#fox writes.

Pope Cody was in prison for 1.114 days. In that time, he read 158.5 books; he finished the last one — The Book Thief, which he started reading on day 1.112 of his sentence — as a free man. He’s already finished with The Book Thief when he learns about audiobooks, after a well placed ad for Audible on a self-help Youtube video he listened to while on a stake out. 

It takes him another eight books after that to discover audioporn. He comes across the app by accident, and it takes him about seven minutes into the first audio he chose — puppyplay, though he didn’t know what that meant just yet — to realize he’s listening to a porn story. 

Pope sticks with it. The stories he listens to don’t do much for his dormant dick, but it’s nice. He likes listening to women whispering about how good of a boy he is, the dirty little things they want to do to him and the things they want him to do to them— A fantasy, something for him to get lost into during the nights he couldn’t fall asleep; a habit acquired in prison, the sort of ongoing vigilance that he couldn’t grow out of even though he now lives a somewhat safe life. 

And then he finds you. Your account is called Mommy Dearest, which is why he clicked on it at first, but the one audio that sticks with him has nothing to do with mommy kink: It’s a phone call, about fifteen minutes long, that starts with you rambling about your day and ends with you wailing through an orgasm with a loud vibrator between your legs. You edge yourself for a long portion of it, talking about how much you miss his cock and his fingers and his tongue; and then, close to the end of the call, you say you miss him. You talk about how you miss him and how prison isn’t going to keep him from you, and you giggle and say that, on another phone call, you’ll tell him every single perverted thing you’ll do to him when he’s out. 

Logically, Pope knows it’s not real. You’re not talking to him, it’s just a character that you recorded, edited and then posted on a porn app for pathetic men like him but it lands so heavy on his chest he doesn’t even notice he’s hard for the first time in over three years. 

You have a whole series on your ‘convict boyfriend’ — which you name Folsom Prison Blues after the Johnny Cash song and Lord help him if that doesn’t do something for him. — and the phone calls and letters and conjugal visits. You sigh and you moan and you describe in full detail what toy you’re using to get yourself off and, when Pope scrolls through the comment section, he gets so angry at all the men that get to listen to you too that he loses his erection. 

But he doesn’t stop listening. Pope feels some sort of odd loyalty to you and your breathy little sighs, his heart clenching whenever you whine about missing him, and he whispers into the air vows of finding you, of walking through the doors of your home and taking you in his arms and making sure you’re always full of his cock. He comes over and over again at the thought of you, bent over his couch and his kitchen counters and in his shower— He doesn’t really know what your body looks like, your profile photo is a headshot of you with a sultry smile and bright pink hair he’s fairly certain is a wig, but he thinks he can figure it out; it doesn’t really matter how big or small your tits are, because Pope dreams of falling asleep suckling on them anyway, your fingers tugging on his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as you say you’ve waited for him, that you love him and that he’s the only man that gets to see you like that. 

Pope’s not certain at which point he stops thinking of Cath. It happens naturally, either gradually or all at once, and he only notices when he walks into Smurf’s home one evening and Cath is on the couch, her head on Baz’s shoulder, dozing off after what he presumes is a whole day out by the pool. It used to hurt him deeply to see her like that, cuddled up to a man that Pope knows isn’t good enough for her, but this time he… Feels nothing. Not pain, or annoyance, or jealousy. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes he could have that with you; an afternoon together, laying on the couch, watching a nature documentary— You’d interrupt it every five minutes or so to talk about something else, maybe your shift at your day job or the little shiny trinkets you buy with his money. He knows you’d ask about him, too. About his day and his feelings and whether or not he ate; you’d ask and you’d mean it, you’d want to hear everything he has to say unlike Smurf, who asks but never pays attention, never really listens when Pope speaks. 

He’s so lost in his daydreaming that, when he finally hears your laughter, he doesn’t think it’s real. Pope’s eyes fly beyond Baz and Cath cuddling on the couch to find you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor by the pool, a collection of Barbie dolls spread between you and Lena. You’re in short overalls and a brown and orange striped shirt, your natural hair — not pink, so Pope had been right about the wig — pinned away from your face. A gorgeous, heaven-sent angel that laughs exactly like the girl from the app. 

“Who’s that?” He asks, unable to stop himself. His fingers itch to trace the curve of your neck, to spread his fingers over your collarbone. 

