join me in sin! •beefro’s fic recs•

FicRec blog for BeefroBeefcal

[beefros-sin-bin]

Welcome to the SinBin! @beefrobeefcal's FicRec side blog.

Omegaverse fic recs:

PPCU fics:

Honey, Stomach, Mine by @netherfeildren (alpha!Joel Miller x f!reader)

of rage and ruin by @corazondebeskar (werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader)

Kinktober 2022: A/B/O - Frankie Morales by @absurdthirst (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

Not an Alpha by @absurdthirst (Dieter Bravo x f!reader)

Alpha by @oliveksmoked (Triple Frontier x f!alpha!reader)

Unexpectedly Mated by @absurdthirst (alpha!Mando x f!omega!reader)

The Devil's Backbone by ezrasbirdie (alpha!Frankie Morales x f!omega!reader)

Stay with Me by miss_anthr0pe (alpha!Dave York x omega!f!reader)

Alone and Forsaken by @emisprocrastinatingbywriting (alpha!Joel Miller x omega!f!reader)

Non-PPCU fics:

highway don't care (but i do, i do) by spacelabrathor (alpha!Thor x f!omega!reader - MCU)

Misery I Need by mwestbell (James 'Bucky' Barnes x Steve Rogers - MCU)

Be it Fahrenheit or Centigrade by twelves_pastels (Erik Lehnsherr x Charles Xavier - X-Men: First Class)

All You Ever Needed to Know About Knotting by orphan_account (Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski - Teen Wolf)

Mix and Match by Jerakeen (Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski - Teen Wolf)

I Know You're a Mistake I Won't Regret by LunaCanisLupus_22 (Steve McGarrett x Danny 'Danno' Williams - Hawaii Five-0)

Wage Your War by Della19 (Will Graham x Hannibal Lecter - Hannibal)

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood by @soaps-mohawk (TF141 x omega!reader - COD)

Have a fic you want to recommend in this AU? Let me know!

[lotusbxtch]

What's The Magic Word?

A Santiago in the Tub Challenge fic

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x f!Reader Word count: 4.4k Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI!

Summary: You and Santi make use of the huge bathtub with a sexy challenge — but what comes out of his mouth is a surprise.

Warnings/tags: course language, striptease, dom!Reader, sub!Santi, pre-established safeword rules, sex toy use, orgasm denial (like… a lot), oral (f receiving), bathtub sex (obviously, that’s the theme of the damn challenge lol), unprotected PIV (be smart! don’t do this!), overstimulation, fluff and emotions because it’s me, untranslated Spanish (sentences and pet names/nicknames), Santi’s bum knees are referenced. Reader is described as having breasts and female genitalia, is able-bodied, but is otherwise undescribed. 

a/n: thank you for your patience while I got this together! I rang in the new year by writing Santi smut, and honestly, I couldn’t think of a better way to do it. Thanks to @beefrobeefcal and @for-a-longlongtime for co-hosting this challenge, to @mountainsandmayhem and @for-a-longlongtime for beta-reading and reminding me to “just write it already!!!”, and for @sin-djarin for screaming at the excerpts I sent her lol. Much love to everyone who has participated in the challenge thus far, those reading our works, and if you haven’t jumped in but want to – take this as your invitation to join us! (Click the challenge title above to go to the main info post.)

Oh, and big thanks to Santiago Garcia for being A DAMN MENACE jfc maybe I can get some rest now…

(dividers/banners by @saradika-graphics)

MASTERLIST

After 5 hours of driving, you and Santiago reached the Santa Barbara boutique hotel you’d be spending the weekend in — your first getaway together. The nervousness and excitement traveled through your limbs when you climbed out of his car, but mellowed into pure joy when you spotted your accommodations.

“Finally,” you nearly moan in relief when you swing open the door to your suite. You run, jump, and flop onto the bed flamboyantly, making Santi chuckle and shake his head. 

He’d wanted to spring for the casita-style suite since it had no shared walls, while you’d squealed with delight at the enormous spa bathtub. “We can finally have a soak together!” you’d exclaimed, followed quickly by a playful slap to his shoulder when he wiggled his eyebrows and mentioned the other things you two could get up to in it. 

Santi toes off his sneakers at the doorway, walks inside with both of your bags, and sits on the side of the bed with a dramatic sigh. “Must be so hard being Passenger Princess,” he quips, and you stick your tongue at him with fake derision. “Just snacking and controlling the playlist.”

“I had the very important job of navigating, I’ll have you know,” you grouse playfully. “Without me, you’d be lost.”

“You mean without Google Maps? Because if you didn’t use it, you would definitely be lost,” he titters.

Rolling your eyes then grinning, you roll over towards him and bite his plush buttcheek.

“Malo,” he warns, then swats your ass in retaliation before you can block him.

Giggling, you nod your head towards the bathroom. “I’ll unpack our things. You get in first, baby,” you nudge. “Your knees need it.” You scooch towards him to kiss each kneecap, and he smiles softly at you. 

“Damé un beso,” he orders, so you purse your lips as he leans down and kisses you gently. He pulls away, biting your lip with a playful little growl, then flashes that easy smile that melts your bones before getting up and sauntering towards the other room. You watch his plump ass sway invitingly in his black jeans. He never fails to distract you with it, and he knows it - because he glances back quickly before impishly winking and throwing his olive green button up at you, eliciting a riot of giggles that you attempt (but fail) to smother with your hand.

You are so gone for this man, it’s nearly embarrassing. 

You and Santiago met when your childhood best friend, Francisco, invited him to play billiards with the two of you on a humid summer night. You’d just moved back home from the East Coast, and Frankie had dragged him out, determined to inject some levity into his life after a particularly crushing mission abroad. You never asked Santi about it directly, but you knew from Frankie that he’d been trying to help the Columbian government clean up the narcos, until he discovered that the people he was helping were just as ingrained in the corruption as the criminals they were supposedly hunting. It made the distant, haunted look he got on his face when he thought you weren’t looking make sense. He was an emotional flight risk, not wanting labels, but craving connection despite being terrified of it. That night, after Frankie left, he pressed you against the side of his car, kissing and grinding into you feverishly while you gasped his name into his neck. You left hickeys that Frankie teased him mercilessly about; but separately, Frankie warned you that Santi might run if you tried to get too serious, even if he seemed happier than he’d been in awhile after your billiards night. So you’d approached him with a no-strings-attached setup that worked for you, too, not sure if you’d be setting roots back home or relocating again. 

That was eight months ago, and now Santiago has carved a place into your heart, and you could see he feels the same way. Neither of you are dating or sleeping with other people. He hasn’t told you outright that he loves you yet, but you feel it with every reverent drag of his fingers across your curves; the way he kisses the tip of your nose to wake you up every morning you begin in his sheets; by the pride clear on his face when you beat him in Mario Kart for once; and the way he breathes your scent in at the nape of your neck when he falls asleep spooning you from behind. You don’t push him, not wanting to rush things, but you try to convey your emotions in your actions as well.

The squeak of the faucet as Santi finishes filling the bath brings you back to the present. He’s been teasing you all day, but not indulging you fully, and it’s got your desire for him roaring through your veins. You hear him get in, sighing loudly, and decide exactly how you’re going to exact your revenge. Shuffling through your luggage, you smile when you find just the thing you need, palming it before walking towards your man.

