always been begging for Jeremy to look at me. To touch me. To love me.”

Joel doesn’t look away from you, but holds your gaze, his thumb brushing over your chin as you continue.

“I’ve been fighting for his attention for so long, I didn’t know what it was like to actually have it. To have yours.”

Joel doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply caressing his calloused thumb against your soft skin as he stares down at you. With the long suffering sigh of a man who’s both exasperated and endeared by your actions, he arches an eyebrow at you, “I’m not Jeremy, baby. You don’t have to fight anymore. I told you you’re mine, and I meant it. How many times do I gotta tell you?”

You bite your lip, sheepish, demure, embarrassed by the foolish way you’d flaunted yourself in front of Mike for your own amusement. “I’m sorry, Joel. I really am.”

“If you ain’t ready for this – for me – you better tell me now.” He grips your chin then, eyebrows furrowed, “Before I do somethin’ stupid.”

“Like what?”

He stares down at you, eyes gentle and bare like they’ve never been before, lips creased in the faintest smile. He doesn’t respond, but simply presses a tender kiss to your lips, his fingers cupping the back of your neck while his opposite arm wraps around your waist.

You cling to him as he parts your lips with his tongue, savoring the way he leans into you, his hard, strong body so solid and sure against yours. Fingers knotting in his hair, you raise onto your toes to reach him better, his arms locking around your waist to lift you.

Just as you begin to reach for the buttons on his shirt, the creak of the garage door rattling its way open has you jerking away from him in alarm and your blood turning to ice. He scowls, you look at him with wide eyes, “Jeremy’s here.”

His frown deepens, “What?”

“He’s the only other person with a garage door opener,” you push away from Joel and tug your fingers through your unruly, just fucked hair. Heart racing, skin flushed, you rush over to the mirror behind your dining table to fix the mess he’d made of you.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” He asks, the tender voice from moments ago evaporated into nothing. “I thought you gave him divorce papers.”

“Until the divorce is finalized, he still lives here,” you explain, taking the hair tie from your wrist and pulling your hair into a messy bun. You look around the room, moving into the kitchen frantically, searching for something, anything to occupy yourself with. You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing. You’re wondering if you look as guilty as you feel.

Everything that just happened. Everything you told him feels distant and unattainable. Like moments ago, the possibilities were endless. But now, your husband is here to ruin it all.

Joel is shaking his head, a humorless laugh making your heart clench, “So, what, I’m supposed to pretend like I didn’t just fuck you within an inch of your life?”

You whirl around to look at him, eyes pleading, “Joel, I’m sorry. Please. If he thinks I’ve been sleeping around, it could ruin my entire case.”

The garage door clatters to a stop, and you hear the obnoxious sound of Jeremy’s Mustang still rumbling in the garage. You haven’t missed the sound of that disgusting thing in the slightest.

“Sleepin’ around,” Joel says quietly, hands on his hips, head bowed. “That what we’re doin’?”

That stops you in your tracks, your eyes welling, “No. That’s not what – Joel, I swear. I just –”

The sound of the engine cuts, followed by the slamming of the car door. You have no time to explain yourself. No time to fix this. All you know is that if Jeremy knows you’ve been sleeping with someone who isn’t him, your entire divorce will crumble around you. He’s vindictive and cruel and always, always gets what he wants.

You’re losing control of everything too quickly, your heart racing, blood rushing in your ears, drowning everything out.

Just as the door to the garage opens and Jeremy’s footsteps approach from down the hallway, Joel gives you one last wounded look before turning to grab his tools from the counter at his back. You swipe at your eyes to hide your despair just as Jeremy rounds the corner.

The moment you see him, your stomach sours, his face neutral and calm like you hadn’t expected. Honestly, you never expected him to return home after the divorce papers were handed to him. He was free. Why would he come back after a month of silence?

“Sweet cheeks,” Jeremy sighs, like he couldn’t wait to come home to you. Like every extended work trip is a burden instead of a ploy to seek company elsewhere, “We have to talk.”