“Lena’s new sitter.” Baz answers. Pope makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying very hard to pretend that it doesn’t matter but his brother sees right through it. He squints at Pope. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“I’m not Craig.” He says, but they both know you’re not Craig’s type— Too innocent-looking, verging on the side of boring and not the sort of girl that Craig would look twice at. But Pope would, and he does; he finds a seat in a position where he can watch you from afar while still pretending to pay attention to the TV. You play with Lena until the girl is ready to pass out from exhaustion, and then you bring her inside and settle her on the couch before you finally introduce yourself to him, a sweet smile on your lips as you extend your hand to him. 

If your laughter had been enough to remind him of the girl from the app, the way you say your name cements it to be true. It’s you, the pink-haired girl with the convict boyfriend and an extensive collection of sex toys. 

Pope doesn’t like shaking hands — too many germs, the contact always making his skin prickly — but he takes your hand in his anyway, squeezing it once before he lets go. He wants to keep holding it, feeling your soft skin his against his roughened one, to put your fingers in his mouth and suck on them until you’re begging for him; you don’t seem to notice the way he lingers, you just accept the cash from Baz with a small nod and wave your fingers at them as you leave. 

“I mean it, Pope. Don’t be a creep with the girl.” Baz growls at him later that night, after Cath has already tucked Lena in the backseat of the car and they’re about to go home. “She keeps Lena so busy I get to actually fuck my wife on the regular again. If you fuck this up for me I’ll kill you.”

Pope doesn’t like the way Baz talks about Cath, never has— Like she’s just something for him to get off to, like he needs to rub it in Pope’s face that he’s the one that gets to sleep by her side every night. This time he doesn’t really care, because all he can think about is you.

He doesn’t mean to follow you. He just wants to make sure you get home safe at first, because Baz and Cath make you leave the house later and later each time. And then, when he finds out you’ve been taking pottery lessons twice at week at eight pm, he follows you there because he also wants to make sure nothing will happen— He thinks it’s quite late for a lesson, but you’re always happy when you leave, your face a little flushed from the red wine he sees you drinking from the window. 

Pope learns your schedule quite quickly, and he knows he’ll need to have a conversation with you about that. Keeping such a tight routine is easy for someone to hurt you, even if Pope himself understands the appeal of consistency— It’s all he’s had in prison, after all, and it was quite a comforting change from the violent chaos that is living underneath Smurf’s iron fist. It’s easy for him to come up with excuses to hang around Baz’s house whenever you’re there, and even easier whenever you’re at Smurf’s. 

Although he follows you home almost every night, Pope has never gotten too close. He’s afraid you’ll see him so he stands back, sits in his car for a couple of hours until your lights go out but tonight is different. You have a date. He follows the two of you to the twenty-four hours diner the guy takes you to, and he watches through the window as you almost fall asleep at the table; he can’t hear the conversation but it’s clear that you’re bored, barely responding to the man even though Pope knows you talk a lot when you’re happy. You’re also not a girl to take to a diner of all places and Pope wants to beat the guy black and blue for putting so little effort into dating you, even if he’s glad his competitor is tanking the date— It means he can whisk you away, dazzle you by showing what being truly courted is like. 

You swerve the guy when he tries to kiss you at your front door. Pope is out of his car by then, hiding in the shadows across the street just to make sure the man will leave you alone; he does, even though he speeds off with screeching tires when you deny his kiss for the third time. Pope tells himself that he is only checking in on you, that you’re taking way too long to shut out the lights and maybe something is wrong, as he climbs through the fire escape to your floor— He knows exactly where your apartment is, has watched you open and close your blinds plenty of times before. 

He stares through your window carefully, making sure to stay out of sight, and his mouth goes dry when he sees you sprawled on your bed, fully naked. You have one hand between your thighs, your legs spread apart as far as they can go, but Pope can barely pay attention to it— He’s looking at the dildo you’re holding with the other hand; it’s thick, long, and bright pink. Bigger than Pope’s own cock, the sort of big that he doesn’t think it’ll fit inside of you. And you’re licking it. Long, deliberate strokes of your tongue before you spit on the head, watching as it drips down the silicone shaft; you don’t take it into your mouth, not really, but you lick and spit until the thing is dripping before you collect your own slick to rub on it— You’re using your own juices and spit to lubricate it, and Pope feels like he might come in his pants at the thought of you doing the same to him. 

You don’t take the toy all the way. You push it inside of you slowly, carefully, one hand rubbing furiously at your clit while the other pushes the pink silicone inside; you stop for a moment, chest heaving but the large smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know— You’re edging yourself, stopping to come down from your high before you go back to fucking yourself on the monster cock between your legs. 

