#pedro pascal x reader

It was a rainy night of autumn. I parked the car in the garage and sighed as I turned the engine off and leaned into the wheel, the tiredness of working all day was finally starting to creep up my body.

I reached the front door with lazy steps and hanged my coat on the entry, all the lights were off except for a warm light that came from the living room, accompanied by sighs and papers that were being scattered.

My feet moved cautiously as I leaned over the frame of the door to just stare at him. His back faced towards me, covered by a white shirt that let me see his muscles through it. His brown curls were messy as if he had been touching his hair more than necessary. In the reflection of the window, I could see his cello between his bare legs, he was only wearing a pair of black briefs, while his hands rested on the neck and strings of the instrument.

He was analysing the sheet music over and over again that he didn’t noticed me yet, so I approached him from the back and placed my hand on his tensed shoulder.

“Alex, you’re still here”

Alex raised his head and sighed as he lookedby the reflection of the window and placed his big hand on mine “Sorry, I lost track of time with the cello” his fingers lingered on the strings

I kissed the crown of his head and ran my hands trough his hair, trying to fix the mess even if he looked good “It’s okay, stay the night if you need to” I said as I walked around to stand in front of him

His hand creeped softly towards my waist, pulling me into him to rest his chin on my stomach while he looked up at me “I wish I could kiss you softly” he lowered his voice as he pulled me softly into his lap “bring you to bed” his nose touching my neck while his lips ghosted my collarbone “and fuck you slow like we always do….but I need to practice for the film, this soundtrack is important”

I could feel the heat pooling on my stomach, how my legs trembled and how the desire started to grow as I was sitting on top of him “You can’t just say that to me Alex and then do nothing about it” I couldn’t wait so I started giving him soft pecks all over his face

“Baby” he murmured, one of his hand roamed all of my back while the other kept holding the cello “I promise I’ll give you whatever you need after I practice”

“I can tell you’ve been here all day Alex” i raised my eyes to look at him “just a few minutes, I’ll be good” I carefully took my underwear off as repositioned my hips on his lap, now straddling only on one of his thighs.

Alex’s hands tightened on my waist “mhm. you sure you’re gonna be comfortable?”

I nodded as i gave a soft movement that made my lips part “Yes. please, keep playing the cello”

Alex’s jaw tightened as he swallowed and immediately started playing the cello again. His hands gripped the bow, playing some staccato notes that made my skin bump while I rubbed against his thigh. Some breathy moans left my mouth as he tensed his leg, making me grip the collar of his shirt. Mi clit rubbed against his thigh everytime my hips rocked back and forth as he struggled to keep his hands playing the right notes.

“You’re messing some notes” I teased, whispering in his ear whilst my hips increased the pace

He didn’t answered but i could feel how his jaw tensed and how he started playing harder, the notes were getting stronger with each movement of the bow against the strings. My forehead came to rest on the side of his neck and my hands gripped tightly around his body, the sensation of the climax was starting to creep up on my stomach.

“Alex” a breathy moan of his name was everything i was able to say. I bit softly the flesh of his shoulder as I let myself come undone on his thigh.

Alex groaned and closed his eyes as he slowly finished playing the cello and placed the bow on the music stand. His hands finally came to hold my trembling body “I got you baby” embracing my back and kissing the top of my head “You’re spectacular. Breathtaking” He leaned over and started to press soft kisses on my jaw and lips as his hands moved down to grip my hips “Now let me take care of you, feel how much i want you” he murmured against my mouth as the cello was now forgotten.

The warmth of his hands lifting me and guiding us towards the couch made the heat pool warm up my stomach again. I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him down to meet my lips as he wrapped his arms around me. His brown eyes big and dark while he kissed and touched every inch of me.

Daddy Whiskey left you for work leaving you with the whole house, your toys, and your stuffies. You are really bored even though daddy bought you a lot of toys and stuffies to play with. It's 5 p.m. and he's not gonna come home soon. He usually gets home at 9 p.m. or around midnight lately.

"It's so boooriiinggg!" you whine at nothing.

"When is Daddy gonna be home…"

You pick up your phone that your daddy gave you for Valentine's Day. You're not allowed to play it without daddy by your side. It's only for online shopping or for watching cartoons on YouTube with daddy. You are only allowed to call daddy when you are in danger or need him in an urgent situation. You pick it up and dial daddy's number anyway. You are a brat like that. Daddy always has to discipline you with his paddle or rope. It's not a punishment to you, though. You like it too much.

The phone is ringing…

Ringing…

"Baby? You 'kay?" Daddy picked up immediately after two rings and you can clearly hear that his voice panicked a little.

"Umm… m'kay, daddy. I just… miss you a lot." You pout at him even though he can't see you. But he always knows.

"Baby girl… you know the rules. You don't call daddy if it's not urgent, honeybun." His voice is a little bit stern because you know you broke his rule.

"Daddy, pleaaase!! Come home already. I pwomise I'm gonna be a good girl." You're whining and begging for your daddy.

"I'm at work right now, baby… I can't." His voice cracks with regret, and you can picture him rubbing his tired eyes.

"Umm…" You whine and he can hear you about to cry already.

"Okay, honeybun, I'll make you a deal. If you can be a little bit more patient for daddy, I'll have a surprise for you. Deal?" He's really good at making an offer for you to always obey his rule.

“What’s the surprise, daddy???” You asked giddy and excited.