You scrunch your face at him, “What are you doing here?”

He sets his satchel on the counter, not even bothering to compliment Joel’s work or attention to detail. Or the brand new kitchen gleaming in the fading light of the sun. Not even glancing in his direction. Instead, he approaches you, and you tense, hoping you don’t smell like sex and sin when he wraps you in his arms.

Your arms are pinned at your sides as he hugs you, your spine stiff as a board. Over his shoulder, you see Joel’s jaw clench as he packs away his drill.

“I missed you,” he says as he pulls away and takes your shoulders in his hands to look at you, “And I live here.”

“I served you divorce papers.”

For the first time since he’s walked in, he glances at Joel, and then lowers his voice, “Yeah, I wanted to talk about that.”

Pressing your hands into his chest and pushing away from him, you shake your head, fury burning a path up your spine, “There’s nothing to talk about. I don’t want to be married to you anymore.”

He doesn’t immediately answer you, but the flash of irritation in his eyes gives you pause. Instead, he turns toward Joel, “Hey, man, you mind giving us a minute?”

Joel’s shoulders tighten and you can see the muscles in his forearms ripple with tension as he grabs his back, “No need. Done for the day.” His back is still to you, but as he turns and meets your eyes, you hate how easily you can read the pain written across his face.

You swallow thickly, throat tight, eyes brimming with tears. You wish you could follow him, apologize, tell him how you really feel about him with no repercussions. Tell him that you haven’t been this happy since you foolishly signed your life away to your college boyfriend. Not once has Jeremy made you feel this way. Feel seen and cared for and cherished. Even in such a short period of time, Joel has done something for you that no man ever has, and now he’s slipping away. You’re torn between what could be and what you’ve always known. You blink away the tears faster than they come and clear your throat, a cold, spreading numbness creeping up and taking over completely. 

“Have a good evening,” Joel grits out, storming past you, eyes downcast, jaw so tight you know he’ll have a headache by the time he gets home. 

You watch him go, he doesn’t look at you, and that’s the most devastating part of it all. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he rushes out on you and everything the two of you have forged together amongst the shambles of your marriage.

one: the oysters.

Harry knew he wanted to marry you the day the two of you met. He didn’t know he was falling in love back then, all he knew was that he wanted you more than he’d ever wanted Lucy or any other woman. With her, it had been a pragmatic decision: He needed a wife, she wanted the money— Lucy was beautiful, poised, and would blend in well with his lifestyle. You are the opposite. You’re loud, and you snort when you laugh, and you don’t smile in that vacant, demure way most socialites do. You have a job in which you make no money, but you stay there because you love it so much; you live your life to the fullest, always pushing uptight Harry to his limits, always testing and challenging him. Harry wants to marry you because he wants you. Not because of his image, not because he’s afraid to die alone or because his mother keeps nagging him about heirs but because he simply cannot imagine a single day in which he doesn’t wake up to your messy hair and frowny face. 

He decides on a different approach than the one he had with Lucy; he doesn’t take you on a grand vacation but rather a lavish afternoon on a yacht he borrowed from a friend — he mentioned buying one once, and you made so much fun of him that he gave up on it —, with a seventeen course tasting menu that is a trip through your relationship: Bite sized meals from every big step of your relationship, from the first night you’ve slept together, from your first date, from a memorable night in Greece with a kleftiko so good it brought tears to your eyes. 

Things go south on the fifth course, when you’re sharing a tray of oysters and caviar canapés that are a memento from a trip to Australia— The two of you had spent just the weekend there, because Harry’s company had a crisis that meant flying back home before the trip was over, but Harry had spent so much time between your legs as an apology that you’d squirted all over his face. 

He’d gotten a lung infection from breathing it in that landed him in the hospital for three weeks, but it was still one of the best nights of his entire life. 

“God, I love oysters.” You say, a little giggly from the champagne, leaning into his side. “Reminds me of that night in Almonta.”

Harry hums, pretending that night isn’t the sole reason for the platter of oysters in front of you. 