When your feet hit the cool Mediterranean tiled floor of the bathroom, your senses immediately sing at the sight in front of you. Santi reclines in the tub, strong bronze shoulders peeking out of the water that is fragrant with your favorite bath oil. His broad chest rises and falls gently; a warm wet washcloth lays over his handsome face. His troublesome knees are barely submerged, and your breath quickens slightly as you notice the dark thatch of hair between his thighs under the surface of the water. When he shifts positions slightly, it breaks the spell you’re under, and you slink closer to him. But before you can reach him, he teases, “Are you gonna join me or just stand there staring? It’s actually kind of rude.”

Snorting out a laugh, you bend down, kissing his hairline daintily, and he hums in response, the washcloth still on his face. You peel back the fabric from one side, kissing his eyelid. Santi blinks it open a second later.

“Well?” he presses, then arches the exposed eyebrow. 

Your lips curve into a wry smile. “Thought you might like a show first,” you suggest and drop the clit suction toy in your hand on the bath mat. Santi rolls the rest of the washcloth off his face in clear interest with that mischievous sparkle in his eyes you love so much.

You grab his phone, putting on The Chain by Fleetwood Mac, then set it back down and move towards the tub. As the first beats of the song exit the speaker, you sway your body to the music. Your hips undulate, hands caressing your curves. Santiago sits back in the tub with a widening smirk on his face and eyes becoming increasingly dark. Your fingers slip under the waistband of your leggings, then you spin around with your back to him and start to slowly shimmy them down. The stretchy maroon material pools at your ankles, revealing a black lace thong, and you step out to kick them away. Looking over your shoulder at your man, your hands slide up to the globes of your ass, lifting and squeezing them. Santi growls lowly, water churning quietly as he shifts in the tub, and one glance down confirms that his cock is rapidly hardening. 

Next comes your thin, white crop t-shirt, teasingly stripped off your torso and thrown onto the floor. When you turn, Santi eyes your nude lace bralette.

“Fuck, bebita,” he groans, moving to stroke himself underwater. “Your nipples are so fucking hard.”

Your fingertips caress the buds, and you shiver slightly at the contact. “They’re always like that around you, baby,” you croon. “They just want attention.” Walking over to the tub, you gently drop to your knees so your chest is level with his face.

Santi’s eyes lock on yours. “I can help with that,” he purrs, then leans down and takes a stiff peak between his lips, sucking through the delicate material. A gasp escapes your mouth, head tipping back in pleasure. Santi’s hands cup the meat of your breasts, moving to slip your other nipple between his teeth, gently biting down. You moan wantonly while he continues to tease you.

“Take it off,” he commands, so you rip the offending garment over your head and throw it across the room. 

Santi chuckles. “So eager.” Before you can form a retort, his hot tongue licks at your chest again and the words get caught in your throat. He sucks and bites, moans directly into your pebbling skin, until you’re trembling with desire.

He pulls off of your breast with a pop. “Come here, let me taste you,” he murmurs.

You shake your head. “Your knees,” you protest. 

Santi’s eyebrow cocks up and he smiles wickedly. “Oh, I’m not gonna be the one on my knees, baby,” he teases, then grabs your hips to guide you into the tub.

“Santi, what are you —“ you start, then realize what he wants when he moves you to place your knees on either side of his head, resting them on the wide, plush bath pillow at the edge of the tub.

You laugh incredulously. “You need it that bad?” 

He responds with a wet slap to your ass. You moan, slick already starting to gather between your thighs. Santi slides the gusset of your thong to the side, exposing your pussy. “No, you clearly need it that badly,” he rumbles. He looks up at your glistening cunt, parting your lips with his thumbs, and inhaling your scent audibly. You whine.  “Pobrecita,” he mocks. “Look at how soaked you are for me already.”

All you can do is pant in anticipation. When he licks a hot, wide stripe right through your center, you keen and tilt your head back. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” Santi asks rhetorically, a fingertip tickling your sensitive clit and making you twitch.

“Of course I liked it, cabron,” you fire back, frustrated at the way he drags things out. A swift swat to your pussy stings but simultaneously makes pleasure skitter down your spine. 

“Watch your mouth,” Santi warns, then bites the inside of one thigh. 

“I’m trying to watch yours on me,” you grumble, then grab his curls to move his mouth directly onto your pussy. Your taste has him growling, completely giving up on the teasing when he’s drowning in your essence -- the complete opposite reaction you thought he’d have to being manhandled.

You hiss through your teeth at the contact and his slippery tongue working inside of you. His eyes glaze over as he looks up at you. “Fuck, you did want it bad,” you gasp. His hands come up out of the water to grip the fat of your buttocks to spread you wider for his exploration.

Santi has always been an enthusiastic lover, but your jaw drops at the way he gives himself up wholly to pleasuring you right now. The heat of his mouth soothes the ache while simultaneously stoking the fire inside your belly. Your hips rock and wind to the rhythm of the CCR song now playing from the speakers, grinding down on his tongue and gripping those gorgeous silvering curls for purchase. He’d started to grow his hair out, and getting to yank on them in the throes of passion has been particularly sexy to you.

“So goddamn pretty like this,” you pant, and he moans into you in response. His tongue spears into you for a moment, making you cry out, then he moves his mouth back up to your throbbing clit. 

He flicks it with his tongue, and more juices trickle out of you at the stimulation. “You should see my view,” he counters and nudges the bundle of nerves with the tip of his nose. “Looking like a goddess up there, bebita.” Santi reaches two of his fingers towards your mouth, which you eagerly suck in and swirl your tongue around. His eyes turn a shade darker.

“Give it to me,” he demands, then slips both spit-slick fingers into your pussy while sucking your clit into his mouth. A whine escapes your lips and you tighten your fingers against his scalp, chasing the high Santi is coaxing from you. 

“Santi,” you moan, “I –”

Before you can finish your sentence, you squeal when your orgasm rips through your body. Pleasure ricochets down your limbs while your legs shake from the intensity. Santi groans in response, suckling your bundle of nerves steadily and pumping his fingers into you rhythmically to draw out the waves while steadying you with his other hand. Your slick runs sticky sweet and unctuous down his palm and forearm. He burrows his face further into you greedily. Strong brows furrowed in concentration, he doesn’t let up until you beg him to stop.

“Good fucking girl,” Santi praises and helps you ease off of the ledge and into the warm, soothing bath water. You straddle his lap, then surge forward to kiss him deeply, moaning again at the taste of yourself on his tongue. 

“Just as good at licking pussy as you are at running your damn mouth,” you giggle.

Santi bites your lip playfully and laughs. “Malo,” he warns again, then presses his mouth to yours for another kiss. The intensity ratchets up as the two of you continue making out, hips seeking friction against each other’s flesh. Santi’s cock catches your clit momentarily, igniting a flurry of pleasure-soaked noises from the two of you, and both of you scramble to remove your wet thong and slide him inside of you. When he breaches your entrance, you gasp and immediately sink down on him. 

“Now who’s desperate?” Santi pants teasingly. His lopsided grin quickly melts into slack-jawed awe when you clench around his entire length.