He laughed “Well… it’s a surprise, baby. I can’t tell you.. yet”

"M'kay, daddy. Pwomise?" You ask, hoping it's gonna be another toy or stuffie.

"I promise, baby. Okay, see you soon, babygirl." He promises and hangs up the phone.

You wait maybe two hours or so, playing with your toys, eating your snacks, watching TV, and taking a nap. Then finally you hear a car coming closer to the house.

"It's daddy!" You yelp and immediately get up from your playmat and run to the door.

You open the door for him while he gets out of the car on the driveway. His shoulders slump as he steps out of the car, his tie loosened, his eyes heavy with the weight of the day. But the moment his gaze finds you at the door, the weariness softens, and a tired but genuine smile curves his lips.

"Daddy!" You scream and let your daddy in. When you are about to hug him, he stops you and kisses your forehead.

"Babygirl, thank you for waiting for me. I’m sorry you can’t hug me right now, baby. I don’t want your cute little dress to get dirty. 

You pout and give your best puppy eyes.

“Hey don’t be pouting at daddy now. Remember? I got a surprise for yoy, baby. Here's your surprise!" He gives a big brown bag and hands it to you while holding your small waist to make you go inside the house with him.

"Oof, thankie daddy! What's dis?" You question and sit on your playmat again while daddy puts all his stuff on the kitchen counter and grabs a bottle of whiskey from the pantry.

"Hold up, babygirl. Don't open it yet. You gotta take a big bath with me first, will ya?" He pours and gulps his glass of whiskey to relax his mind a bit before the bath.

"Okie, daddy! Comin'!" You're already getting excited and taking off your clothes right there and then. "I will take duckies with me."

He laughs whole heartedly witnessing your cute acts in front of him “Okay, baby. I’ll get the bath ready.” 

He goes to the master bathroom to prepare the bath. Pouring in bubble soap that smells like candy that you like so much. Also, light the small woody scent candle near the bathtub carefully so there’s no accidental kicking the candle. He’s taking his clothes off when you come in with the duckies.

"Aww, you bring duckies with us. How sweet of you, honeybun." He looks at you, already half hard, imagining you wearing his surprise gift later. "Come on, the water is already hot."

He helps you get in and sit in the tub, then he grabs both of your soap and shampoo from the tall stool. When he gets in, he finally can relax his body with you in front of him. He hugs you and kisses you from behind. You giggle a bit because you are really happy because daddy’s home.

"My babygirl. I love you so much." He continually showers you with praises while shampooing and soaping your body and hair. He always makes sure to get all of your body really clean because you were playing all day when he's gone, so you don't get a rash or a cut because of your sensitive skin. When he gets to your boobs, he always massages them a little bit and teases your nipples.

"Ummhh… daddy…"

"What is it, honeybun, hm?" The innocence in his tone is a lie, and you both know it. He knows exactly what you need, he's just making you say it. Making you beg.

"Daddy, pwease…" You whine even more when he pinches your nipples.

"Use your words, babygirl." His voice is a low rumble against your ear, and you feel the slick glide of his cock pressing against the small of your back, sliding up and down with lazy, torturous patience.

"I- more, pwease, more…" You grab his strong biceps to hold on and encourage him to place his hand on your pussy.

"Uh-huh. Patience, baby. I want to tease you a little bit more, so you can be nice and wet for daddy to play with later, hm? You want to open your present, right?" He whispers and keeps massaging your boobs and teasing your nipples.

"Ye-yes, daddy. Pwease, I wanna cum, daddy, pwease." You whine even louder and claw at his biceps.

"Shh… shh… you don't get to cum after you broke daddy's rule today, honeybun. After this, you're gonna do what I asked, okay? Then daddy will decide if you can cum or not, understand?" He gets a real grip on your left boob, and the other hand cups your pussy under the water.

You nod furiously. If he makes a sudden move and touches you more than this, maybe you'll cum right there and then. You are so horny, you can cum even when he touches you like this.

"Use. Your. Words. Understand?" He punctuates every word with a playful slap on your left boob.

"YES- yes, daddy, I understand!" You yelp with every slap.

"Good girl. Okay, let's get up and dry up." He gets up and picks you up to dry you with your pink princess towel. You can see his red and raging cock, ready to explode his cum. But he doesn't. Your daddy is really good when it comes to patience and holding his wants and needs just for you.

"Go get your present and bring it here, baby." He commands while he also dries up and puts on his briefs.

You run, still naked, to pick up the brown bag from the living room and bring it to the bedroom. You sit on the bed while he towers in front of you.

"Now, you can open your present, baby." He smiles and kisses your forehead before you open it with excitement written all over your face.

It's a new pajama. The one that you always wanted, and it's got dino nuggies printed all over the onesie.

"DADDY! THANKIE, DADDY! I WOVE YOU!" You screamed and jumped to hug your daddy real tight.

"You're welcome, honeybun. Go ahead, put it on." He smiles and laughs happily because he knows that you always wanted this type of onesie, but you never got it yourself because you're afraid that anyone who comes to the house will judge you for being weird.

When you put it on, his raging boner bobs in his brief. You can see it clearly. "Like dis, daddy?" You shyly ask for his praises.

"Oh, babygirl. You look so beautiful in it. Can I play with you now?" He grabs your chin so you can look up at him. He smiles at you sweetly.

"Yes, daddy, pwease. I want daddy." You spread out your arms, trying to hug your daddy.