“I remember that. Best meal of my life.” He gives you a small, toothy grin when you tilt your head back to look at him. “The oysters were alright, too.” 

You cackle, shoulder bumping against his as you stab the shellfish with your fork, carefully unsticking it from its casing before slurping into your mouth; butter drips down your fingers and Harry can’t look away, picturing what they would look like with the diamond ring he has in his pocket.

“Yeah, the tingling isn’t all that fun, though.” You say, casually, wiping your hands clean. 

Harry blinks. 

“The what?”

“The tingling?” Your statement sounds more like a question, and you frown at him. Something must show on his face because you chuckle, uncomfortable. “You know, the way oysters make your mouth a little numb?” 

“Honey, no—” Harry shook his head, pushing the platter away. “That’s— That’s an allergic reaction. How many of those did you eat? Are you breathing okay?”

You frown, looking at the nearly empty platter before shrugging sheepishly. “Uh— More than in Almonta. By a lot. I feel fine, just the tingly mouth and uh— Maybe a little nauseous?”

Harry jumps from his seat, telling you to stay still before he rushes towards the wheelhouse. They don’t have any epipens on board, which seems like a terrible oversight, but the captain immediately starts barking orders, getting the small crew onto some sort of emergency protocol and promising they’ll get the yacht back to shore as quickly as possible. 

You’re violently retching in the suite’s bathroom by the time Harry finds you; your skin clammy and cold. He kneels by your side, holding your hair out of the way, breathing through his mouth to keep himself from puking as well. He stays there no matter how many times you try to usher him away, thinking of the vows he’ll make as he wipes sweat away from your forehead— In sickness and in health, even if it makes him want to puke too. 

There’s an ambulance waiting for the two of you at the harbor, fully equipped and prepared to handle the allergic reaction that, thankfully, doesn’t seem to affect your breathing or your throat. Harry climbs into the ambulance with you, even as you try to wiggle out of you, telling everyone that you’re fine and that you don’t need a hospital and it takes the paramedic reassuring you that the hospital has a good financial aid for him to realize that you’re concerned about money and not the hospital itself. 

It makes him feel like a failure. Here he is, a man with more money and power than anyone deserves, and the most precious thing in his life is worrying about her financial future. He squeezes your calf, heart constricting in his chest. For richer or for poorer. 

“Don’t worry about that.” Harry says, low enough that you’re the only one that hears it. “Don’t ever worry about that. I got you, always.”

two: the wonder wheel.

The second time Harry tries to propose, he steers away from seafood. He takes you to Coney Island instead for an afternoon of childish glee at the amusement park: Harry hasn’t been there since Peter’s seventh birthday, and he tells you the story of how his mother’s company was just starting, and how the boys had shared a Nathan’s hot dog because it was the most she could afford— He omits the fact that they both fought over it and that Peter cried all the way home because Harry told him their mother only made his birthday special because it was the day she plucked him out of a dumpster and decided to raise him as her own. 

He can’t remember the last time you looked this happy. You’re giggling the entire day, dragging him around the park, outright cackling at him when he drips ice cream on his 800 dollars sweater but your eyes are kind as you try to help him wash it off — it’s cashmere, the whole thing ruined and stretched out where the ice cream had been — and cussing so much as you ring toss that, for a moment, he’s genuinely afraid you might get kicked out of the park before he can propose. 

Harry slips the guy manning the ferris wheel twenty dollars so that he stops the ride when the two of you are at the very top, just as the sun starts to set. It’s romantic, even if a little cliché, but Harry thinks you’ll like it. He’s been taught, from a very early age, that the right way to love is through grand shows of romance. The roses and the private dinners and the lavish vacations— Expensive gifts, big and small acts of chivalry that are meant to show someone that you love them; it’s what women want, his brother told him once, even if Harry couldn’t quite grasp the concept of why. He’d done it all with Lucy because he felt like he had to. It was a transaction, and Harry constantly felt the need to prove that he was well-suited for her. 