“Still you,” you reply, breathless and squirming, feeling him punching the air from your lungs with the exquisite stretch of him inside you. You smirk when you pull a groan from him in response to you winding your hips in a circle while keeping him buried deep. “Always you.” 

You let your body follow the rhythm of the music, massaging Santi’s length with your slick walls and lighting up your nerves with each pass. Soon, he’s punching up into you to the beat, your heady moans adding sultry background vocals. After a bit, though, you notice him wincing.

You stop your movements immediately. “Santi, it’s your knees, isn’t it?”

He glares a bit at you, but acquiesces. “Yeah, damn things hate long road trips.”

Your hand cups his heavily-stubbled jaw. “Baby boy, can you be good for me?” you ask him, and he nods compliantly. “Can you sit still and hold off on coming until I say so? If it becomes too much, just say our safeword, but I want to see how long you let me take control.”

He scoffs a bit, but you can see the once again glazed look in his eyes, so you know you’ve got him right where you want him. “You can’t make me break, even if you want to,” he jabs at you. A wicked smirk graces your lips.

“You underestimate me at your peril, Garcia,” you retort smoothly. His hands come to your hips, fingertips dragging down from the flare of your waist, dimpling your wet, plush curves with desire. 

He smiles challengingly right back. “Do your worst.”

You lean over to the bath mat and grab the suction toy, turning it on low before positioning it over your clit. A hiss escapes your mouth as pleasure skitters down your center. Santi moans gently, eyes getting heavily hooded but still on you. As the music transitions into the next song, your hips wind and rock to the beat, the pulses on your bundle of nerves making the stretch of his cock inside you rocket you closer and closer to your second orgasm. When you click the suction up a notch, you clench on him, and he grunts in pleasure.

“Pretty little pussy is squeezing me so tight,” he purrs, the twitch of his fingers on your hips betraying his desire to pummel into you exactly how you like.

But this isn’t about what he wants.

You tut at him. “Be… good,” you remind him in between heavy breaths while you work yourself on him. The pleasure begins gathering in the base of your spine, melting and pooling, and you know you’re close.

“Let me see you break, baby,” he coos, pinching and rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. The extra stimulation triggers your second release with gasps and a cry of his name into his neck. Santi clenches his jaw as your cunt locks down on his shaft through the waves, trying to milk his own release from him. He murmurs sweet filth in your ear, telling you how good you’re being, how gorgeous you sound when you come. As your shaking subsides, he tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger and kisses you deeply, licking into your mouth with a moan. 

“That’s one,” he states, breaking from your lips. His eyes glitter when he asks, “How many more do you think you can give me?”

You huff, slightly out of breath from your orgasm. “How many does big, bad Santiago Garcia think he can take?”

His smile turns feline. “You’re always the one to beg first.”

“I’m going to bring you to your deteriorating knees, pendejo.”

Santi didn’t realize how serious you were being.

Sweat drips down your temples as your moans bounce off of the walls of the tiled room. It’s been three hours of sweet torture for him and hedonistic indulgence for you. The bath water has been partially drained and refilled to refresh the heat. There’s been a rollercoaster of action in the tub — bouts of frenzied bouncing, screaming, and body-shaking orgasms interspersed with long moments of motionless cockwarming and slow, sensual kisses. You’ve built Santi up so many times just to deny him of sweet relief. For a while, he was grinding his cock into you, spitting filthy words to get you to come. But now? Santi is nothing but a buzzing, trembling mess.

You’re coming off of your fifth orgasm, your bones gradually becoming jelly, but you can feel the next one building in your core. Suddenly, Santi’s hands grip the sides of the tub, and his eyes flash desperately. 

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna…” he warns.

You immediately shoot off of Santi’s lap, and the frustrated groan he grits out from between his clenched teeth makes you giggle a little. Glancing down, you notice his cock is an angry red, flushed with heat at the tip, twitching erratically. He curses at you in Spanish, so you tut playfully, then weave your fingers through his hair and tug his head back harshly. Santi is so gone, he whimpers.

“Nuh uh,” you chide, looking down at him from above. “You told me you could handle this, and I didn’t say we’re through, nor did you use your safeword. So quit your bitching or I’ll leave you high and dry for the night.”

Santi breathes deeply, glossy eyes closing, attempting to center himself. Then he nods.

Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac starts playing. You take your place astride him again, this time flipping around to face the foot of the tub, then slide him deep inside of you. Another pathetic whimper erupts from his lips.

“Oh, pobrecito,” you tease and look back, relishing the thick stretch of him, his cock kicking at your words. “Need to come?” He nods rapidly, eyes wide and dark, perspiration pearling at his hairline as well. 

You lean back towards him, arching your back up seductively and resting your head on his shoulder. Then, you whisper, “Too bad. Get through one more orgasm and tell me just how much you’re enjoying it, and I might let you come.” Santi grunts affirmatively, needing his release so badly that you feel his limbs shaking.

You start to rock yourself on him again, one of Santi’s hands planted on the flare of your hip, the other grabbing your suction toy from you. Stevie Nick’s gritty voice floats through the air. The pleasure nearly overtakes him for a moment. He moans yearningly, throwing his head back, pleasure and agony etched across his gorgeous face.

“Santi, baby,” you croon, keeping your eyes on him over your shoulder. “Tell me exactly what you like about me riding your cock.”

He pants heavily into your ear, eyelids still shut. “The way you feel… the sounds… fuck… you make…” His words taper off as your cunt tightens on him.

You tsk at him and still your motions. “C’mon, Garcia, you can do better than that.” He opens his eyes to a smirk plastered across your face. You expect him to sass back, but he surprises you when his expression melts into nothing but softness. 

“You feel like hot velvet,” he rasps out. “Like you were made specifically to drive me out of my mind. I love feeling your silky thighs draped over mine. The pebbling of your nipples when they get hard. The plushness of your lips on mine when you’re moaning into my mouth. The heat of your tongue against my neck.” 

He swallows hard, eyes searching yours before continuing. “I’m obsessed with the different moans you make. There’s that first little quick one, when you line yourself up to my cock. Then there’s the deep, throaty one you do when you sink down on me all the way.” 

His hand drags down his face, losing himself in his thoughts. “Then there are the surprised, sharp ones you do when I hit that spot in you. Doesn’t matter if I know exactly where it is and so do you… you always sound surprised when we find it.” He chuckles a little. “Never fails to puff up my confidence.”

Your lips part in awe at this man; this perfect, observant man, clocking you in the most intimate, miniscule, meaningful ways. “What else?” you breathe.

“There’s a rough moan you do when your clit is first rubbed after I’m inside you,” he tells you. “It sounds like you’re breaking a little.”

You nod and begin moving on him again. “Don’t stop,” you whimper. You turn forwards again and rest your head back on his shoulder.

Santi nods in a trance, holding you to him while lightly dragging the clit sucker up your thighs. You shiver in anticipation.

“That, right there,” he moans. “I love feeling you shake for me. Can’t get enough. Can’t get over that it’s me making you do that.” His cock twitches inside you again, and your pussy clenches in response. Santi moves the toy to your bundle of nerves and holds it steady; you cry out sharply as it latches on.

He lets out a pained groan. “Fuck, bebita,” he curses. “I love feeling you lose control. I love hearing you lose control.”