Pope’s not even aware of the moment he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans, spitting on his hand and tugging furiously, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself hard and fast— It’s a little clumsy, the angle not quite right, but you’re wailing, shivering and shaking as you shove the toy inside of you as far you can; Pope pictures himself climbing through your window, taking the toy from your hands and fucking you properly with it. He thinks you might let him fuck your ass while the dildo is still inside of you, filling you with flesh and silicone until you’re crying from how full you are, how ruined your pussy and your asshole are. 

He comes first, fisting his cock with one hand and stifling his moans with the other, his eyes still glued to you. You shift positions, desperation all over your face as you bring yourself to your knees, sitting on the dildo instead; you ride it hard, bouncing on the toy and in this position Pope can see the way the entire thing disappears inside of you, the fake balls grinding against your clit when you lean forward, your hips rutting with abandon. You come while meaning loud enough that Pope thinks the neighbors might complain, your tits jiggling hard as you push yourself up and down, riding the toy all the way through your orgasm until you topple sideways, exhausted. 

Pope stays until you fall asleep, the toy forgotten by your side, your naked body sprawled over the bed. And then he stays a little longer, watching you sleep, his denim and hands still stained with his cum.

Pope thinks you’re getting used to his hovering presence the evening he corners you in the kitchen. You’re always incredibly kind to him, talking a lot when it’s just the two of you even though he hardly ever engages in the conversation apart from giving you his undivided attention; he thinks you might like him, even, your smile always brightening up when it’s geared towards him. 

Lena is in bed by then, Cath and Baz gone on a date— Which means Pope has no excuse to stick around after they leave but you don’t seem to mind, swiping up the counter where Lena spilled half of her spaghetti, humming underneath your breath. He’s not sure how to bring it up, how to tell you that he’s been listening and dreaming about you long before you showed up so instead he simply pulls out his phone, opens your profile and slides his phone across the counter. 

You stare at it like it’s something rotten, your hands frozen on the marble counter. “Pope—”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The question is just a formality, a need for you to admit that he isn’t crazy. 

“Please don’t tell Barry.” You beg so prettily, your eyes going wide when Pope rounds the counter. “I really need this job.” 

“I listened to the entire series.” He mumbles, his hand coming up to brush your cheekbone. Your skin is soft, glittering with sparkling make up and it looks so, so pretty beneath his blood-stained hands. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering close before you take a deep breath. “The Folsom Prison one.”

“D’you…” You lick your lips, and Pope needs to use every ounce of whatever little control he possesses to keep himself from kissing you. “Did you like it?”

“I spent three years at Folsom.” He tells you, ignoring your question— He thinks it’s obvious, with the way his fingers drip down to run over the column of your throat. “Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew I had such a pretty young thing waiting for me at home.”

He can see the moment the idea pops into your head; Pope likes to think he can read people pretty well, and he sees the way your eyes fly from his face down to his crotch, his half-hard cock straining through his jeans. He hasn’t gotten hard this easily since he was a teenager, but your smell alone is enough to drive him crazy, let alone the way you blink owlishly at him, your nimble fingers coming up to brush at his belt buckle. 

“Promise me you won’t tell Barry.” You lick your upper lip and Pope doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it, his mouth going dry at the pink that pokes through your teeth. “I’ll give you what you want, but promise me he won’t find out.” 

Pope nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you sink to your knees. He’s terrified that he might lose his erection but his nerves turn into blazing desire when you wrap your hands around his cock, pumping him slowly and brushing your thumb against his slit— It feels so much better than his own hands that his knees nearly buckle, Pope gripping the counter as you look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. You take him slowly into your mouth, tongue circling around the head of his cock before tracing the vein on the underside, your eyes never leaving his face. Your mouth is warm and flooding when you finally take him into it, the flat of your tongue pressing against his shaft, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other grips the base of his cock; your rhythm is slow, teasing, and Pope digs his fingernails into the marble to stop himself from grabbing you by the hair— He likes you, perhaps too much, and he doesn’t want to scare you. Maybe you’d let him fuck your face one day, but this time he wants to do this your way. 

You take him as far as you can, your nose pressing against his pubic bone and Pope’s eyes roll to the back of his head when your throat tightens around the sensitive head of his cock, a whimper escaping his lips that he tries to stifle with gritted teeth. He’s going to come just from that, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes as you pick up the pace, the wet sounds of your slurping and gagging whenever you swallow too much of him bringing him that familiar tightening at his navel. 

Pope grips your hair at last, pulling you away with perhaps a little too much force. 