With you, it’s different. He does it because he loves the way your face lights up, how you giggle and bat your lashes at him; how you say it’s silly and that he didn’t have to go out of his way for you but there is still a prep to your step for the rest of the day. 

Harry does it to make you happy, and that is an unfamiliar feeling for a man so used to putting himself first. 

He’s shaking all over by the time the ferris wheel finally stops. You turn your head this and that way, sitting on the very top of the wheel; it has a beautiful view, he’ll give you that— The sun is just starting to set, falling behind the skyscrapers in the distance, the entire sky taken over by shades of orange and pink. 

“I think I can see your apartment from here.” You giggle, pointing to the opposite direction of Tribeca but Harry pays it no mind, because it’s the first time you’ve had your back to him all day, and it’s fucking perfect. 

He reaches into his pocket with trembling fingers, grasping the dainty diamond ring he’s been hiding for over a month now; he has a speech prepared, a little story about a boy who never thought he would be worthy of love and the girl that showed up just at the right time but, as he tries to position the ring in the right way, it slips from his sweaty fingers. 

Harry curses so loud it makes you jump. 

“God— Fucking damn it.” He dives forward, trying to catch it before it hits the ground but instead the ring bumps against his fingers, arching through the air and falling directly through the grates on the cart’s windows.

“What was that?” You scoot forward in your seat, trying to peak through the metal squares. “What did you drop?”

“Nothing.” He says, and it sounds so fake he follows up with: “A penny.” 

“A penny?” You raise an eyebrow. “Does the big Mr. Castillo even know what that looks like?”

Harry huffs, rolling his eyes just for good measure— It only lasts for a second, though, before he discreetly starts to peer down below; the view from above isn’t great, but he knows there’s no way he’ll ever get that ring back. 

“Harry?” You call out, your voice so sweet when he finally pulls his eyes away from the ground. “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.” 

“I’m okay.” He says, bringing a hand to smooth the little crease between your brows. “It’s alright, just a penny.” 

A ‘penny’, worth two hundred and seventy thousand dollars, lost somewhere between colorful carts and wonder wheel fuselage. 

By the time the two of you go home, your eyelids are drooping, your head on Harry’s shoulder as his driver brings the two of you back to Tribeca; you’re clutching tightly to the walrus plushie Harry won for you, and he can’t stop thinking about how bright you smiled when he did it. The streetlights reflect on your face, and Harry thinks you might be the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. 

“Today was very special.” You mumble, voice clouded by sleepiness. “Thank you.” 

Harry turns his head, ignoring the insistent vibration of his work phone, and presses a kiss to the top of your head, heart aching with the knowledge of just how more special it could’ve been.

three: the waterfall.

Harry is nothing if not an obstinate man. Where others (his brother included, during one late night phone call) might see the two failed proposals as a sign of the universe that, perhaps, he’s making a mistake, Harry sees it as a challenge. He’s a man that is used to high stakes, that thrives off of the thrill of a risky business deal, a shark in the water that smells blood miles away and goes for it. He’s also the sort of man that gets nervous enough to drop an engagement ring down a ferris wheel (which he really never recovered, just as he presumed), but that’s part of why he loves you so much. You make him human. With you, he’s not Harry Castillo, the business mogul that is known for hostile acquisitions and getting exactly what he wants, when he wants it. With you, he’s just Harry. 

After the wonder wheel disaster, Harry takes a different approach. He goes in hard, not with his heart but with his mind, tackling the proposal like he would a difficult client: He starts with the ring, going back to his usual jeweler and designed a custom piece— Not the same as the one he’d lost, because someone would eventually find that ring and he didn’t want a copy of your ring walking around but a brand new one, inspired by several celebrity engagement rings he’d noticed you zoom in on while scrolling through your phone. A gold band, because he knows you always go for the yellow gold when picking out jewelry, twisted and molded in a way that would, eventually, stack perfectly above the wedding band. 