He hugs you tight and pushes you onto the bed. He quickly gets on top of you on the bed. "Relax, baby. I want to taste you. Can I?" He asks so nicely.

"Yes, pwease." You hug his neck and let his hands explore your body a bit.

"I know you like this kind of pajama, honey… but I also like this pajama because…" His hands start to explore your crotch area and unbutton the either side until it opens up. "I can open up these buttons whenever I want… right, baby?"

"Mhmm.." you whisper, your voice small and breathless.

He hums approvingly, his fingers tracing the exposed skin of your inner thighs. The cool air hits your wet pussy, and you shiver, arching your hips up toward his touch instinctively. He chuckles low in his throat.

"So eager for me tonight, honeybun. What did you do while I was gone? Did you touch yourself?"

You shake your head furiously, eyes wide and honest. "No, daddy. Pwomise. I waited."

"Good girl." His thumb finds your clit, circling it slowly, deliberately. "Such a good girl for waiting. But you still broke my rule, didn't you? Called me when you weren't supposed to."

You whimper, hips grinding against his thumb. "M'sorry, daddy. I just- I missed you so much."

"I know you did, baby. I missed you too." He leans down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice dropping to a velvet growl. "That's why I'm going to be gentle with you tonight. But you still need to be reminded who's in charge, don't you?"

You nod frantically, already lost in the slow circles he's drawing on your clit.

He pushes two fingers inside you without warning, and you gasp, clawing at the sheets. He pumps them slowly, curling them just right, watching your face twist with pleasure.

"Look at you," he murmurs, mesmerized. "So pretty. So wet. All for daddy."

"All for you," you echo, your voice breaking. "Only you, daddy."

He speeds up his fingers, his thumb pressing hard on your clit, and you feel the pressure building, coiling tight in your belly. You're so close, so desperate, your thighs trembling around his hand.

"Not yet, babygirl." He pulls his fingers out just as you're about t cum, and you cry out in frustration. He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting you, his eyes dark with hunger. "You don't cum until I say so. Understood?"

"Yes, daddy," you whimper, tears pricking at your eyes.

He smiles, sweet and cruel, and lowers his head between your thighs. "Good girl. Now let daddy taste you properly."

His tongue is hot and flat against your pussy, and you gasp, your hips jerking up toward his mouth. He groans against you, the vibration sending sparks through your entire body. He licks you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance all the way up to your clit, savoring you like you're his favorite meal.

"Daddy," you whimper, your fingers threading through his hair. "Feels so good."

He hums in response, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking gently. Your back arches off the bed, a broken moan spilling from your lips. He holds your hips down with one strong arm, keeping you steady while his tongue works you into a frenzy.

He alternates between soft, teasing licks and firm, focused circles, bringing you right to the edge before pulling back. He's torturing you, and you both know it. Every time you're about to fall apart, he slows down, letting you hover in that desperate, aching space.

"Please, daddy," you beg, your voice raw and shaky. "Please let me cum. I'll be good for you. I pwomiisseee pleaaseee, daddyy"

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his chin glistening with your wetness. "You promise?"

You nod furiously, desperate. "Yes, daddy. I promise. Anything."

He smirks, lowering his mouth back down. "Then cum for me, babygirl."

His tongue presses flat against your clit, firm and relentless, and his fingers slide inside you again, curling against that perfect spot. You shatter instantly, crying out his name, your body trembling and bucking against his face. He doesn't stop, working you through every wave of your orgasm until you're whimpering and pushing his head away, too sensitive to take more.

He crawls up your body, kissing a trail from your belly to your chest to your neck, and finally captures your lips. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it makes you blush, pressing closer to him.

"You did so well, honeybun," he whispers against your mouth. "Such a good girl for me."

You nuzzle into his neck, still catching your breath. "Love you, daddy."

"I love you too, baby." He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His hard cock presses against your thigh, and you can feel how much he wants you. But he doesn't rush. He never does.

"Rest for a minute," he murmurs, stroking your hair. "Then daddy's going to take care of you again. All night long."

The dress was simple - black silk, cut just low enough to feel elegant without crossing into intimidating. You didn't actually own many dresses, and if someone had offered you betting odds a year ago on wearing one voluntarily, they would've made a fortune. The heels still felt foreign after years of living in combat boots, and you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding whether eyeliner counted as trying too hard.

Apparently it didn't. At least that's what you decided after one final adjustment of your lipstick.

Oreo barely acknowledged your existence as you knelt to scratch behind his ears. The black-and-white-menace remained sprawled across his favorite chair beside the doorway, accepting the affection with the detached dignity of someone convinced the house existed solely for his comfort.

“You've got food,” you informed him. He blinked slowly. “Ungrateful little freeloader.” His tail flicked once.

Chuckling quietly to yourself, you slipped your clutch beneath your arm before stepping out into the hallway.

The laughter died somewhere in your chest.

Max was waiting exactly where the old staircase curved toward the front entrance, sitting on one of the lower steps as though he'd wandered out of another decade entirely.

Or another century.

You had seen him in suits before.

You had seen him in sweats.

You had even seen him wear a leather jacket so painfully nineties that you'd briefly considered staging an intervention.

None of those prepared you for white.

The suit fit him as though it had been tailored around him, the crisp jacket contrasting beautifully with his warm skin. His dark curls had been combed back just enough to tame their usual chaos, his beard was neatly trimmed and the gold in his eyes caught the soft glow of the hallway lights the moment they found you.

He looked...

Ridiculous.

Ridiculously handsome.

And he knew it.

His expression shifted almost immediately as his gaze wandered over you with no attempt whatsoever to hide his admiration.

“Well,” he breathed.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Well?”

“I'm suddenly very grateful neither of us actually needs oxygen anymore.”

You laughed.

“Oh, it's nothing, I just -”

He lifted one finger, stopping you before you could finish your sentence, then slowly extended his hand toward you instead.

You found yourself stepping forward without thinking, as though there had never really been another option. The old wooden floor creaked softly beneath your steps while he remained seated, waiting for you to close the last bit of distance.

When you came to a stop between his knees, his hands settled lightly against your thighs, warm even through the silk of your dress. He didn't rush to stand. Instead, he simply looked up at you.

His golden eyes wandered over your face with quiet admiration before settling on yours again, and for a long moment he said nothing at all. The expression on his face was so utterly unguarded that it stole the teasing remark right off your tongue.

Finally, a slow smile spread across his lips.

“You are a sight for gold eyes, Ashley Vale.” His voice had softened into something almost reverent. “May I have the honor of taking you out tonight?”

A quiet, almost relieved laugh escaped you. Your fingers drifted to his jaw on instinct, brushing over his stubble before coming to rest beneath his chin. You tilted his face up just a fraction farther, making him meet your gaze completely.

“Depends.”

One dark eyebrow lifted.

“On what?”

You smiled, unable to stop yourself.

“How willing you are to pay for dessert afterward…”

Okay... maybe jazz - the right kind, apparently - wasn't nearly as bad as you had expected.

The little club Max had picked looked exactly like what you imagined when someone said New Orleans without trying too hard. The walls were lined with dark, weathered wood polished smooth by decades of elbows and laughter. Brass lamps and candles cast pools of amber light over cramped little tables, while old black-and-white photographs of musicians covered nearly every inch of exposed wall. Somewhere behind the bar, glasses clinked in easy rhythm with the music, and conversations rose and fell like another instrument folded into the melody.

The band occupied nothing more than a slightly raised corner of the room. An elderly trumpet player stood at the center, eyes closed as if every note came from somewhere far older than himself. Beside him, a clarinet danced effortlessly through the melody while an upright bass kept everything grounded with lazy, rolling pulses. A drummer brushed soft circles over his snare instead of striking it outright, and somewhere in the background a piano stitched the whole thing together with playful little runs that made the room feel alive.

Max returned to the table just as the trumpet slipped into another solo, setting down two Bloody Marys with an exaggerated flourish even though you both knew neither of you would be drinking it.

Everything tasted muted now. Food had become texture more than flavor, cocktails little more than colorful decorations with the occasional nostalgic memory attached to them. Blood remained the only thing that truly carried taste anymore - a realization that was still unsettling enough for you to avoid dwelling on it.

Max slipped into the seat opposite of you, and wrapped long fingers around his untouched drink before his attention shifted toward your leg beneath the table.

One corner of his mouth lifted.

“Ashley Vale…” You froze. “Do I detect someone's knee bouncing to the beat?”

You glanced down. “Nervous tic at best.”

“Nervous?” His grin became positively insufferable. “Because of the devastatingly handsome man you agreed to spend your night with?”

“Oh, don't flatter yourself.” You leaned back in your chair, taking another look around the room. “I'm just... getting used to the rhythm.”

“I certainly hope so.” Before you could ask what that meant, Max leaned across the small table until his lips brushed lightly against the shell of your ear. “Because that's exactly what I hope you'll be saying again later tonight.”

The ghost of a kiss followed along your jaw before he leaned back again as though he'd done absolutely nothing. Goosebumps erupted over your arms.

Instead of rewarding him with the eye roll he clearly expected and deserved, you caught his gaze, held it for a lingering second, then closed the remaining distance yourself.

Your kiss was brief.

When you pulled back, your forehead lingered against his for just a heartbeat.

“Thank you,” you murmured. "For this."

The grin he answered with lost every ounce of its cockiness.

“Always.”

Max watched you watch the band.

Or rather, he tried to.

It should have been easy. The candlelight softened your features beautifully, the silk dress caught the warm glow every time you shifted in your seat, and the trumpet's melody wrapped around the room like smoke. It was almost offensively romantic.

Except...

Your eyes never stayed on the musicians for long.

They drifted to the entrance.

Then to the bartender.

A couple arguing quietly in the far corner, the waiter weaving between tables, the emergency exit and the windows, the man who had ordered whiskey but hadn't touched it.

Years of police work had carved patterns into you that not even death had managed to erase.

“You already solving a case over there, Detective?” Max asked eventually, lazily stirring the celery stalk through his drink.

You blinked.

“What?”

He nodded subtly toward the room. “You've profiled half the bar.”

A guilty smile appeared almost immediately. “I…” You sighed. “Sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize.”

“It's just…” You searched for the right words before giving up. “Old habits.”

He quietly pushed both drinks toward the side of the table until there was nothing separating you anymore.

Then he reached across the wood and simply held out both hands.

No words.

Just the invitation.

You slipped yours into them.

His fingers folded around yours with practiced familiarity, thumbs absentmindedly tracing slow circles across your knuckles.

“You miss it,” he said softly.

It wasn't really a question. You looked down at your joined hands, buying yourself a few seconds. Max could almost see the lie forming.

Then, your shoulders sagged.

“Yeah.” The single syllable carried more weight than a paragraph ever could. “I do.”

He nodded.

No surprise or disappointment in that.

He'd caught you enough times over the past months lingering in the true crime aisle of the library or listening a little too carefully whenever a police scanner crackled from somewhere nearby.

You opened your mouth, clearly preparing to soften the confession with an apology.

His thumbs squeezed your hands ever so slightly.

“It's okay.” Your eyes lifted again. “It was the same for me.” A faint smile crossed his face, touched with something bittersweet. “Sometimes…” He glanced toward the trumpet player before looking back at you. “It still is.”

Something shifted in your expression.

“I've... never actually asked.” Your thumb brushed absentmindedly across the back of his hand. “What did you do before…?”

Max considered you with theatrical seriousness.

“Would you believe me if I said dolphin trainer?”

A laugh escaped you so suddenly that a few nearby heads turned.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“No?”

“Your hair would've been ruined by the salt water.”

He gasped dramatically.

“The detective still lives.” He chuckled before resting back against the booth. “I wanted to be an actor.”

You studied him for a moment. “...Actually, that tracks. You lived in Los Angeles. And you're charming enough to convince strangers to follow you into dark alleys." You shrugged. “The signs were there.”

He laughed. “I even got into acting school.”

Your eyebrows rose. “So what happened? Didn't make it big?”

His smile lingered, though it grew quieter. “I wasn't serious enough.” His tongue brushed absentmindedly over one canine. “I preferred parties.”

You followed the tiny gesture without needing another explanation.

Silence settled comfortably between you as the trumpet climbed into another soaring phrase. Around you, people laughed, toasted, danced between crowded tables, living entirely inside the present.

“How did you…” you began before stopping yourself. “Why photography?”

Instead of answering, Max simply let go of your hands.

Only for a second though, then he rose from his chair and, with a small bow dramatic enough to earn himself an amused look from the elderly couple at the next table, held one hand out toward you.

“I believe this answer deserves a dance.”

Now you rolled your eyes, but the smile gave you away long before your fingers slipped into his. With effortless ease he guided you away from the table and onto the small patch of floor the guests here had collectively decided qualified as a dance floor.

The music had changed while you'd been talking. The lively brass from earlier had softened into something slower, richer.

Max drew you close, one hand enclosing yours while the other settling gently against your waist, warm through the thin silk of your dress. You let yourself melt into the rhythm almost immediately, following without having to think.

You rested your head lightly against his shoulder.

After a moment, you felt his chin settle atop your hair.

“I tried a lot of things,” he said quietly, his voice nearly disappearing beneath the music. “After... everything.”

You nodded against his chest, waiting.

“Photography was the closest I found to acting without actually standing on a stage.” His thumb traced absent circles against your side as he guided you through another slow turn. “You're still telling stories. You're still making people feel something. Just... differently.”

“And you are good at it.”

A quiet chuckle vibrated beneath your cheek.

“Yeah. Turns out I wasn't half bad.”

Silence settled comfortably between you for another few steps before he continued.

“I don't think the longing ever disappears.” His voice had grown softer, more thoughtful than sad. “You just find something that scratches the same itch.”

You lifted your head, searching his face.

“It's enough?”

His smile was small but genuine. “It's like Oreos.” You blinked. “The memory is still there,” he said with complete conviction. “The taste is just... muted.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself.

He rewarded it with a gentle kiss against your forehead before guiding you through another slow sway.

“So.” His golden eyes met yours. “What's your itch, Ashley? Besides being incapable of walking into a room without profiling everyone in it.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Working for the NYPD had never been just a career. It had been the plan. The goal. The thing you'd chased since you were old enough to understand that justice wasn't guaranteed unless someone fought for it.

You had spent so many years making that dream happen that you'd never stopped to imagine another one.

“I…” You let out a quiet breath. “I honestly don't know. I have to think about it.”

Max smiled with a tenderness that made something inside your chest loosen. He spun you gently beneath his arm before pulling you back against him, closer than before.

“Then don't rush it.”

You huffed a laugh. “I suppose we've got time.”

That earned a warm laugh from him too, and eventually the dancing slowed until you were barely moving at all, simply swaying together while the band carried the night around you.

“Whatever you decide,” he murmured, cupping your cheek, “we'll figure it out.”

His thumb brushed softly across your skin before stopping just short of your lips.

“Together.”

You both knew neither of you could simply conjure a new future into existence.

But standing there in his arms, wrapped in warm jazz and a city that somehow already felt a little like home, you realized something.

For the first time since your life had been turned upside down...

This felt remarkably close to enough.

And I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishment

But most of all, because I have offended Thee, oh my God

Who art all good and deserving of all my love

I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace

To confess my sins, to do penance, to amend my life

And to avoid the temptations of evil

Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee

And I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishment

But most of all, because my God, I have offended Thee

Who art all good

Like I knew you would

And deserving of all my love

I reserve, I reserve, I reserve

I reserve, I resolve...