“Get up.” He says, half an order and half a plea. You stare at him through wet eyelashes, still gripping the base of his cock for a long moment before you comply— Pope is about ready to yank you up himself, but you stand on wobbly knees before he turns you around, pressing your front against the counter. 

The positions change, with now Pope kneeling behind you while you bend over the counter; you’re in a yellow dress, modest enough that you could run around after Lena all day without showing too much— Modest enough that it would never have anyone thinking you’re the kind of girl to fuck yourself with a silicone cock while saying the dirtiest, nastiest things on a microphone but Pope knows better. He feels like he’s the only person in the entire world that truly knows you, and his hands shake in anticipation when he shoves your dress up to your hips. You hold it in place, taking a deep breath and pushing your ass out even more. 

You’re drenched, the gusset of your cotton underwear a shade darker than the rest, your juices starting to run down your thighs. He cusses under his breath, pushing his nose against your core and taking a deep breath. You gasp, surprised, but you still push your ass against his face. Pope leans back just enough to watch as he pulls your underwear down, mouth salivating as the gusset sticks to your cunt, stringy slick connecting the cloth to your skin before he’s letting it slide down your legs. 

“All this just from sucking me off?” Pope doesn’t mean to tease, the words more wondrous than anything else. Your entire body shivers when his breath hits your pussy, making you whine. Pope takes pity on you, using his hands to spread you open before his tongue runs across your cunt. 

You taste even better than he thought you would. The two of you moan in unison, your hand flying backwards to grip his hair, pushing him against you until he’s struggling to breathe but he doesn’t care— Pope would let you use his tongue and his fingers and his cock however it pleases you, his cock throbbing at the fact that he’s the one bringing you pleasure. He suckles on your clit, nose bumping against your entrance and you keen before you bring a hand to your mouth, trying to keep quiet. He pulls back just a little, watching entranced as you clench around nothing. 

“Talk to me.” He asks. “Like you do in your stories.”

“I need your fingers.” You say, voice a little breathy, the pitch just a little higher. It’s the voice you use in the app, still yours, still recognizable, but still different. “Please, Popey, I need it. Been thinking about them for so long, how thick and capable they are—”

The nickname does something to him and Pope whimpers against your cunt, pushing two of his fingers inside of you at once. It’s a snug fit and he can only think about how your pussy is going to strangle his cock, how he’ll stretch you open and leave you leaking with his cum. He moves his fingers slowly but purposefully, crooking them until you’re almost yelling, a string of yesses and his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

The noises you make as you come might be the prettiest Pope has ever heard, your already tight cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your slick dripping down his wrists as he suckles on your clit until it’s twitching, your hips spasming against him; you slump against the cold granite, whimpering softly when he pulls his fingers out of you but Pope’s not nearly close to being done— He hasn’t been this hard in years, the tip of his cock painfully red and leaking, and there’s nothing that can make him feel better than the moment he sheaths himself inside of you with one deep thrust. It’s a tight fit, perhaps a little too tight, your pulsing cunt tightening so hard around him that Pope thinks you might push him out.

“Fuck, you’re big.” You whine, more pain than pleasure— Maybe he should’ve prepped you a little better, and Pope makes a note to do so next time.

He starts rutting slowly against you, only pulling out a little bit before he pushes back in, his hands gripping your hips. Pope watches where he disappears inside of you, entranced by the stretch of your pussy around him, his cock coming out shiny with your wetness. 

“ ‘M so full” You moan, your voice back to the breathy one you use when putting on a show. “You’re everywhere. Biggest cock I’ve ever had.”

His hand tangles on your hair, pulling you back harshly so your back smacks against his chest and you moan. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” Pope growls against your ear, the hand not on your hair digging into the plush of your ass hard enough to bruise. “I saw that toy of yours. Such a naughty little slut, stretching yourself open with a big plastic cock, creaming all over it.” 

Your head whips back at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean you saw it?”

As much as he wants to hear your pretty voice singing for him, Pope doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t think you can understand it just yet, how good he would be for you, how well he can treat you.

“Shut up.” He says, picking up the pace of his thrusts; you squirm a little, mouth open in a way that he knows means another question is coming so he slams his hand over your mouth, holding your jaw tightly closed as he pulls your head back against his shoulder. “Just— Shut up.”

He sets an almost brutal pace, his cock pushing in and out of your cunt with indecent squelching sounds and he can see the exact moment that the hand you wrap around his forearm stops trying to pull it away and holds tightly to him, your moans muffled behind his hand. 