The main difference between the two rings, however, is the diamond. They’re both six carats and pear shaped, but this one is lab grown— His mother would go into cardiac arrest if she ever knew, and even his jeweler had raised both eyebrows when he requested it but, two days after the Coney Island fiasco, you’d gotten into a pretty heated argument on an Instagram post’s comment section about the ethics of natural jewels and the consequences that mining them has on the people who are enslaved and exploited for it. 

Harry had never thought about that. He had never thought about a lot of things before you— The consequences of his wealth, what that meant for other people around him. It shone a terrible light on all the things he took for granted, forgetting his not-so-fortunate past as the years of more money than he could ever need stacked up on top of each other. And he’s both embarrassed for it and thankful that you came into his life, no matter how much his mother scoffs at your antics. 

He had also told himself he wouldn’t do it overseas. He’d planned the trip for Lucy’s proposal, and it felt like a cheap second try but, all things considered, Harry thinks proposing abroad might be the thing that makes it so special. So, after seeing the way you keep swooning at Tiktoks of Phi Phi Island, he takes you to Thailand. 

Truth be told, Harry didn’t expect to like the country as much as he does— He’s never been a beach kind of guy, always preferring the bustling of a big city, but there is something about sitting on the silky white sand of Railay Beach watching you dive into the crystal blue waters that almost has him proposing right then and there.

In retrospect, he probably should have; even if he left the ring back at the hotel, maybe he should’ve dropped to his knees when you finally come out of the ocean in your pink bikini, salt water dripping down your chest. At least, like that, he would’ve proposed at all. 

You plop down on the beach towel next to him and Harry hands you his half-drunk dragon fruit kiwi smoothie; you lean against him, sticky shoulder bumping against his sunburnt one. 

“Don’t think I’d ever get tired of this view.” You say, softly, watching as the blood red sun starts to set. 

“I wish we could live here.” He admits in a small voice, tensing as he waits for your reaction— It’s childish but he’s embarrassed of the admission, afraid of what you’d think of his moment of vulnerability even if, logically, he knows you’d never judge him for anything; not like his parents did, at least, who’d mock him relentlessly whenever he was a kid and cried on the way home after a vacation. 

“We?” 

Harry shrugs, feeling his already reddened face burning even brighter as you shift to stare at him. He keeps his eyes on the ocean, doing his best to pretend he hasn’t just opened his heart to you with a single, small sentence. You press a kiss to his shoulder. 

“Me too.”

He waits until almost the end of your trip, when you finally make it all the way up to Tak. For all of Harry’s new-found love for the beach, he’s not a big fan of the forest. Still, he hikes with you all the way to Pha Charoen because he knows that proposing to you in the scenic staircase-shaped waterfall is going to be a thousand times more memorable than the wonder wheel or a borrowed yacht. The private tour guide he hired giggles as Harry wades into the water, cellphone in hand and fully prepared to serve as a photographer during the big moment; you’re in a pretty dress that is short enough so it doesn’t get wet but Harry, for all of his planning, trudges with water soaking into his khakis— He thinks it’ll look bad in the pictures but maybe you won’t care, not with the way you’re smiling so wide, taking in the views of the water that cascades just a few feet away. 

The tour guide, Pranee, gives Harry a discreet thumbs up when the two of you are perfectly in frame and then points to the left. “Look, guys! A monkey!”

You immediately turn your back to Harry, searching for the animal that doesn’t exist. He breathes deeply, takes a small step back and kneels. 

Harry doesn’t even see it happen. One moment he’s lowering himself on one knee, the other he has both feet in the air, his back scratching against the rock formation as he slides down several steps. He hears you screech and then nothing else other than the roaring of the water as he unwillingly somersaults down the current.

He ends up with seven stitches on his bicep after getting caught in a particularly sharp rock, a twisted ankle and enough muscle pain to show that he is, indeed, nearing fifty years old. The ring somehow stayed in his pocket, thankfully, and you’re now using one of Pranee’s pictures of Harry being ass up face down in the water as your phone’s lockscreen, so he figures it wasn’t all bad.

four: the proposal.