Right now, that’s exactly what you’re doing. Santi clicks the suction power up a level, making you keen in ecstasy. You rise and fall faster on his shaft, grasping the sides of the tub, the water splashing precariously. It feels like your cells are gathering at your core. They hum in suspense. You’re waiting for the drop.

And when it hits you? It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. Atoms rearrange themselves into radiant heat and pleasure. You sob out Santi’s name. You moan. You writhe. Tears roll down your cheeks.

When the high ebbs slightly, you hear Santi’s tortured cry as he pushes you off of his lap and desperately squeezes the base of his shaft, willing himself not to come. Your cunt throbs at the sight, but you wait until he opens his eyes again to say anything.

“Good boy,” you praise hoarsely, and you see a shiver wrack his body. 

Gingerly straddling over his painfully hard cock and dropping the clit sucker to the bathmat, you cup his face with both hands. His eyes close momentarily, but when they reopen, they’re red-rimmed and glassy once more. 

“Say the magic word and you can come,” you tell him. He’s silent, just staring at you. Confused, you repeat, “What’s the magic wo–”

“I love you.”

You let out a tiny gasp. Did he just –

“I love you,” he repeats, desperation edging his tone. “Please, I love you.” A tear slips down his cheek. “Please.”

“Santiago,” you exhale, kissing him fiercely. Without a word, you slip yourself back down onto his length, and the both of you moan into each other’s mouths. All the months of holding yourself back, all the longing, every moment you had to tell yourself not to say it yet, you don’t want to scare him off… all of that comes crashing down with every roll of your hips, every whimper he lets out, the tears now streaking down your own face. You take him over and over; you pour every ounce of love and devotion you have in you into him. Arms wrap around each other, binding yourselves together with the rhythm of your bodies.

You rest your forehead against his as another release shimmers along your nerves, tipping closer to the edge with every brush of the curls between his thighs to your overstimulated clit. “Santi,” you beg, “come for me.”

Santi whines brokenly, locking his gaze to yours. You nod affirmatively; he thrusts deeply one more time before his eyes roll back and a shout escapes his mouth. The moment you feel his searing cum filling you, your own orgasm is triggered, and your cunt milks his throbbing cock, prolonging the waves of pleasure for you both. Without warning, your body gives out a bit, and you collapse onto Santi’s chest. Both of you heave labored breaths while coming down from your highs. Your head feels fuzzy from the rush of sensations and emotions.

When you pull back to sit up, his eyes are the most vulnerable they’ve ever been. After a moment, he looks away, the tiny glimmer of rejection and fear in them squeezing your heart. You grip his chin between your thumb and forefinger to force him to meet your gaze, then wrap your arms around him. He lets out a shuddering breath of relief.

“That’s not the magic word, pendejo,” you laugh breathlessly, “but goddamn, will it do. I fucking love you, too.” 

Tags: @penvisions @campingwiththecharmings @missdictatorme @almostempty @almostfoxglove @h4untedsp3ctor @kokoluwie @whocaresstillthelouvre @perotovar @cosmickid-inmotion @qveerthe0ry @sp00kymulderr @arcane-fox @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @ivystoryweaver @simpingforjoel @reallyrallyauthor @rhapsodyofdarkness @kedsandtubesocks @baronessvonglitter @gothcsz @oonajaeadira @jessthebaker @ghotifishreads @ghostofaboy @musings-of-a-rose @absurdthirst @wardenparker @dizthemonster @evolnoomym @faretheeoscar @grandtheftaristotle @gasolinerainbowpuddles @hoeruiness @im-poe-dameron @julesonrecord @lavendertales @max--phillips @ozarkthedog @writefightandflightclub @wannab-urs @yopossum @yorksgirl

[beefros-sin-bin]

first of all:

Rolling your eyes then grinning, you roll over towards him and bite his plush buttcheek.

thank you for this.

Secondly, yes. YES YES YES YES YES YES YES.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Six of Wands

Rating: Mature. Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Female Reader Summary: It's awards night and you're Dieter's good luck charm. Warnings: small dash of smut remembering, body insecurity made better by dieter, celebrity things, dieter being dieter in the best possible way Words: 2,300

Happy holidays @missredherring! Surprise! I'm your Secret Santa for the Brainrot Exchange. I took some of your prompts you supplied and mixed them together to make this story. I hope you like it and appreciate the references to some of the things I see that you like, and this time of year brings you lots of comfort and joy.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

The role took Dieter away from you for three months, sure there were a couple of long weekend breaks, and a few stamps added to your passport, but the distance and time seemed to stretch for far too long…. especially in the early days of your relationship.

Dieter’s been your boyfriend for a little less than two years, fresh off a divorce and a couple of box office bombs. Just a few months into your relationship, he was offered the perfect role to help everyone forget about those damned Cliff Beasts. Moonlight Plains. The story of a down-on-his-luck and burnt-out by the big city man who inherits his grandfather’s farm in a quaint, rural town and restarts his life.

At first, he didn’t want to take it, believing himself not to be the right fit, but you insisted after reading the script, the vulnerability you see in him every day, the way he wears his big heart on his sleeve, would be a perfect fit for the character.

“Dee, this is exactly what your career—and you—need,” you had told him. “You’ll be brilliant in this.”

So, Dieter happily took the role, even if it meant he’d be halfway across the globe from you in some quaint English village filming. But, it was well worth it… the reviews were stellar, the tickets sold, and soon, the award nominations came pouring in.

And because of that, now you’re here, in the fancy hotel suite, fidgeting and stressed. The silk feels restrictive against your body, and you sigh, pinching the fabric away from you. You’re too busy obsessing over the way the fabric lands against parts of your body, ignoring the fact that your hair is perfectly styled, your makeup showcases your best features, and you’re clad in shiny jewelry.

“Baby,” Dieter sighs. “Stop.”

He bounds over, only clad in black boxer briefs. His large hands, covered in rings of various values from cheap to expensive, come to rest against your stomach, rubbing against the silk.

He steers you toward the mirror. The two of you inside the pane, your dress, a dark, midnight blue, smattered in glittering stars, shines against your skin. Dieter’s reflection is large behind you, broad and grinning, his hands still at your waist.

“You look fucking amazing, baby,” he whispers.

“You have to say that,” you protest, even as you lean into him.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a wink. "But I want to.”

His eyes roam your body reflected in the mirror, a hand moving down to run along the high slit that exposes your thigh.

You know you’re stepping out of your comfort zone for the awards show, showing up with your movie star boyfriend to the event, clad in a revealing, tight dress. Sure, you’re nervous for tonight, knowing just how many cameras will be on you and the silky blue fabric you wear, but the way Dieter looks at you, with reverence and awe, his brown eyes greedy to take in all of your curves, sure as hell helps let the self-esteem demons stay behind the gate. 

"I’m gonna be looking at you all night, just thinking about how much I’m going to want to see you out of this dress. Not even going to pretend to be subtle about it.”

You roll your eyes, and he catches you.

“Stop that, or we’ll ditch the awards show, and I’ll get you out of this dress now.”

You chuckle. “No. Now get ready. We need to go.”

He sighs, reluctantly letting you go, before he finishes getting his tux on.