“Are you going to be good to me?” Pope mumbles against your ear, lips twisting into a small smile when you immediately nod. He lets go of your mouth, then, pushing you back against the counter— He would love to see your face when you come for him, but the sight of the creamy ring you leave around his cock is too enticing to look away, your pretty little asshole clenching whenever he hits the right spot inside of you. 

You’re moaning now, hips pushing back against his, your mouth hanging open as you rest your head against the counter. Pope spits, the glob of saliva hitting just half an inch away from your hole and he rubs his thumb against it, pushing just the first knuckle inside of your ass; you’re even tighter there than your cunt and Pope moans, his cock pushing so hard and fast against you that you jostle, your head hitting the marble counter with a loud thud; there’s a small pool of drool next to your mouth, your lips still parted, your moans being punched out of you with every snap of his hips. 

“Cum for me.” He all but begs, his voice shaky. “Please, please, cum for me.”

Your body shakes as you come, your wetness splashing against his cock, dripping down his balls and onto his jeans and Pope can’t stop himself. He comes with a loud whimper, both his finger and his cock pushing deeper inside of you. Pope drapes himself over you, his forehead dripping sweat into the tiny pool of drool you left behind and you raise a hand, fingers raking through his hair as the two of you catch your breath. 

“Clean me up.” You say. “I can’t go home dripping your cum.” 

Pope nods, even though you can’t see his face, and he needs to wait until he stops shivering before he pulls out; he tucks himself and then looks around, trying to find the paper towels. 

“No.” You say, looking at him over your shoulder, still bent. “With your mouth, Pope.”

He’s on his needs before you can ask for it twice, lapping at your cunt, licking his own come from inside of you. Your clit twitches when he tongues at it, making sure every single part of you is clean— It takes longer than he thought it might, his cum leaking and leaking and leaking but he does as you tell him to until you’re shaking, his face smeared with a mixture of your wetness and his, fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread when you try to close them, overstimulated— You come again like that, so lost in pleasure that you’re completely silent, squirting all over his lower face. 

And Pope, because he’s nothing if not great at following orders, swallow every single drop. He keeps licking and sucking until your entire body spasms and you pull him away by his hair. You yank hard enough to hurt, your fingernails digging into his scalp but all Pope feels is pleasure. 

“Now,” You say, smoothing down your dress and leaning back onto the counter. He can see you’re trying to hold some composure but you’re sweating, your lips bitten raw and hair plastered all over your forehead. He notices how badly you’re shaking when you try to push the hair away from your face and Pope interjects, pushing the hair out of your eyes for you. “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what and how you saw anything.”

And he does. The two of you sit down on the kitchen floor, facing each other, and Pope tells you word for word of the night he saw you masturbating on your bed, the way he perched himself outside of your window and touched himself to the image of you. You don’t say anything, silent even when he begs you to say something, sitting on the ground until Baz and Cath come home; you bid them goodnight with an innocent smile as if you hadn’t just squirted all over their kitchen and leave without sparing Pope another glance.

Three days later, Pope gets a notification that you’ve posted a new audio; it’s not an update on the Folsom Prison Blues series but an entirely new one:

Late Night Cravings. It’s the tale of a young nanny that fucks her stalker in the kitchen of her workplace and, in the comments, you promise to soon share another episode.

Pope had to learn how to sleep with one eye open a long time before going to prison. His home had never been safe and, even as a child, he was always a light sleeper simply because it was a survival mechanism he developed to survive growing up under Smurf’s thumb. So he wakes instantly to the weight shifting on his chest, entire body locking in place as he tries to figure out what is happening. It’s not you, he can hear you snoring like a truck to the side — Pope would always be surprised that such a delicate woman could make so much noise while unconscious —, and the weight is too light and too concentrated to be a person. 

He opens his eyes slowly, just a little, not wanting to let the intruder know he is awake; the element of surprise always does wonders for him— attacking fast and hard before your opponent can understand what is happening is what has saved Pope’s life time and time again. On top of him there is a small pile of black fur. The thing is moving, little arms stretched over Pope’s pecks, tiny claws opening and closing, tugging at the cotton of his shirt. The animal blinks, slowly, and Pope can only tell that its eyes are open when the moonlight coming through the window hits it just right. 

The Tasmanian Devil. You told him the cat’s name had been Tweety at first, because he was tiny and seemed kind— He grew up into what you call a ‘terrorist’ with a sweet voice and fond smile, so you renamed him. Tweety to Tasmanian Devil. Sweet to sour. 

You did the opposite with him. He was Pope when he first met you— Angry, violent, unstable. You’d taken one look at him and started calling him Andy. A new name, a new identity, a facet of his personality that has always been there but has never been allowed to shine through. Sour to sweet.