Harry doesn’t give up. He is not the sort of man to give up on anything, especially not something this important. He just… Takes a step back. His recovery from the Thailand trip is slow, slower than it would’ve been a couple of years back, and it brings forth a whole plethora of realizations he has been trying to avoid. His age is the main concern— He feels like his body is starting to break down, his stamina dwindling, injuries taking longer to recover from; his mother starts casually mentioning botox every time they have lunch together, the grays in his hair more prominent every time he looks in the mirror. 

Despite that, Harry doesn’t feel old (well, maybe only when it takes him five weeks to stop groaning whenever he stands because of a silly tumble down a waterfall). But then he looks at you, so much younger, still so full of energy and life and he wonders if he’s not selfishly taking away your youth. 

So, yes, Harry doesn’t give up. But he does reconsider. He hides the ring in his office and leaves it there for a couple of weeks, choosing instead to spend his time with you without the worry of the perfect proposal— He still wants to marry you, wants to have the pride of knowing you carry his last name, the safety that comes with his money and his status. He wants you on his bed and his house and his car, wants your name next to his at every event. But it dawns on him that he’s not certain if you want that too: He’s been so focused on making sure to keep the proposal a surprise, he doesn’t even consider the possibility of your answer being no. 

He decides to just ask you. Not in an actual proposal but more of a conversation, testing the waters to figure out if he can pull out the ring or if he should keep it hidden for another year, but there never seems to be a right time for that— Or maybe he’s scared of the answer, even though Harry would never admit to it.

The question slips out on a Saturday evening while the two of you are having a movie night in the shoebox that you call an apartment, sitting on the couch you stole from a garbage pile on the curb. You’d made Harry carry the damn thing for three blocks even though he promised he’d give you all of the couches in the entire world if it kept you from bringing garbage into your home. 

The garbage couch is, perhaps, the most comfortable couch he has ever sat on. 

“Would you ever want to get married?” He asks, watching the way your hand full of Skittles freezes halfway to your lips. 

“What?” You ask. Despite how good Harry is at reading people, he cannot make sense of the emotion that fleets across your face. 

“With me. Would you ever want to get married to me?”

You twist on your side of the couch, your knees drawn to your chest; you’re wearing a pair of sweatpants that you got either from Walmart or Target or whatever other big store Harry hasn’t set foot inside since he was a child, an old t-shirt from his days at Brown University that is ratty and stretched out from age, and a pair of Chanel eye patches. 

This is another little thing that Harry loves about you. Here you are, in a stolen couch in sweatpants that might well be from the Dollar Tree, wearing an eye mask that costs over a hundred dollars. Any other person might’ve seen it as hypocrisy, but Harry knows better than that— He understands that you don’t care about boasting luxury, about flaunting his money or spending it on things that you might consider futile. You’re ambivalent but strong-willed, sticking to your morals and what you think is the right thing. Headstrong. 

“Are you proposing to me, Harry Castillo?” 

“No. Yes.” He pauses, trying to figure out the look on your face when you quirk an eyebrow at him. “Maybe. I mean— I tried three times already, so I figured I might as well just say it, but if you want it to be more romantic I can try again. Fifth time’s the charm or something.” 

You throw your legs over his, swinging on the couch until you plop down on his lap, your chest pressed against his, shins bracketing his thighs. Harry’s hands find your waist all on their own, the weight of you a familiar and welcoming feeling. 

“I would marry the shit out of you.” You say, fingers running through his hair. “So yes, if this is a proposal, I’m saying yes.” 

He kisses you, your teeth clacking against each other as you both smile through the kiss. Harry’s heart thunders inside his chest, so fast he thinks he might go into cardiac arrest— And he’d die a happy man, because the way you press against him and giggle into his mouth brings forth an emotion that he never thought he’d ever truly feel. 

Love. 

It was true when he told Lucy he’d never been in love before, and at some point he truly thought that would never be in the cards for him, but all along he’d simply been waiting for you. The woman that challenges him, that disrupts his world and pulls him away from the trap of his own mind. 