… i don’t even know what to ask anymore”

it was habit more than hope now.

the bible on the nightstand. leather cracked, pages soft from years of turning, looked suddenly foreign. the cross on the wall, small and plain, might as well have been a picture frame. the air in the room felt thin, used up. like he’d been breathing the same exhausted oxygen for decades and only just noticed how little was left in it. no grace. no relief. just the stale aftertaste of guilt.

the days after that night passed in a strange and quiet drift.

joel kept the shutters cracked open each evening, telling himself it was only so he could make sure you were something besides pizza and wasn’t smoking yourself stupid in that empty house.

he didn’t go over. you didn’t come over. it was like both of you had silently agreed to let the heat of that evening cool off into something manageable.

normal. neighborly distance.

tuesday he saw you hauling groceries in from your car, shoulders rounded with the weight of the bags. he noted the milk, eggs, and chicken with a quiet grunt of approval. good. you were eating real food. that was what mattered. “looking wasn’t the same as touching. looking wasn’t sin. not really.”

wednesday afternoon you mowed the lawn wearing nothing but those gray athletic shorts. joel braced his thick forearms on the kitchen counter and didn’t move for a long time. his eyes tracked every flex of your back, the shining path of sweat carving down the groove of your spine.

lust and protectiveness twisted together until he couldn’t tell them apart.

you were beautiful. strong. too young. his. no—not his. never his.

when you finally pushed the mower into the garage and disappeared, he stayed at the sink another full minute, breathing hard, shame burning behind his ribs.

thursday evening you sat on your back steps with a single beer.

joel watched from the shadows of his back porch door, half-hidden behind the curtain.

his gaze dragged slowly down the line of your throat as you took a long pull from the bottle, the way your adam’s apple bobbed.

without meaning to, his hand rose. his fingertips brushed his own mouth, tracing the lower lip exactly where yours had pressed days earlier.

“what the hell are you doing?” the kiss came back to him in broken pieces. the soft, surprised sound you’d made, half laugh, half breath, right when your lips met.

the exact pressure: gentle at first, almost playful, then the slight parting of your mouth like you’d been waiting for permission.

that single half-second before it happened... the way you’d been laughing, faces close, the sudden hush when the air changed.

he kept looking at you, bargaining silently.

“looking ain’t lusting. not if i don’t act on it. i’m just making sure he’s not spiraling. not getting into trouble.”

he watched until you stood and went in, then closed his own shutters like he was closing a book he had no right to keep reading.

“checking on him isn’t lust.”

“you both were just drunk and you were just playing… a part of a joke”

“i haven’t touched him. not really.” he would think to himself.

joel rubbed a rough hand over his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw sparks. he was disgusted with himself. not just for the desire, that was bad enough, but for how it had infected everything else.

the protectiveness he once felt toward you now felt poisoned. was he really worried about you being alone, or was that just a prettier word for possession? when he brought you dinner or told you to eat properly, was he being a good neighbor… or was he just finding excuses to stay close to something he knew he couldn’t have?

this was the man who used to pray with real conviction. now the prayers came out dry and mechanical, like he was performing a ritual for a god who had already turned away in disappointment.

that night, every time he closed his eyes he saw you on those back steps, legs spread, throat working around that beer, fingers drifting lazily under the waistband of your shorts. and every time, the same sick loop started

“you’re twice his age.”

“you’re supposed to be looking after him, not getting hard while you watch him exist.”

by friday afternoon the want had burrowed so deep under his skin it felt like part of his bones.

joel dragged the old harley out into the driveway and told himself it needed work.

it was a lie, and a weak one.

tools lay scattered across the concrete, grease streaking his forearms and worn gray t-shirt. he attacked the engine with focused violence, sleeves rolled high, sweat dripping down his temples.

anything to keep from remembering the weight of your body pressing him into the carpet, the soft sound you’d made when his tongue touched yours.

“just a joke…”

the little radio you’d carried outside crackled to life a few steps away.

you’d be laying on the ground in a picnic blanket wearing nothing but that tiny black swimsuit. legs spread lazy and wide, one arm slung behind your head, reading a book, trying to keep focused. the radio played something low and rhythmic with a heavy bass line that pulsed through the warm air.

you were sucking on a bright red popsicle, slow, lips wrapped around it while the melting juice ran down your chin and dripped onto your chest.

joel straightened slowly, wrench still gripped tight in his grease-stained hand.

his gaze dragged over you, your broad chest, ridged stomach, the way the tiny swimsuit barely contained the growing outline of your cock, and he felt it like a physical blow.

you were pure temptation.

the very image of forbidden fruit laid out before him, glistening and inviting, sent straight from the devil to test the weakness of his flesh.

every slow pull of your lips around that popsicle felt like an act of seduction.

the sticky red trails sliding down your chest looked like offerings, like an altar of warm skin and youthful hunger begging to be worshipped… or devoured.

your eyes drifted over. half-lidded. heavy. they locked on joel’s across the short distance between houses, full of want and uncertainty all at once. you pulled the popsicle from your mouth with a soft, wet pop.

“bike giving you trouble, mr. miller?” you called, voice lazy and warm.

“always somethin’,” he answered, voice rough and low. he didn’t step closer. boots planted like they were nailed down. his eyes, though—his eyes betrayed him. they stayed on your mouth, on the sticky red shine on your lips.

“lord, help me” he thought, but the prayer felt flat, useless. the space where his faith used to live had grown airless. the god he had spoken to for decades suddenly felt very far away.

you smiled around the popsicle, but it wavered.

you didn’t know what that kiss had meant either. you weren’t sure if you wanted it to mean something. making excuses to yourself that you were just drunk and playing around.

little did you know he wanted to wipe that sticky juice off your chest with his thumb and tell you to stop playing with fire before it consumed you both.

he wanted to drop to his knees right there on the concrete and pray for strength he no longer fully believed in, but instead he was imagining dropping to your knees right there in the yard and tasting cherry on your tongue.

your body was perfect and ready for that…

you stayed on the blanket for another long minute, sucking lazily on what remained of the popsicle, eyes never leaving him. then you pushed yourself up, wiped the sticky red juice from your chest with the back of your hand, and padded barefoot across the grass toward his driveway.

joel’s entire body tensed as you crossed the invisible line between your houses.

you stopped a few feet away from the harley, close enough that he could smell the warm cherry on your skin mixed with sunscreen and sun-heated sweat.

he looked… damn good. sweat glistened on his thick forearms and biceps, tracing dirty paths through the grease on his skin. his gray t-shirt clung to his broad chest. the afternoon sun caught in the silver at his temples and in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. he looked rough, every inch the older man who used to tear up these backroads on a bike decades ago, back when life felt simpler and his sins were smaller.

“you used to ride a lot, right?” you asked quietly, circling the harley slowly, eyes running over the chrome and black metal.

joel wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a streak of grease. his heart was hammering.

“yeah,” he grunted. “back in the day. did a lot of stupid shit on bikes like this.”

he straightened up, trying to put some distance between you, but the driveway felt too small. you were standing right there, nearly naked, sun-kissed, smelling like summer and sin, and he couldn’t stop looking.

he cleared his throat, voice rougher than he wanted.

“you know how to ride?”

you shook your head, a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “never learned. always wanted to, though.”

“too dangerous for a kid like you,” he muttered, half to himself. the words came out grumpy, almost mad, but the anger wasn’t for you. it was for the way his faith kept fracturing every time you got close. every time you looked at him like that…. another piece of the man he used to be crumbled away.

you didn’t push. you just kept looking at the bike with quiet curiosity, then back at him, at the sweat rolling down his neck, at the way his soaked shirt clung to his chest. that look undid him more than any bold move ever could.

joel exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. he knew he should send you back to your blanket. instead, the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

“go put some clothes on. jeans and boots if you’ve got ‘em. i’ll take you out for a bit.”

your eyes widened, surprised. you nodded quickly and jogged back to your house without argument. joel stood there staring at the empty driveway, already regretting the decision and powerless to take it back.

fifteen minutes later you returned in dark jeans, a loose white t-shirt, and a pair of scuffed boots.

joel had wiped most of the grease off his arms and changed into a cleaner black tee that still stretched across his broad shoulders. he looked solid, sun-warmed, and unfairly handsome standing next to the harley.

the ride to the beach was quiet.

you sat behind him, hands resting lightly on his sides at first, almost hesitant. as the wind picked up and the bike leaned into the curves, your arms slowly slid further around his waist, palms flattening against his stomach. joel kept his eyes fixed on the road, jaw locked. he tried not to notice the warmth of your chest pressed to his back, the way your thighs bracketed his, or how perfectly your body fit against him.

at a quiet stretch of beach road, he pulled over.

“get in front,” he said gruffly. “i’ll teach you how to ride.”

you looked nervous but excited. joel guided you through the basics, his big hands covering yours on the grips, his chest pressed to your back as he leaned in to speak over the engine. the closeness was excruciating. every small correction of your posture, every brush of his fingers, felt like fire.

“easy, kid,” he murmured close to your ear, voice low and steady. “i’ve got you. if anything feels off, i’ll take over.”

the protectiveness came out instinctively, the same tone he used when he made you eat real food or told you to stop smoking alone in your room.

his prayers had gone completely silent now.

there was only the roar of the engine and the pounding of his own guilty heart.

“relax your shoulders,” he said, palm smoothing briefly down your arm. “you’re gripping too tight. let the bike work with you, not against you.” his beard brushing your shoulder, his large hand adjusting your grip or the angle of your wrist.

when you finally managed a longer, smoother stretch, you let out a happy laugh that made something dangerous bloom in joel’s chest. he allowed himself one quiet moment of pride.

“nice job, kid. i think you were born to be wild.” he murmured close to your ear.

a small smile tugged at both your lips at the same time.

neither of you said anything about how much you’d missed this.

for the entire week you’d both spent drifting apart, avoiding eye contact across the yards, keeping your curtains closed, pretending the kiss on his living room floor hadn’t happened but you had missed this. missed the low rumble of his voice and his smile.

you eventually parked near the sand as the sun dipped lower, painting everything in deep gold and orange.

you stepped off the bike first and walked a few paces toward the water. joel followed a few steps behind.

a light offshore wind brushed across both your sweat-damp arms and neck, carrying salt and the faint metallic tang of the sea.

you stopped at the edge where water met sand. the rose-gold light washed over your face and shoulders, catching in your hair and along the line of your jaw.

for a long moment you simply stood there, eyes on the horizon, breathing slow and deep.

it was like you had found something holy in the fading light on the water, in the rhythmic hush of the waves pulling at the shore.

a kind of wordless religion.

joel was watching you and tried to find the same feeling somewhere inside himself.

it held him there, rooted in the sand, wind moving over his skin like a question he had no answer for.

a small crack opened inside him. just a quiet, uneasy shift.

“this… this is what it’s supposed to feel like?” he would think to himself.

not candles and carefully chosen scripture. not the rituals he had repeated for decades. but this… salt wind on skin, dying light turning the ocean into fire and rose, a boy standing in the sand with something like worship on his face. the way the amber glow traced your silhouette, the soft rise and fall of your chest as you took in the scene, the peace in your eyes…

the comparison unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. it made the foundations he had built his life on feel suddenly fragile.

a particular sermon drifted up, uninvited. the pastor’s voice, tight with conviction: “the body is a temple, but the flesh is weak. worldly beauty is the devil’s bait. pleasure that leads only to ruin. turn your eyes from the temptations of the skin and the senses, for they are fleeting and false.”

he tried to lay those words over what he was seeing now. you, glowing in the amber light, open and alive. they didn’t fit.

the sermon felt stiff, narrow, and suddenly irrelevant against the living warmth in front of him.

the beauty he was witnessing didn’t feel like bait. it felt like… grace.

you turned toward him then, the last of that amber light still clinging to your skin, and gave a little shy smile.

he'd spent decades learning what reverence was supposed to look like. candlelight through stained glass, dust motes hanging gold in church air, the particular hush that fell over a room when the priest lifted his hands.

he knew the shape of it.

he'd built his whole life around chasing that feeling back into himself, week after week, kneeling until his knees ached, hoping the ache meant something.

nobody had ever told him it might look like this. a boy standing in his old boots by the sand, salt-drying on his skin, smiling like he had no idea what he'd just done.

"you look like—" he started, and then stopped himself, because the rest of that sentence scared him too much to say it out loud. you tilted your head, that small smile still there, waiting on him. you look like something i used to pray to. the thought came blasphemous and tender all at once. joel cleared his throat, forcing his gaze away from your mouth.

“—you need a popsicle. the cherry ones. i’ve seen you sucking on them all summer”

there was a gruff fondness in his tone, the kind he used when he was trying to steer things back into safer territory, back to the role of responsible older neighbor, the man who made sure you ate real food and didn’t float through the day in a haze.

but even as he said it, he couldn’t quite shake the image of you in your backyard all afternoons, lips wrapped around bright red ice.

“i like how they taste,” you said lightly, but your eyes lingered on his face a second longer than necessary.

the sun had dropped even lower now, bathing everything in that rich, honeyed amber.

you both walked to a small beach stand and bought two cherry popsicles. you ate yours quickly, grinning at him with red-stained lips like a kid who’d been caught doing something mildly naughty.

joel tried to eat his like a normal man, but a drop of syrup caught at the corner of his mouth.

before he could wipe it away, you stepped closer.

your eyes flicked left, then right, checking that no one was paying attention. then you lifted your hand and slowly dragged the pad of your thumb across the corner of joel’s lips, collecting the sticky cherry syrup. joel’s breath stalled.

that slow swipe of your thumb against his mouth felt like pure temptation.

there was something disarming about it. the quiet way you were paying such close attention to him. like you couldn’t help but touch. like you wanted any excuse to feel his lips under your finger.

a playful little smile tugged at your mouth.

“this boy is going to be the death of me”, he thought, half prayer, half curse.

you just smile, licking the cherry from your own thumb while holding his gaze.

"it's getting dark," you say nodding toward the horizon where the amber had gone to a deep purple. "we should probably head back."

"it's getting dark," you say nodding toward the horizon where the amber had gone to a deep, bruised purple. "we should probably head back."

temptation, he'd been taught, was supposed to announce itself. nobody had warned him it might just walk beside him in the sand, quiet and easy, smelling like salt and cherry, close enough to touch.

the tide was coming in behind them, erasing their footprints one wave at a time, like the beach itself was in a hurry to forget what had happened there. joel almost envied it. he wasn't going to get off that easy.

you both climbed onto the harley. this time you sat behind him without hesitation, arms sliding around his waist and holding him close. your chest pressed warmly against his back, thighs bracketing his, hands resting low on his stomach.

the ride home was quiet except for the roar of the engine and the wind rushing past.

by the time the two houses came into view, his jaw ached from how hard he'd been holding it shut the whole walk. every unsaid thing sat behind his teeth like a stone.

he killed the engine in his driveway.

you stopped at the low fence between your yards, same as always. neighbors saying goodnight. except nothing was the same between you two anymore.

"thanks for the popsicle, mr. miller" you said, and there was that smile again, soft this time

"yeah," joel said. his voice came out rougher than he meant. "course."

you lingered for half a second longer than necessary, then gave him a small nod and crossed into your yard. joel stayed on the bike until your door clicked shut behind you.

inside his kitchen, he stood at the counter with both hands braced on the edge, staring at nothing.

butterflies had no place in a man his age, but whatever this was… warm…. restless pull in his chest…refused to settle.

he rubbed a hand over his face, salt and cherry still lingering faintly on his skin.

“maybe if i can’t stop wanting him”, he thought, the words were heavy “maybe i can at least let the shame destroy me cleanly. maybe that’s the only honest thing i have left”

penance had always been part of his language. this felt like the last scrap of integrity he could still claim.

across the yard, you closed your bedroom door and leaned against it for a moment, a quiet grin tugging at your mouth.

the ride had left you buzzing too. the vibration of the harley between your thighs and joel’s warm body against yours felt right in a way you couldn’t explain.

you reached into your pocket and pulled out the polaroid you’d taken of him by the water the other day. joel standing at the edge of the water, hands in his pockets, looking out at the horizon with that quiet strength carved into his face. the light had caught him perfectly.

you set the photo on your nightstand, propped against the lamp. for a long minute you just looked at it, the way the fading sun had softened the hard lines of him.

you stared like he was something sacred.