The cat never seemed to like Pope very much. And it’s fine, Pope doesn’t like the thing either. He has never owned a pet, Smurf never allowed animals inside the house— Julia had made that mistake once, when they were eleven and an old mutt followed them from school. Pope didn’t see what happened, Smurf had dragged both Julia and the dog outside when she finally came home, but he had held his sister in the aftermath, arms around her shoulders as she cried and cried and cried. 

Pope never saw the dog again. 

Tec. Tec. Tec. The rhythmic sound of the devil ruining his shirt, its attack slow and coordinated as it keeps digging its claws into his shirt and tugging harshly. It doesn’t hurt— The thing can’t even do that properly, it seems. Pope pokes you on the shoulder twice and is only rewarded with the revving engine sound of your snores. You go quiet by the third poke but you don’t say anything, clearly awake enough to understand something is happening but not enough to realize it is him. 

“Honey?” Pope calls out. The devil stops moving on top of him for a moment at the rumbling of his chest before it restarts the assault. “Your devil is trying to kill me.” 

You slowly turn around then, hair mussed with sleep and eyes squinting. The cat doesn’t seem bothered by the movement, still clawing at Pope’s chest. 

“He likes you.” You say, and Pope frowns at how big you’re smiling. “Just wants to make some biscuits on those big titties of yours.”

You’re making fun of him. Pope is getting attacked and you’re making fun of him. 

“Wh—”

“Pet him.” You cut him off. Your own hand comes up to scratch behind the cat’s ear. The thing vibrates, then, a soft crooning noise taking over the silence of the bedroom. 

“It’s clawing at me.” Pope says, his hands still firmly by his sides. 

“He’s making biscuits.” You say again, just a little more forcefully but he can tell you’re having way too much fun. “Cats only do that when they like you and feel safe. When they’re kittens they do that while they’re nursing to help get the milk out.”

“I don’t have any milk.”

You snort. “Don’t I know it.” 

Pope’s face flushes, the reminder of how much attention you’d given his nipples earlier that evening crawling to the forefront of his mind. He raises a hand, carefully, patting his index finger on the top of the devil’s forehead. It keeps crooning, still making biscuits on his chest. 

The devil feels safe with him. It’s an odd feeling, but not an uncomfortable one— No one ever feels safe with him. People fear him, and he protects his family with his teeth and bare knuckles, but they don’t feel safe around him. You do, he thinks. He never asked, afraid of the answer, but you shield behind him whenever his brothers get too physical with each other, and you climb on his lap and hide your face on his neck whenever you’re watching a scary movie. 

He likes that. It makes him feel useful in a different way. When he protects his family he feels dirty, like a crazed guard dog that is going to be put down the second he is no longer useful. With you, he feels like he matters, like he belongs in your bed and in your house and in your heart. 

The devil headbuts his finger and you giggle, pressing a kiss to Pope’s bicep. 

“He likes scritches.” 

So Pope follows through, gently scratching behind the cat’s ear like you’d done before. His nails are shorter than yours, always trimmed down to the point where he’s one wrong angle away from bleeding, but the cat doesn’t seem to mind. The cat crawls a little closer to his neck, a loud mrrrp sound escaping it. 

“He hates me.” Pope says, heart thundering at the noise but you just snuggle closer, your leg thrown over his thigh. 

“He’s happy, Andy.” Your eyes are drooping, sleep is about to drag you back. “He would’ve bitten your finger clean off if he hated you.” 

The cat stands, its little paws digging on his chest and the softness of his stomach. It twists twice before it plops back down on his chest, fluffy tail swiping over Pope’s face. It’s uncomfortable and so unsanitary that any other day Pope might’ve jumped out of bed but he remains as still as he can, the cat’s purring being drowned down by your snoring, his fingers running along the cat’s spine. 

He doesn’t say it but, with the Tasmanian Devil’s weight on his chest, your leg over his and your cold hands gripping his bicep like a lifeline, Andy feels safe too.

You’ve never been particularly possessive of others before— Most of your boyfriends never caught much attention apart from yours and, in all honesty, you never loved them enough to feel threatened by anyone else. With Joel, however, you always find yourself sticking a little closer to his side, your hands roaming his shoulders a little bit more obviously whenever the two of you are out. He’s never given you a reason to feel intimidated, but you’ve never been with a man as attractive as Joel Miller. 