“I love you.” Harry says when he finally pulls back, and he thinks you’ll never understand how much he means it. He kisses your cheek once, twice, thrice. You giggle, folding in on yourself when his mustache brushes against that soft part of your neck where you’re extra ticklish. 

“I love you too.” You say, grinning ear to ear. “Wait, what do you mean you tried to propose before?”

Harry groans, head tilting against the back of the garbage couch. 

“You don’t even wanna know.” 

bonus: the wedding.

The two of you get married in New York City, seven months after Harry finally manages to propose. It was a rocky road, with Harry’s mother trying to take control of the festivities and you slamming your foot down on having the party exactly the way you and Harry wanted it, and he’s never been so attracted to you as he’d been then. 

Well, maybe only when you made your way down the aisle. You wore a shiny satin dress that was more champagne than white, figure accentuated by the corset that tied to your back— Harry had missed his portion of the vows, only snapping out of his trance when the officiant called his name twice; you’d laughed, and he’d blushed, and all Harry could think and say was about how lucky he was to have such a powerful, incredible woman by his side. He worships at your altar that night, trying to convey with his body what his words could not: How much he’d kiss the ground you walk on, how he’d never be able — or willing — to find someone that came even close to make him feel the way he does for you. 

Your honeymoon is in Thailand. You make the same island hopping you’d done the last time — sans Tak, because Harry wasn’t ready to face that humiliation again — and you end the trip on Railay Beach, in a small seaside bungalow that Harry buys for the two of you. You get matching bamboo tattoos one evening after too many boozy smoothies: Your initials on his left collarbone, his initials on your left ribcage. If anyone asked, getting a matching tattoo with his wife at fifty years old while honeymooning in paradise had never been in the realm of possibility for one Harry Castillo, but he wouldn’t change a thing.

Going back to New York City after a month of good food, beautiful beaches and lovemaking is a sad affair and, once again, Harry is reminded of the ten year old little boy he once was, sitting in his parents private jet or the back of a car, holding back tears because he did not want to go back home. This time it’s just bittersweet, your hand in his as you sit next to each other on the private plane. 

“Is it weird that I already want to go back?” You giggle, and Harry smiles, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose. 

“No, Mrs. Castillo.” He says, savoring the words. “Not weird at all.” 

summary: There’s something about Jackson’s newest resident that gets under Joel’s skin. It’s not just Javier Peña’s cocky attitude that Joel can’t stand - it’s his tight pants and his too-smooth voice, and especially the way he’s sleeping with half of Jackson. But Joel can’t deny that Javi is a damn good shot, so when raiders make camp in the nearby mountains, he begrudgingly agrees to partner up. Soon their rivalry shifts into an attraction, as fever-hot as it is terrifying. But Javi’s not the kind of guy who does commitment, and Joel doesn’t want to let him get too close. As feelings start to spiral and raiders close in, Joel and Javi both have to fight for their lives - and maybe for each other, if they decide it’s worth the risk.

tags: 18+ only MDNI. takes place after tlou s1 and long after narcos s3, with some timeline fudging to make them the same age. slutty bi javi. grouchy bi joel (he's sorta comphet coded?). horny medium burn with a lot of TLOU-style plot. mutual pining. dual POV. one-sided enemies to lovers. eventual smut. angst. jealousy. tension. flirting. canon-typical violence. javi has two canons worth of trauma and it shows. commitment issues. joel being a dad to ellie. javi and ellie friendship. possible minor character and animal death. more tags will be added on the chapters. status: in progress.

andrea says: This started as me watching Javi shove his gun in his pants and thinking "Joel Miller would not approve". Then it was a one-shot, then a three-parter, and now a full blown series. I've officially redone the outline to accommodate these boys' emotional problems, and am looking forward to sharing the story with you all.

EDIT 7-30: updates will temporarily be posted on ao3 only.

read on ao3 | playlist | taglist

chapter one: Crosshairs

chapter two: Locked and Loaded

chapter three: Misfire

chapter four: Hammer (ao3 only)

chapter five: Shoot First, Ask Questions Later (ao3 only)

chapter six: Coming Friday, August 14th

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve