#pedro pascal x reader

2 0 1 5

You always thought sex was the beginning of everything. That it was everywhere, in everyone, like background noise. In everyday conversations, at work, in jokes, on the news, in the street, in your mother's eyes, in Joel's hands.

In your own house.

It was a constant, simmering low beneath everything. Under the foundations of life, under the roots of trees. Animals, people, cells. You found it in the way your brother's friends looked at you, in coworkers and the coffee cups they tried to invite you, in your own wedding ring.

You lived horny. It was your default state of mind. Everything turned vulgar in your head no matter the situation, you replayed your nights, carried that dragging feeling inside you, remembering it, craving it. The constant pounding, the haze of sweat, skin against skin. Sticky, slick, wet.

You liked what it stirred up in the other person. A reaction. An expression. A sound.

Cumming.

When you had sex, sometimes you'd slip out of your own mind. You'd wonder what your parents would think if they were in the room. Would they think you were finally an adult? Sometimes you asked Joel to finish inside you, to pull off the condom and fill you up.

Maybe that would make you a woman.

But Joel did it once and never again. Then he would just refuse.

You could stay angry for a whole week over his refusal. Joel would tell you to stop asking for that, that he was too old to be a father, and the last thing he wanted was to be the absent father of a kid because he'd died long before it hit its teens. But that wasn't what you cared about. You wanted to be marked, wanted him melted inside your walls.

Either way, Joel wouldn't do it.

You | 2:40 AM u off yet?

Joel | 2:55 AM not off til six told u this mornin when you were makin my lunch.

You | 02:55 AM i need u

Joel | 02:57 AM gonna hafta wait. not off til six.

You | 02:57 AM what if i come? fuck me in the morgue. nobody goes in there.

Joel | 03:02 AM darlin can you not do that, please.

You | 03:04 AM gonna wake me up soon as u get home?

Joel | 03:05 AM no. need my sleep.

2 0 0 0

You couldn't place the knocking sound coming from the hallway. You still had the doll an aunt had given you, and you still wore that pale blue pajama set you'd more than once, without meaning to, wet in your sleep.

Because you still wet the bed.

The hallway twisted like a cheap horror movie. The sound grew louder as you got closer, and by the time you'd woken up you already had that feeling in the center of your chest, like a little worker digging out room for the next horror. A dread that built up in all that silence in the middle of an intermittent chaos, a storm growling offshore that never quite made landfall.

When you reached the living room, the first thing you noticed was that every light was off—even the kitchen one, the one always left on so no one would bump into the furniture in the middle of the night. But you'd learned to make your way in the dark, to manage on your own during the early mornings when a sudden urge to throw up would call your name.

Then, a moan.

It sounded so distant that for a moment you thought you'd imagined it. In the rush of your thoughts, it might've blurred with the edge of reality, your own early griefs. Of knowing way too much. Suddenly the knocking picked up a faster rhythm, a steady creak from a piece of furniture. Springs. The same sound the couch made when your father sat down heavy after a long day of work.

You peered around the doorway.

Your mother was sweating, one hand over her own mouth. Your father's hands gripped hard at the saggy flesh of her backside, pushing her down onto him, making her take all of him. They looked at each other in the dark, like two shadows that met eyes only by accident, and she gripped the back of his neck with her other hand.

You turned away, facing the hallway wall, hiding. Your whole body was pounding, in your chest, like your heart wanted to break loose from your ribs. What you'd just seen looked like what was buried in all those browser tabs your father kept open on the living room computer, and your mother looked like those women with the huge eyes, drooling all over their bodies.

Your parents had been separated for three years already and had been sleeping in different beds for a long time. Waiting for one of them, her or him, to finally move out of the house so they could get the divorce done for good.

2 0 1 3

When your father started dying, the ICU became a second home you had to return to for as long as he stayed there. It was quiet, sealed off, cryptic. Every time someone passed you on the way to your father's room, you got a look that always seemed to mean the same thing.

Oh, so young to be in here. I'm sorry for your loss.

You were afraid of him. But even more afraid of him leaving. What was there to do once a father wasn't in the picture anymore? What definition would you take on without the one he held for you in his eyes? Maybe this was what becoming a woman looked like. Maybe these were the first steps into adulthood.

When your father was assigned a bed in the ICU, two nurses rotated shifts taking care of him, along with the doctor in charge of postponing the inevitable. One of the nurses was a beautiful woman in her forties, curly blonde hair, freckles across her nose, and deep crow's feet at the corners of her eyes that tangibly celebrated the happiness of her decades. She looked after your father during the day, chatty even with the graceless body of a father in a coma—somehow, the way she cared for him made you feel like everything would be okay.

Then there was the other one. Tall, tired by default, quiet, something gentle buried in his roughness. He barely made a sound. Unlike her, he never spoke to your father, didn't even bother greeting him. He'd just look at you when he walked in, mutter a "mornin'" and go on with his work. That's how the first few weeks in the ICU went.

Then, he turned out to be a little more human underneath the monotony.

"You haven't had anythin' to eat yet."

When you lifted your head from your notebook, you saw him pulling on a pair of latex gloves, his tired eyes fixed on you.

"I did."

"Coffee and one cracker ain't real food." he said, turning your father onto his side on the bed and uncovering his hips. He was cleaning him up, like every night. "I can get some lunch box from the kitchen." Silence. "We have plenty for patients, you use to stay here a long time" his eyes, fixed on the work he was doing, lifted for a moment and looked at you. "you're something similar to a patient."

"I'm not a patient. That's my dad." Silence. "And no, I don't want a lunchbox."

Silence.

"'Kay." He murmured, and went on with his work in silence for at least another twenty minutes.

He had something that filled the room. Gray hairs crept along his sideburns and through patches of a beard that fought the morning razor. The inevitable passing of years, years that had already worn him down, with lines carved into parts of his face, into a permanently furrowed brow.

Your eyes dropped before his could find you. A name tag on his chest read J. Miller. Then, J spoke.

"You always stay here for like ten hours. I haven't seen you near the vending machine not even once."

"I said i'm not hungry." You glanced at him, sideways. "The hospital jus'... takes away my appetite. It smells like ill all the time."

"Well, if you don't eat, you'll get ill soon too."

For a moment, something like the ghost of a smile flickered across his face. Barely there. But you felt it like an attack. Anger. Anger always rose in you fast, like boiling milk, so the second you heard him, you said:

"Are you done?" Silence. "Can you get out?"

He chewed on something hard enough to tense his jaw. Then he turned and walked out in silence. The little that lingered of his stare on you made the hair on your lower belly prickle faintly. There was a silent boundary his eyes staked into you, like a command to a K-9, like a bullfighter holding up a red cape. It hadn't taken words to knock the wind out of your sails, so when the door shut behind him, you felt the weight of green, bitter shame settle over you.

After about twenty minutes spent watching the violet veins traced under the fragile, pale skin of your father's feet, you decided to step out and let fate decide what came next. If you ran into him, you told yourself, you'd apologize; if not, you'd go back to the hospital room.

For a while, walking down the hallway, you didn't run into anyone but nurses from other rooms and other patients' relatives. At one point, turning a corner in the hallway, you spotted him in the distance. He was unmistakable, somehow. Maybe it was his height, his impassive face, his tired shoulders, his rough hands. There was something moving through him like an invisible haze only you seemed able to see.

Then you felt it. Again. Low in your belly. Like a ticklish feeling that wasn't funny at all, something close to a summer chill, the kind that makes you sigh without meaning to and then gasp for air like your lungs had forgotten how to work for five seconds. He caused it.

And he tamed it with just a look.

You turned around and went back to the room.

Two weeks later…

Olivia | 10:22 it wasn't even the hardest exam i've had tbh it was… normal.

Clara | 10:24 normal bitch it was a three hour exam

Olivia | 10:25 welcome to the real world, babe hopeee somebody answers before lunch u skipped the exam bc of your dad, right?

You | 11:01 hey yeah dad's really bad and i had to miss again school sent me an email about my absences i'll probably have to make up everything

Clara | 11:03 oh babe wanna grab food?