He catches everyone’s eyes. The cashier at your favorite food truck, the teller at the bank, the security guard at the mall; everyone stares with varying degrees of want and need. Joel, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice: He thinks the cashier is staring because he orders way too many olives on his fish taco, and the teller because she’s trying to figure out if he’s going to rob the place, the security guard is just doing his job at keeping the weird man in check at Victoria’s Secret. 

But you know better. They want him just as much as you do, and you need to figure out a way to keep people away. 

The first time you give him a hickey, Joel laughs it off. He says something about being too damned old for that but you notice the way his fingers tighten on your hips, the way his breath stutters and how he doesn’t ever try to pull away— The mark is on his chest, hidden away with any t-shirt, but every time you see it brings a thrill that you’ve never felt before, the little ‘O’ shaped bruise going from deep purple to a soft blue to green to finally fading entirely. You actually miss it when it’s gone, your fingers tracing the pattern you’ve memorized over his chest as the two of you lie in the afterglow one evening.

“What’re ya doin’?” Joel asks when you lean over him, his chest still shiny with sweat. You poke your tongue out, running over his nipple, tasting and testing. His breath stutters, a hand coming up to the back of your neck. “Not sure I can go again so quick, sugar.” 

You chuckle against his skin, climbing over him as you nose his pecks, your mouth going from one nipple to the other. 

“You don’t have to.” You tell him, your naked body molding against his as you move upwards, your teeth dragging across his chest until you reach the hollow of his throat. 

Joel whimpers when your mouth latches onto his skin, biting and suckling until his hips are buckling up into yours, his fingers digging into your love handles as if he’s unsure whether he wants to pull you close or push you away. 

“Goddamnit, woman.” There’s no real heat to his voice, and you grin when he tilts his head backwards, giving you better access to the column of his throat. “Everyone’s gon’ see it.” 

“Good.” You say, your tongue running over his Adam’s apple before you bite down onto the side of his neck. “Let them all know you’re mine.” 

Joel chuckles. “ ‘S that what I am?”

You pull back just enough to stare at him, one eyebrow raised, both of your hands sprawled on his chest. “Are you not, Miller?”

“Of course I am.” He says and, this time, his voice doesn’t carry any of the teasing it did before. Joel’s hands run up your sides, his callouses catching on the soft skin above your ribcage. “ ‘M all yours.” 

His whispered words make you shiver, the weight and truth of them settling somewhere deep inside your core. You shift, fully straddling him now, Joel’s soft cock brushing against your ass when he grips you. 

“Say it again.” 

“I’m yours.” Joel tells you, his brown eyes locked into yours. “Just yours, sugar.”

The kiss you share is bruising, teeth clacking against each other, your nose pushing against his as his hands dig into you, pulling your naked body as close as it’s physically possible. Joel whines when you bite down onto his bottom lip just on the side of too hard, his hips bucking against you; you’re still so wet from your slick and his come that you slide against his navel, your clit catching on his pelvic bone. Your mouth goes from his lips to his jawline, sucking hard on the little patch next to his chin where his beard doesn’t really grow. 

“Baby—” Joel says, and you can’t tell if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth scrape against his jaw when you turn your face to the side, latching onto his pulse point. 

“Say it.” 

“I’m yours.” He says it quicker this time, unthinking, his head thrown back against the pillow. You leave another mark behind, the redness already deepening by the time you bite down on the soft of his collarbone. “Let me— I need to be inside’a you.”

Joel turns a little, reaching for the bedside table where you know he keeps the blue little pills he swears are for ‘emergencies only’ but you swat his hand away. 

“Leave it.” You say, leaning back so grab a hold of Joel’s half hard cock and he raises an eyebrow at you, hesitating for a moment before he finally leans back. “I want you hard because of me, not because of the pills.” 

Joel opens his mouth, but you shush him with a kiss. You know his desire for you isn’t at stake here. You know that it happens and that his refractory period is going to get longer with age and stress and that it’s not a you problem or a him problem but you don’t want to hear it at that moment. Instead, you kiss him until Joel is writhing underneath you, panting into your mouth. 

It’s not easy, or sexy, when you finally push Joel’s only half hard cock inside of you. You’re still wet and open enough that you’re able to sit somewhat comfortable on him but it’s not exactly easy to do so, and Joel needs to help you at one point, hissing through his teeth as you sink little by little. You run your hands over his chest once Joel is fully sheathed inside of you, your nails dragging over the dark hairs there, thumbing his nipples in the way you know he likes.

The power you feel when you watch him from above, a trail of purple bruises down his neck and chest contrasting even more with how furiously his skin is blushing, isn’t something you can quite explain. You wish you could reach for your phone, take a picture or a thousand of him like this, hairs standing on ends, panting even though neither of you are moving, his eyes hazy from desire. 

“I love you.” He says, the words stuttering and mending together when you start to move your hips back and forth, just a little bit. “I love you.”

“I know.” You smile, leaning down so you can latch your mouth to his shoulder, the muscles rippling under you. “And everyone’s gonna know too.” 

You can feel him hardening inside of you, thickening and pulsing as you speed up the movements a little— Not yet bouncing, just teasing, circling your hips the best you can as you press your chest down onto his. Joel’s hands knead your asscheeks and you know bite down hard when he tries to use it as leverage to dictate the pace. 

“Nuh-uh.” You soothe the bite with your tongue, tracing the indents of your teeth before you pull back. You peck him on the lips, lightly, restraining yourself from biting his bottom lip again— You don’t want to hurt him, not really, just enough to leave traces of your presence behind. “You take what I give you.” 

Joel’s chest rumbles underneath you, somewhere between a laugh and a moan— That’s a sentence you’ve stolen straight from his books, the sort of taunting you’ve heard time and time again when Joel is in a teasing mood. 

“Is this payback?” He asks, but he’s grinning ear to ear. 

“Maybe.” You lift yourself just slightly before sinking down onto him again. “Or maybe I’m just figuring out why you like bossing me around so much.” 

“You’re a real menace, ain’t ya?”

“Oh, am I?” You raise your hips a little, hands pressing down onto Joel’s chest as you hold the position. “Want me to stop?”

“Please don’t.” The tendons on Joel’s neck strain as he holds himself back and your stomach flutters at the knowledge that he could easily flip the two of you over but, no matter how many seconds pass before you sink back onto him, Joel remains still. “I’ll be good— Just please don’t stop, sugar, c’mon.”

You’re uncertain if you’re taking pity on him or on yourself but you finally allow your body to move at a pace that has you moaning above him, fingernails digging into Joel’s chest as you chase your pleasure; Joel doesn’t seem to mind, his fingers grasping whatever part of you that he can reach, his big hands roaming from your ass to your hips to your chest and then back to your ass— He plants his feet on the mattress, hips bucking upwards into yours.

“Fuck, Joel—” You lose rythm but he’s right there, pistoning his hips up while he pulls you down onto him, your clit grinding against him with every thrust. “Joel.”

“That’s right, baby.” He grunts, fingers bruising your hips with how much he grips you. “Say my name— Tell me who’s the only one that makes you feel like this.”

That snaps you back to reality. You dig the heels of your palms onto his chest, and Joel groans when you push into a particularly sore bruise— A groan of pain, this time, and he frowns up at you. 

“No!” You whine, taking the hands that are gripping your hips and pinning them above his head; Joel interlocks his fingers with yours so fast you think he might not even be aware that he’s done it. “I’m in charge here. You don’t get to make me feel anything.” 

Joel gives you a small, toothy grin. He looks boyish like that, smiling up at you, his curls a mess where they sprawl over his forehead and pillow. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He says, but his hips still ondulate one last time before he finally lets his weight fall back onto the mattress. 

This time, when you move, you’re not thinking about Joel’s pleasure. With your hands in his, both still pinned above Joel’s head, you move for yourself, hips circling and bucking until you find the right position, the tilt of your hips that has the head of his cock brushing up on just the right spot inside of you. 

Joel comes inside of you with a strangled cry, his fingers squeezing yours as he holds onto you just as much as you hold onto him, the tendons on his neck straining as he struggles to stay still. It makes for the prettiest picture, you think, having Joel like this— Teeth clenched, chest flushed, his neck and torso littered with red and purple shapes that you put there; the man that is always such a fortress, big and strong and capable, turned into a bruised, whining mess underneath you. 

You ride him all through your own orgasm until your legs and lungs are burning, your slick and his come slipping out of you as Joel’s cock softens. You let yourself topple over him, your nose bumping against his jawline as you rest on the crook of his shoulder. Joel finally lets your hands go, his arms wrapping around you, both of you clammy with sweat and spit. You poke your tongue out, circling a particularly nasty bruise on his pulse point. 

“I’m goin’ to get ripped to fuckin’ shreds at work tomorrow.” Joel says but you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Poor Joelie.” You coo. “Got fucked for an inch of his life and now everyone will know.”

“Fuckin’ menace.” Joel barks out a laugh, tilting his head enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to your lips. “You’re lucky I love you, pretty girl.” 

And you know. By God, you know.

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.”