Dieter always had a way of taking any and every insecurity you held and wrapping them with warmth and acceptance, almost laughing at the ridiculousness that you would ever second-guess how good you looked or how attractive he found you. His unshakeable confidence always does its best to barricade your negative thoughts.

He transforms from your half-dressed flirt of a boyfriend to your debonair movie star boyfriend when he tosses his tailored suit jacket on. He’s in a dark sapphire made to match your dress, a cluster of gold stars across the cuffs and collar.

He tousles his hair with his hand and gives you that sly smirk that stole your heart all those years ago.

“Ready?” you ask. “You'd better say yes, or I’m going to rip that dress off of you,” he whispers in your ear. “Don’t care how much I’ll have to pay the designer for it.”

You shiver and grab your purse, before you end up being unable to say no to taking him up on the offer.

—-

As the limo approaches the auditorium, sidewalks grow busier, people bustling back and forth, trying to get a glimpse of celebs dressed in their finest duds. The anxiety begins to peak, you’re unsure of how you’re going to be perceived, if Dieter’s fans will like you dressed like this, if your under-eye concealer is already caking. You grip Dieter’s hand tight, and he squeezes back, glancing over at you, sunglasses propped on the edge of his nose, and he winks.

“You look great, baby,” he whispers. “Stop worrying.”

People know you’re together… hell, your face has adorned plenty of tabloid covers with him, and his fans do tend to love you, but there’s still that voice in the back of your head, trying to dim your joy and Dieter’s big night. But when Dieter leans over, pressing his face into the crook where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing the exposed skin there, you sigh and let Dieter’s touch mute the negativity.

The limo parks, and you take a steeling breath, Dieter kisses your cheek before he slides across the leather seat, and the door opens to a press of camera flashes and the shriek of fans. You freeze as Dieter unfolds himself from the car and reaches back to you, palm open and waiting. You take it, letting the warmth of his hand pull you out. You step out and instantly feel the collective inhale as every head turns your way. Your path is lined by camera flashes, and lenses of all sizes follow you and Dieter down the red carpet.

Dieter’s arm wraps around you, his hand planting against your back, rubbing soothing circles against the silk as you make your way towards the doors that beckon you away from the crowds.

But first, you must conquer the dreaded spot Dieter told you all about. You stand over the mark, a gold star in the middle of the carpet, the spot where the flashes of cameras are so overwhelming you’re sure your eyes will never recover. Some of the crowd awws as they watch Dieter dote over you, bending down to straighten the train of your dress before he rises and kisses your cheek. You put your best, practiced smile on, praying your lip liner is still flawless as cameras click and flashes spark. 

The cool ease of Dieter helps calm you, and when you step away to allow him his moment in the spotlight, he smiles over at you, soothing you with the deepening dimple on his cheek and his confidence.

After a nod and a “we good?” is mouthed by Dieter to the faction of cameras, he strides towards you and takes your hand, squeezing hard.

When the handlers usher you forward and through the gilded golden doors of the theatre, you breathe a sigh of relief.

The theatre is opulent, famous people in fancy dresses galavanting around, and the whole space smells delicious and expensive. You cling to Dieter’s elbow in the press of designer gowns and tuxes before finding your assigned seats. Dieter’s sat in the second row, right on the aisle. You hope it’s a good sign for his chances of winning.

He sits, confident and cool, his arm resting on the back of your chair, designer sunglasses still covering his eyes. His fingers brush against the bare skin of your shoulder, toying with the strap of your dress. You get lost in his touch, letting Dieter’s languid, easy movements pass the time.

There’s a nervous hum amongst the crowd, and when the lights dim and the spotlight lights the host, Dieter leans in and kisses your cheek.

You laugh at the host’s jokes, and you smile at the way Dieter’s practically leaning his face into your shoulder for most of the awards show.

There’s a parade of winners, glitzy montages, and self-satisfied speeches. Finally, towards the end of the show, Dieter’s category is projected in gold letters on the screen.

The handsome actor who won last year steps to the mic and reads out the names of the nominees, and of course, Dieter’s name is last.

You’d expect his knee to be bouncing nervously, or he’d be fidgeting like he always does, even when he’s doing something as mundane as watching TV, but he’s suave and chill, smiling at the camera focused on his face when his clip is shown, and his name is announced.

It’s like he was made for the spotlight. Maybe it’s his ability to walk into a room and make everyone in it fawn for him, or maybe it’s the way he always exudes a lackadaisical self-assuredness… either way, you can feel the world’s eyes on him right as last year’s winner steps back up to the microphone and opens the envelope.

“And the award goes to… Dieter Bravo.”

A ruckus of cheers and applause clatters off the gold auditorium walls. You pop out of your seat, while Dieter slowly rises in a daze. Maybe he was so cool all night because he didn’t expect at all to win, the whole it was just an honor to be nominated thing. But, the winner–your winner–turns to you, wide, toothy, dimple deepening smile, and he grabs you, gathering you in his arms and kisses you, hard… with tongue for all to see, before he pulls away and heads to the stage, leaving you weak kneed and panting, reminding yourself there’s still an imposing camera to your side.

You take your seat, the adrenaline of joy and pride almost making you dizzy. Dieter looks fucking amazing under the bright lights of the stage, truly like a golden sun, surrounded by the deep blue atmosphere and stars of his suit. Tears spring in your eyes when he takes the statue and beams widely over at you. Your superstar, award-winning boyfriend.

“Oh my fucking Go-oooo-d,” he growls into the microphone. The hair on your neck stands at the familiar rasp of Dieter’s voice. You just heard the way he prayed those words this afternoon, his cock seated deep inside, hands gripping your hips as you rode him. Your thighs tighten, your core clenching. You’re almost pissed at him for having to say THOSE words.

But now’s not the time, Dieter’s just pulled the crumpled-up note of names you insisted he write down.

“Thank you to all the important people, but most of all,” he groans your name, just like he breathed it this morning. Fuck, he knows what he’s doing. Your stomach flips, and you try to subtly adjust in your seat as best you can, damning the camera focused on your face, trying to get the best doting partner reaction shot. “Baby,” he groans again, “you are my world, always there for me, always loving me. I wouldn’t have this award if it wasn’t for you. You’re the best girlfriend I could ever ask for. I love you so much…” Fuck, he growls your name again, and your head wants to tilt back from the storm of lust and pride inside you.

To everyone else watching, they’ll just chalk Dieter’s low rasp of his voice up to his famous bedroom voice, the low rumble in the way he sometimes speaks… but to you… you know exactly what he’s doing, he’s reminding you of all the times he’s moaned your name.

Dieter lifts the statue before he turns and moves off the stage, headed for the winner’s room, where he’ll surely charm and dazzle the interviewers, photographers, and fellow winners. And finally, once the camera turns away from you, you allow yourself to smile wide and let a tear fall down your cheek. Damn him.

There’s only one more winner left, and it’s Best Film. A montage of movies is shown on the screen, and your favorite clip from Moonlight Plains is chosen for the spotlight. Dieter, handsome as hell in his overalls, waking up the first day at the farm, stepping out of the small home, taking in the sight of the fields covered in overgrown weeds, rocks, and tree branches. He plays it perfectly, from the furrow of his brows to the way his hand twitches at his side, as his character comes to terms with the situation he finds himself in.

You’ve never been prouder of him, especially when the envelope is opened, and Moonlight Plains is excitedly heralded as the winner. Dieter’s co-star, the sweet-as-pie actor who plays the gruff, depressed love interest to Dieter’s character, rises next to you and hugs you before he heads to the stage along with the rest of the cast and crew. Dieter shuffles back from the backstage, obviously pulled from the parade of interviews, and smiles widely at you from the stage before the director hugs him.

The director thanks all the people Dieter should have thanked, aka the producers and other money movers and shakers of the industry, before he steps aside to give Dieter the mic again.

Dieter leans over, his eyes meeting yours. “I think next time I’m here, you’ll be my wife,” he says into the microphone, pointing right at you with a cocky smile and wink. The audience gasps and applauds, and you sit there frozen. The entertainment shows and tabloids are going to have a heyday with this. 

[beefros-sin-bin]

I want to hug you and I want to hug Dieter. A big old hug fest at my place at 7.

God you just know the right things to say to me in a fic!

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

'Tis The Damn Season

Pre-Outbreak Joel Miller x Ex-High School Sweetheart Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)  Summary: It's been ten years since you've been back to Austin. Ten years since you said goodbye to your first love Joel Miller, and chased your dreams all the way to California. Now, back home for the holiday, you walk into a tree lot and find that some things never change, especially the way your body and heart yearns for Joel. Or, you spend Christmas weekend reconnecting with Joel Miller. Warnings: smut in the most yearning and savoring way, protected sex, oral (m & f), 69, slight biting/hickeys, cum eating, truck sex, titanic hand reference, drinking, spot the taylor swift song lyrics again, a somewhat happy ending, joel miller best dad award, tommy miller being sweet in the special way he is, takes place around 1997 so writer tried to keep it as time appropriate with cell phones, can you tell how much i love sarah's dad joel?, one pov switch Words: 12k

A/N: Good god, I've had this idea in my head for a long time, aka literally every time I listen to "'Tis The Damn Season." I really got lost in this one, shout out to my crippling-Christmas-anxiety-insomnia (three hour sleep gang rise) and @sin-djarin for her eyes and talking me through some questions. I also yapped my ass off at @schnarfer and @mothandpidgeon (as I always do) about these two, and I thank them for nodding and patting my head. Listen, this year has not been the easiest year, and being able to escape into writing Joel Miller having lots of sex and crafting a happy-ish ending for him surely helps the horrors. Thank you to those who read, reblog, comment, and verify that this is a good use of my time. Happy Holidays, enjoy the smut.

Songs I listened to on repeat while writing for vibes: "'Tis The Damn Season" by Taylor. (fork found in fork drawer) "Saw You In A Dream" by Japanese Breakfast "Dandelion" and "Warm" by Ariana Grande "If Only I Could Wait" by Bon Iver "Sweet Creature" by Harry Styles

Masterlist

—-

“So, tomorrow?” he asks, a tear falling down his cheek.

You nod with a solemn tilt.

“And you can’t just… stay here?” “You’ve already asked me that so many times, Joel. You know this is my dream.”

“Right,” his sigh rumbles against your body as his arms tighten around you. “I just guess I thought staying with me would be your dream.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

That night, Joel Miller holds you tight, makes love to you all night, understanding it’s the last time he’ll ever touch you.

And when the morning comes, you step on a plane headed to California, to your dream school Stanford, a thousand miles away from your high school sweetheart.

—-

You always say you’re not sentimental about Texas, that you don’t miss Austin, even as the few years away turned into ten. You didn't plan on being here this Christmas. Typically, your parents fly out to you in LA, where you put them up in a nice hotel a couple of streets away from your apartment, and take them to restaurants they can hardly pronounce the names of. That was the arrangement that worked… them visiting you, not you returning to the hometown and the memories of your first love you’ve spent the years trying to avoid.

But then, your dad decided to fall off scaffolding while painting the living room, not injured terribly, but just enough to where there’s no way he can fly. So here you are, back in Austin for a full weekend of holiday festivities you've been dreading since you booked your flight.

First on the list, finding a Christmas tree. You get out of your dad’s truck, that is way too big for you to drive, and walk into the tree lot across from your favorite Whataburger. There is a pang of what ifs through you when you realize it's been over ten years since you've been back to this place, since you've breathed in the brisk Texas winter air. You try to pay no mind to the pangs, to the memories of a blue truck parked in the back of the lot with fogged windows and two teenagers insatiable for each other inside.

You silently thank whatever Christmas angel is listening when you see how many trees are still available, only three days before Christmas, and get stuck in a maze of them, questioning everything, calculating exactly how quickly you can get this errand done, and retreat back to the safety of your childhood home.

What size will even fit in your parents' living room?

Will the branches be strong enough to fit all of your mom’s precious ornaments?

How in the hell is it going to fit, even with your dad’s truck?

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

Oh god, the slow and deep Texas drawl makes your heart shatter in your chest. Joel Miller.

Your first instinct is to just run, climb back into the truck that isn’t yours, drive away, and pretend this never happened. But your body betrays you, and you turn.

His whole body goes rigid, jaw tightening in that way it always did when he was trying to hide his emotions.

Joel whispers your name in disbelief, then clears his throat. “You’re home?”

“For the holiday,” you answer, noticing the faint lines around his eyes and how perfectly golden his skin is underneath the sun. “My dad can’t fly right now.” He nods, jaw ticking.

You’re both silent, eyes roaming each other, taking in the subtle changes of the years and distance. A horn honks in the distance, breaking the mutual reverie.

“Did you need help?” he asks.

“Yes,” you admit. “I need a tree for my parents.” “They in the same house?”

“Yep.”

“So… 8 feet? They got that high ceiling,” Joel thinks aloud before he leads you a couple trees down to the perfect one.

The needles are thick, the size is impressive, and it’s huge.

"It’s perfect,” you say. “I’ll take it.”

Joel nods, hoisting the entire tree up and balancing it on his shoulder with an impressive ease. You try not to stare as his muscles stretch the fabric of his flannel. He’s just as strong and masculine as he used to be, and you can’t stop stealing greedy glances at him.

At the front of the lot, Joel wraps the tree in netting, and you hand over your credit card to the teen working the register. Joel stands, tall, broad, and strong, the now wrapped tree slung across his shoulder. He looks like a lumberjack hero straight out of a romance novel you’d read to turn your brain off before bed.

“Thanks for your help,” you say, leading Joel through the parking lot. “I'm driving my dad's truck, and I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Some things never change,” he muses, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole way. 

Joel secures the tree in the bed, tying it down with some string, and when he's done, he takes a step back, dusting his hands off. "How long you here for?”

"The weekend," you reply. "I go back the day after Christmas.”

He nods, his hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck. "Would you maybe want to catch up and get a drink?"

Instantly, you’re transported back to freshman year of high school in the quiet hallway by the library, standing by your locker as a younger Joel with wavy hair, asked if you'd go to homecoming with him. You recognize the same vulnerable hope in his eyes now.

"That sounds good," you say, a smile peeking between your lips.

"I gotta find a babysitter, but tomorrow night work?"

The word “babysitter” hits you. Somewhere near here, there’s a little person with Joel’s eyes, maybe his smile. Your mom’s voice echoes in your head: “Poor Joel Miller raising that child all alone…” The revelation of Joel having a kid with someone else really didn’t sting as much as you expected. Hell, at that time, you were too busy studying and designing your portfolio at your Ivy League school.

"Tomorrow works.”

Joel pulls out his phone, and you recite your number as he types it in, your mind speeding with questions about his life, his child, and what happened to the mother.

"I'll call you later tonight and let you know," he says. "Tommy's usually my babysitter, so you never know."

You smile at the mention of Tommy, remembering the many times you helped Joel get his little brother out of trouble. "Tommy? Responsible enough to watch a child?"

Joel laughs. "He's grown up. A little. Maybe." He takes a step back, glancing down at your number on his phone before the deep brown eyes you still sometimes dream of gaze into yours. "It's good to see you." He opens the truck door for you, the same chivalrous Southern manners are still there.

“Yeah, you too,” you say.

He nods before he closes your door.

You let out a deep breath, rumbling the truck to life when you turn the key. He watches you leave, a look so familiar in his eyes that you don’t want to recognize.

—-

Maybe it’s the past ten years of not eating comfort food every night for dinner, but your mom over-salts everything. The chicken-fried steak seems to be quadruple-breaded, the green beans have more bacon than bean, and the mashed potatoes are half butter… but all of it tastes better than any $15 salad you buy back home.

There’s a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to your mouth when your phone buzzes to life on the table. You excuse yourself and quickly shuffle to your bedroom before you answer it.

“Hello?”

Joel’s low “Hey” rumbles through the speaker, you feel like you did in high school, during all those midnight calls you’d curl up to under your covers with the phone pressed to your ear.

“Tommy can watch Sarah tomorrow night.” There’s a slight pause. “My daughter, Sarah.”

You sit on the edge of your childhood bed, your hand petting against the ivy print quilt you’ve had since middle school. The room hasn’t changed at all, almost like a vault to your teenage years. Your eyes focus on your closet, where a Nike box stuffed to the brim with notes and photos sits on the highest shelf. “Sarah,” you repeat with a smile. “I’d love to hear all about her.”

“Tomorrow then? I was thinking Moon Rose? You know, for ol’ time's sake.” You giggle, the same high-pitched sound you know Joel used to love. “This time we can’t get kicked out for underage drinking.”

He chuckles, and you smile at the sound. “Does nine work for you?” “Nine’s perfect.”

“I’ll let you get back to your family,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

You sit on your bed, staring down at your phone in your hand. Joel Miller. A date. No, not a date. A drink. Just catching up with an old... what? Friend seems too casual, ex-boyfriend too formal for what you had. High school sweetheart feels right, but that term is so overloaded with nostalgia that it makes your heart ache.

—-

You always thought the way your mom second-guesses every ornament she hangs on the tree was ridiculous, until you realize you’re doing the same thing, staring down at three outfits laid across the bed.

Option one: a black turtleneck paired with a gray skirt that hits right above your knees. Too revealing.

Option two: a dark green blouse and a pair of gray, plaid trousers. You’ve been saving this for the Christmas Eve party your parents are holding tomorrow to honor your return, and it seems too formal for the hole-in-the-wall watering hole of your neighborhood.

Option three: the boring choice—maroon cardigan, gray tank, and jeans. Too casual for seeing the man who once knew you better than anyone else.

So, you do what you do best, redesign. You create a fourth option: black turtleneck, plaid trousers, and maroon cardigan. Your sensible high-heeled loafers and your favorite gold chain necklace complete the look. You keep your makeup light and fresh, opting for a nude eye and lip with a simple cat-eye drawn on with some black liner. You blink in the vanity mirror still covered in flower and cat stickers, photos tucked into the frame. You look good, and yet your heart still clatters in your chest at the thought of seeing Joel soon.

Your mom and dad are in the living room, the decorated tree tall and beautiful, covered from tip to trunk with ornaments and bows.

“Sweetie, we just started Miracle on—” your mom’s words stop when she turns and sees you dressed, holding your purse.

“Whoa, where you headed looking so fancy?” your dad asks.

“Just meeting an old friend,” you answer, trying to sound as casual as you can.

“And who’s that?” he asks innocently.

“Um, Joel,” you answer.

Your dad's eyebrows shoot up, and he exchanges a look with your mom that makes you feel like you're seventeen again. "Joel Miller?”

“Yep.”

“Well, isn't that something?” your mom says with a smile. Your parents loved Joel, you damn well also broke their hearts when you chose your design school over your high school boyfriend with the good manners and heart of gold.

“It’s just drinks. You both can gossip while I’m gone,” you say, grabbing the keys to your mom’s car. “I’ll be back later. Don’t wait up.”

—-

The neon sign of Moon Rose flickers just like it did when you were eighteen, sneaking in with fake IDs and giggling whenever the bartender gave you a suspicious look.

It still smells the same when you step inside, like cheap booze, cheesy queso, and sizzling fajitas. Joel’s standing at the bar, clad in a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of dark, worn jeans that hug his thick legs perfectly. His hair looks tousled, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and when he turns and sees you, his eyes light up. Your heart skips a beat when he bounds over, your shoulders instantly straightening under his focus.

“Hey,” he sends you the dimple deepening half smile nobody else can look as good doing. “You look… great.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. “Thanks. You clean up nice yourself.”

The hostess leads you to a booth tucked away in the back. The vinyl creaks when you slide in. The low light makes Joel glow, the shadows across his face making him even more handsome.

"What can I get y'all?" the waitress asks, setting down water glasses.

"I'll have a white wine," you say, “whatever you have is fine.” "Coors Light for me," Joel adds.

While you wait for your drinks, you look around the restaurant, noticing how they still haven’t changed out the orange vinyl booths or replaced the low-pile red carpet stained with spilled drinks and nacho cheese. It’s still the same ol’ Moon Rose.

“So, how’s Los Angeles?” Joel asks.

“It’s good. Busy.”

“Interior design still?” he asks.

“Yep,” you nod. “Just finished a new boutique hotel job. I spearheaded the whole thing.”

“Guess that degree worked out well,” he says. He smiles, but you hear the slight edge in his voice. There it is, the unspoken reminder you’ve been waiting for. The degree that took you away from him.

"It did," you say. "I'm lucky."

The waitress returns with your drinks, and you take a sip of your wine, grateful for the break. Joel’s eyes are darker, brows more furrowed when he takes a drink of his beer.

“So, Christmas trees?” you ask.

“It’s just seasonal. Helps with the Christmas gifts.”

You smile. “For Sarah?”

He nods, matching your smile. “For Sarah.”

“How old is she?”

“Eight,” his smile stays, doting as he tells you all about how smart she is and how good her grades are, all of her soccer accomplishments, and how he’s not sure what to get her for Christmas, still.

“Still?!” you shame him. “Joel, tomorrow is Christmas Eve!”

“I know, I know,” he sighs. “I’ve just been so busy, between both jobs… ‘n money’s been tight. I know I’d figure it out… somehow.” You nod, not fully understanding the pressure, but also remembering the story of Joel’s life, his dad raising two sons alone on a cop’s salary, barely getting by. While your parents never struggled, your dad’s very successful car dealership always paid the bills and left you never wishing for anything.