Olivia | 11:10 yes!! clear your head a little

Clara | 13:20 so…?

Olivia | 13:21 i don't think she's gonna answer…

You lifted your head from the crook of your arms resting on the edge of the bed when you heard a plastic thud against a surface. When you saw him, you frowned. J. Or rather, Joel, like the nurses called him out in the hallway.

Your eyes dropped to the tray of food. A plate of mashed potatoes with boiled chicken and pieces of carrot. A juice box. A small cup of jello. And him, watching you.

"Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Joel looked at you with that faint tic in his jaw. He still had on an old jean jacket, no scrubs. Just a gray t-shirt with a flannel over it and black cargo pants, boots, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He'd either just gotten in, or was on his way out.

"I ain't askin'." He said, closing the distance in a few firm steps and grabbing the tray suddenly. He yanked the lid off, grabbed the plastic fork, and dug it into the mashed potatoes, bringing it toward your face. "You wanna end up on a bed like your old man?" He leaned in, muttering through his teeth. "Eat the fuck up."

He dropped the tray onto the wooden surface and walked out of the room, letting the door shut a little too hard behind him. You picked up the plastic tray and ate, ignoring the cold in your mouth and the heat low in your belly.

Three months later that same year.

With the months, like a battery that never got changed, you slowly wore down in front of everyone, but the fact that nobody did anything about it made it feel like something you just had to get through. Again, that feeling of confusion, of getting lost in the maze of adulthood, came back. It made sense, at your age, to feel that way. But you hadn't even had enough time to really settle into your twenties before your father died and you fell straight into Joel's arms.

You couldn't say it had been inevitable, because that would be a lie. Ever since he'd started showing up with lunchboxes and spending way longer than he needed to while looking after your father, the thought had started gnawing at you—that maybe he was there more for you than for your dad.

But part of you didn't want to accept that.

There was something, back behind your brain, that shut down every hope, every sign, and looked for any way to sabotage it. Because why would anyone ever set their eyes on you?

Had you done something to deserve it?

Had you behaved?

It's pointless to even point out that idea came from your own home. It was obvious. You felt like you were only good for one thing. For your father? You were only good for that. Serving, being there, fetching things, taking care of others, and keeping your mouth shut. For your mother? For listening to her, listening to her cry over your father, not even knowing who she was without him.

But outside the family unit, did you even know what you were? What you were good for?

The night your father died was too quiet, like the whole world had heard about your pain. You didn't want to stay in the hospital waiting room, and even less in the chapel downstairs. You just ran the second you saw the look on the doctor's face when he stepped out of the room, twenty minutes after the heart attack, and bolted for the parking lot to hide in the back seat of your car.

The thick air in the car smelled like family vacations from a long time ago, arguments with your mother on the drive home, pointless tantrums kicked out from the back seat. Now, it would carry this new memory too: one that would wrap around you every time you started the car in the morning to go to college, trying not to drive out of sheer uncertainty toward a place your dad had once promised he'd leave as soon as he got better.

It felt like losing a school tournament as a kid. That collective sadness everyone feels, deeply physical, sitting in the middle of your chest, but that feels almost ridiculous to cry over. You didn't feel brave enough to cry, even though the burn was already there, sitting in your throat, looking up and waiting for permission to come out.

A few knocks on the closed window made you lift your head, and you saw a shape through the glass that had fogged up from your own breathing. When you opened it, you saw him, like he was lost, like he was expecting you to take a swing at him.

"I hear what happened." He murmured, hands stuffed in the pockets of his cotton jacket. "Have y'called someone? Your mom, siblings."

It took you a second to shake your head no. You hadn't known he even knew which car was yours. Then you shook your head again, trying to clear the mental fog threatening to leave you in shock for hours.

"You should." Joel says.

"If I do, it becomes real." You said, looking at the half-open car door. He breathed in like the air had suddenly asked his permission to come inside, and leaned against the seat behind him.

"I get it." He said, "when my daughter's accident happened, I couldn't even get past the hospital door. It would mean that things were actually bad."

You looked up. He was staring at the pavement. "Lost a leg." he murmured. "Car crash, her mom died." Silence. "She was so angry with herself, thinking it was her fault, that it should hav' been her, not her mum. It was a hard place to get a kid out of, she got really dark those years."

Silence.

"It should have been me." You said, looking away. "What am I supposed to do, huh? The stupid 'keep going for him,' is that what he would have wanted'? For fuck's sake, he had so much to do, to live. But I got him sick." You buried your face in your hands, breathing hard.

You heard the brush of his clothes as he moved, that faint joint-crack as he crouched down in front of you, pushing the car door open a little more. "How'd you get him sick?"

"He'd always said it. That I would get him death someday, with my attitude and selfish actions, and I did." You wiped your nose that started to run even if you weren't crying, yet. Like your soul trying to find a way out. "I did by being this. Always wanting so much, needing more. He said it, my ungratefulness would only get me bad things, and now it's too fucking late."

"You say it as if you're being punished by a sort of God." Joel said, and you finally met his eyes. He said it with a tone pretty close to mockery, even though you fervently believed you could be punished for wanting or asking for more. "Your father is dead because his heart was fucked up. Not because you were a bad kid."

"You don't know how bad I can be." You said, frowning at the audacity of him trying to argue against something as obvious as your own rottenness, which you could feel bleeding out through your pores right now. But Joel didn't flinch.

His eyes caught your frown. Fangs bared, claws out. Your whole body ready to start throwing drowning-man swings. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth, and you noticed his pupils blow out, just a fraction.

"Then show me." he said. Low, not a challenge, even less a taunt. There was a plea dressed up as a statement in his voice, a need he wasn't having much luck hiding. But you couldn't, you couldn't just turn cruel on command, you were too aware of yourself.

"You're not funny."

"I ain't tryin' to." Silence. "I jus' know you're hurtin', you need to put that pain somewhere and I can see it." His hand came up, settling on your knee. "Giv' it to me, I can handle it."

But how? What were you supposed to do? Start hitting him right there? Break his jaw against the ground like you would fantasize in the back of your mind when someone would make you angry? He was letting you do that?

Then Joel leaned in just far enough to press his mouth to yours, closing his eyes, and you frowned hard. This was a completely different kind of hit, it hurt in a different way, but somehow it still managed to create that same release. Did a man's mouth have the power to empty a woman's anger out of her without causing pain?

Your hands rose to the sides of his face like his skin burned too much to touch, and when he nudged his nose against yours to tip your head back slightly, your lips parted just enough to let his tongue settle against yours. He knew his way around well, how to make a body respond, how to guide the shell of a woman you were.

He kissed like time was nothing but something invented by whoever was against your peace of mind, and that mix of urgency with drops of a wiser calm made that low fire start to burn through your gut and set that spring of water running way too soon.

Joel wraps one arm around your waist, the other sliding up to the back of your neck, fitting to the shape of your head and deepening the kiss. Your tongues search for each other, recognize each other in the dark of the parking lot full of empty cars. When his mouth pulls back a little from yours, he breathes you in, and then guides you into the car as your hands tangle around his neck.

He climbs in after you, shutting the door without looking and shutting out the cold of the night, which will soon fog into heat once it's trapped between the two of you. With his mouth inches from yours, he says: "Tell me to leave…" He whispers, brushing the hair from your face. His knee works its way between yours, fitting his frame closer to you. "Tell me to get out, say it…" His nose dips under your jaw, tipping your head back and burying his face to kiss your neck, your collarbone. Mouth open.

But from you, he got none of what he pretended to want, instead, you hooked your leg over his side just as Joel's kisses climbed back up your neck to meet your mouth, and when his lips landed near yours, you traced a line of saliva over them that made a full shudder run through him against you, like a small tremor before the crack of thunder.

He feels you instinctive, clumsy, and it's killing him. Not because of any obvious inexperience or virginity, but because of the way your body responds on instinct, moving against something it doesn't know but somehow already senses promises what everyone quietly understands. He doesn't want to scare you, but his body wins out, grinding his hips against you, open beneath him, against your clothes.

His hand slides up your thigh, squeezing gently when it finds the curve of your ass. The other slips to the back of your neck, guiding you into a much filthier kiss, teeth and noses shoving for room. "God, I can feel jus' how much…" And he cuts himself off with a groan. You can feel it. The obvious erection there's no point hiding, and one he isn't apologizing for. He wants you to feel it, wants you to know what you do to him. And more than anything, he wants to bury himself in the thing you've wondered for so long if it's capable to make someone feel something.

That's when you feel this won't last, and you start to panic a little. What if he starts to feel disgusted as your taste sinks into his tongue? Would he eventually feel the bitter, rotten part of you that spills out of every inch of your skin? Would he just be putting up with it? Your hands landed quickly on Joel's ass, pulling him against you, wanting to fuse him into you as fast as you could.

The pressure makes him groan, and he drops his forehead against your chest, hooking two fingers into the waistband of your pants and stretching it out before letting go, snapping it against your skin.

"Christ." Joel pants. "You feel that?" He presses his erection against your panties, slow enough to border on cruel. "'s what you're makin' me do… This is all your fault…" he murmurs, taking your hand and guiding it to his belt. He just leaves it there for you to feel, for you to take.

"Take it if you want it so much…" He says, rolling his hips in a slow, taunting rhythm. "'s yours. You provoke it, you take it out…"

And then, those words.

"Use me…"

The impact hits like a headbutt that leaves you dizzy. How can a man like that say something like that? You? Use someone? Take something? That's not right, that's not something you do. But there he is, feeling you grip his belt with one hand while your other tries to work your own pants down.

He notices the frustration and yanks them off himself, tossing them onto the dashboard without looking. "I'll take care of it." he says, voice rough, sure. His big hands find your panties, soaked through with hot, slick heat that makes a wet sound when he tears the fabric in one pull. Your hips lift on instinct, your face goes hot, the fire in your stomach now molten, settling low in your body. When you gasp, startled, he kisses you, swallowing the sound, and his fingers finally move between your folds, not entering. Learning your shape from your trembling.

"...So fuckin' wet. You're so ready…" His fingers circle your clit, slow, rocking with just the tips.

Your moans against his mouth are burning him up with the raw need to bury himself in you without any care, but he can feel your shame in the sounds you make. Your inexperience, the way you keep trying to close your thighs. But when he feels your fingers on his belt again, the groan that comes out of him is pure want.

"That's it… Take it out, baby…" He whispers, and feels you slide the leather out of the buckle. When the belt gives and the button pops, Joel finishes yanking the belt free with a snap that cracks through the silence. When he's free in front of you, his erection sits heavy against your stomach. He doesn't force you to look at him, instead he leans in, pushing your shirt up under your arms, kissing your breasts over the fabric of your bra, biting without sinking his teeth in. For the first time in years, he prays he doesn't cum before he's even inside.

When you feel it, a heavy, wet throb against your stomach, you gently lift Joel's head so you can see him lying against your belly. Your mouth trembles as you swallow, blinking a few times. He's thick, veined, red at the tip like his own body were furious with you.

Joel takes one of your hands and guides it to his cock, letting you wrap your fingers around him, feel his weight. "'s just a body. Yours to take and use…" His other hand slides up your bare torso and hooks under the edge of your bra, pulling it down to reveal your nipple. Hard. His mouth waters, and he leans in, sucking it into his mouth. Barely biting. His self-control hanging by a thread.

Your hands sink into the back of his neck as your moans fall out of you like pleading, and once your legs wrap around him, Joel doesn't want to find a way back anymore. He pulls up for a second, looks at your body open beneath him: breasts bared, stomach rising and falling, wetness shining on your thighs, lips swollen and your hopes in his hands. He pushes his jeans down a little further, dark hair trailing up toward his navel. He spits into his hand and wraps it around himself, pumping twice while breathing through his teeth, lining himself up to your entrance.

He watches you as he traces his tip along your slit, coaxing your want open wider and wider. And he starts to push, slow. Forward, hold, back. Like he's feeding your body spoonfuls of himself. You inhale deep, feeling him. Like alcohol hitting your bloodstream. Like the car crossing the bridge. Like death entering your father's body. He enters you the way pain has entered you without permission, for years. But for the first time, something is there because you want it.

When Joel meets that barrier, soft and yielding, you rest your hands against Joel's soft stomach. But your heels press into Joel's ass. He feels that resistance, and his breathing, already a mess, catches. Something in him calls out to push hard, like a scream from the abyss. Something that wishes he didn't give a damn and could just bury himself and start pounding on you. But he doesn't.

His forehead drops against yours. "Breathe. Breathe with me." His hands take hold of your thighs, gentle, tilting the angle. "Good girl… Good girl…" He whispers. And that earns him a clench from you, "Jus' like that…" he growls against your mouth and pushes. He feels your nails in his back and your moan, something sharp and sudden that breaks the night open, makes him drop a hand between you both to give you more than just that brief sting. And he feels it, honey between his fingers, and more inner clenching that pulls him further in.

Joel brings one hand up to your chest, pinches a nipple, drops his mouth to lick it. His other hand braces against the seat, giving him leverage, and every thrust goes deeper, fuller. Your moans feel like hot rain on his sweat-soaked back, and Joel feels like he could come from that alone, from your voice, your trembling, the sheer miracle that you let him in.

When you suddenly push yourself up on your elbows, your foreheads bump lightly by accident, but you look down between your bodies with a pleasurable urgency. You're close. Very.

"Nngh! Aah!"

You look up at him through your lashes, moaning out sounds of urgency. Of need. And you look at him because he's the only one who can give it to you, the only one who can take you there.

"That's it… good girl…" he murmurs against your mouth, tongue brushing your lips. "Don't fight it. Take it. It's yours." His hips show no mercy, his voice breaking. "Come on, baby… give it to me."

The car creaks. Rocks. Wet sounds filling the silence. Joel groans. Something making its way through your body.

A cry.

"…there you are."

you were so tired of being in the car for this long that you didn’t know in what position to sit anymore. “almost there baby” joel said as he placed his hand on your thighs, caressing them with tenderness while he kept driving with the other one. You took this as an opportunity to extend your legs on his lap and start to tease him dangerously close to the crotch of his jeans “stop it” he sighed “wait until we arrive”

he looked hot as hell while driving with those sunglasses and his loose curls moving with the breeze, of course you couldn’t wait “i can’t wait joel. im not gonna stop until you pull over” you chuckled, your feet finally touching his bulge “joeeel, please please please”

his jaw tensed as he finally pulled over to the side of the road with a heavy sigh, even if deep down inside he loved your teasing “annoying brat” he said while taking off his seatbelt “so damn spoiled” he got off the car and got into the backseat, manspreading as he looked at you “Quit the attitude and come here”

“always complaining, old man” you giggled and immediately jumped into the backseat with, your mouth all over him while he guided you to lay on your back as he unzipped his pants. You didn’t wasted time with your underwear either, and by the time you were riding up your white sundress, he was already stroking himself. Thick and leaking by the tip. You pulled him by his shirt and yanked him down with you, opening your legs to make room for him. His fingers found your already wet folds, a filthy slide that made you open your mouth without wanting. Joel took advantage of this to slip his tongue on your mouth, a wet sloppy kiss that made you get even wetter. This sensation was quickly interrupted when you started to feel his dick sliding into you with a sweet sting that made your head spin. “mhm. That’s it baby, always so tight for me” he groaned, pulling out completely before thrusting back in with one deep, heavy shove that makes you moan without wanting to. Joel keeps fucking you hard, like he always does. Deep and hard movements that hit that sweet spot and a happy trail that adds friction to your clit, you can feel the climax building up, joel can feel it too “let me see how much of a good girl you are” and when you come around his pulsing length, he keeps fucking you trough the peak, slowly and carefully while you grab the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck. Then he presses a soft gentle kiss on your forehead and gets out the car to sit on the driver seat again as he started the engine again. You smile and crawl back to the passenger side, spreading your legs back on his lap, his free hand returning to them “You wanted my attention so bad and you've got it. Now wait until the hotel brat”

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.