“I have a lot of little gifts for her, but I don’t have the show stopper,” he reasons.

“Get her a Barbie Dream House,” you say. “I got one at her age, and it was the best Christmas ever.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod. “Every girl wants a Dream House.”

Your drinks sit half-full and your plates half-eaten as you both catch each other up about the past ten years. Two hours of trading stories of who’s still in your life from high school, what songs you’ve loved, and what your weekends now look like. The whole time, you can’t stop admiring the way Joel looks, the low cadence of his voice, the way his broad body fills out the booth.

When the bill comes, Joel checks his watch and sighs. “Speaking of Dream House, feel like I need to get it tonight. Walmart closes at midnight, and it’s 11.”

The threat of the night ending lights a boldness inside you. “Do you want help picking the right one? You know, since I am an expert.”

You’ll be thinking about the slow, wide smile Joel gifts you for years. “Yeah? I’d… like that.”

Joel pays the bill, no matter how much you insist you want to pay before he leads you to your mom’s sensible sedan.

“No truck tonight?” he jokes.

“No, thank god,” you say.

“Walmart’s just—”

“Down the road on the left by the Braums.”

“Yep,” he grins. “See you there.”

—-

The Walmart is exactly the same, with white tile floors, loud beeping registers, smiley face sale signs, and bright blue shopping bags.

Joel decides on the biggest and best Dream House, complete with the elevator and toilet that make a flushing noise.

He raises an eyebrow when he lifts the box into the cart. “Oh, I have to build it?”

You giggle, and his eyes beeline to your face at the sound of it. “You should know better, Mr. Contractor.”

“Eight years later, and I still feel so new to this stuff.” 

Walking through the nearly empty store, you can’t believe how comfortable this feels, almost like you've been shopping together for years. You follow him through the checkout line, watching as he pays for the Dream House. There's something so endearing about seeing a rugged man like him buying a pink dollhouse, calloused hands gingerly holding the box as he puts it in the cart.

Joel leads you to his truck, a midnight blue F-150 with a Chavez Elementary Honor Roll sticker on the bumper and a Miller Construction decal on the back window.

"Gonna have to build this thing tonight. Hide it in the shed until Christmas morning." He turns to you. "So, uh, you ever built a dream home?" he asks.

"No… but I'd like to."

Joel’s eyes meet yours, and there’s a feeling passed between you, like the years of distance are slowly melting away.

"You want to help?" he asks. There’s a vulnerability in his voice, in the way his brows rise, the tension that’s held in his shoulders.

You smile, wide. “Yes."

He tries to hide a smile, but it doesn’t work. “Follow me?”

—-

The drive feels surreal. Just two days ago, you were dreading the thought of seeing even a glimpse of this man, and now you’re following the red taillights of his truck through neighborhoods you haven't seen in years.

His house surprises you, modest and charming with a well-kept yard, Christmas lights strung along the roof, and a plastic mold Santa by the door. You follow him inside, through a garage cluttered with tools, soccer balls, and two bikes, one black and large, one pink with streamers and a basket.

"Sorry about the mess," he mumbles.

"It's not a mess, it's lived-in. It's nice."

His shoulders relax at your words, and he sets the Dream House box in the middle of the living room.

His home is exactly how you’d expect it. There’s a large TV, flanked by a beat-up, drab recliner and a large leather sofa over a worn rug. The coffee table is covered with signs of life: old magazines, a box of colored pencils, a couple of erasers shaped like various animals, and a reindeer bowl filled with M&M’s.

Joel’s tree is adorable, covered in metallic red garland. Random ornaments of angels, Elmo, cars, and reindeer hang from branches. You can easily figure out how tall Sarah is by the clusters of ornaments in the middle of the tree.

You spot the photo framed in oak hanging by the stairs. A beautiful little girl with gorgeous curls and a wide smile beams. "She's beautiful, Joel," you say softly. "How did you... I mean..."

"Become a single dad?" he finishes, standing behind you. "Sarah's mom and I were together for about a year. Didn’t think it was too serious, but then she got pregnant… I did what was right ‘n married her. That didn’t work. Once Sarah came along… we tried the family thing for a while, but I guess being a mom wasn't for her." He shrugs, but you can see the old hurt there. "She left right before Sarah’s first birthday…. ‘n hasn’t come back."

Your heart drops, and there’s a pang of guilt that your leaving caused him all of the strife of raising his daughter all on his own. The photo of Sarah stares back at you, her eyes and dimpled smile so much like Joel's.

"That must be hard. I can’t imagine.”

Joel's hand brushes your arm, and you turn to face him. He's closer than you expected, close enough now that you can smell the faint scent of that same cologne he's worn since high school. The same scent that you used to smell every night before you’d fall asleep in your dorm room, still wearing his sweatshirt, months after your breakup.

"It was hard at first," he admits. "But Sarah's the best thing that ever happened to me."

There’s such a tenderness in his voice that makes your heart ache.

“I’m glad,” you say, because you are.

"Want another drink?" Joel asks, breaking your reverie.

You nod, following him to the kitchen. Crayon drawings and A+ tests with drawn smiley faces are stuck to the refrigerator with alphabet and animal magnets. A school calendar hangs on the bulletin board with random business cards and Post-It notes. Joel Miller, the boy who once skipped class to make out with you behind the bleachers, has become a responsible parent. "She's at Tommy’s tonight?" you ask, leaning against the counter as Joel pulls two beers from the fridge.

“Yeah. He’s actually great with her; he even has a set of Minnie Mouse sheets just for her.”

He pops the cap off your beer and hands it to you with a shy smile. You take a pull from the bottle as he leads you back to the living room.

You settle on the edge of the couch as Joel clears the coffee table and sets the pink Dream House box atop it. He opens the box and pulls out the instructions, studying them under a furrowed brow. You both sort through tiny plastic furniture and walls, random piles of pink and purple plastic lay across his floor.

“Have you built a dream house for yourself out in LA?"

“Nope, just moved my furniture into my apartment,” you sigh. “Guess I’m too busy designing other people's dreams."

"That's a shame,” he says, his voice low and plaintive.

You shift the focus to him, away from your almost too-cold and lonely life. “Seems like you’ve got your dream home. This place is lovely."

"It's okay," he shrugs. "Bought it when Sarah was three. Needed a yard for her to play in."

You take care of the furniture while Joel takes care of the walls. The house is built quickly, with both of your expertise. When the tiny elevator finally works with a ding, you both celebrate with a high-five, Joel’s hand clasps around yours, and stays.

"We make a good team," he says, his eyes gazing into yours.

"We always did.”

—-

You and Joel cautiously carry the Dream House to the shed before covering it in a sheet. The backyard is just as you’d expect, the perfect oasis for a little girl. A pink clubhouse with a plastic slide jutting from the side, a blue tarp covers the above-ground pool for winter, and a sandbox sits beneath an oak tree.

Joel notices you taking the space in. “Want to sit for a minute?” he asks, gesturing to two Adirondack chairs. “Got a fire pit.”

“I’d love to,” comes out quicker than you’d like it to.

Joel grabs a few logs and some kindling before he arranges them in the pit. He lights it, and within minutes the flames begin to grow. He sits in the chair beside you, and you can’t stop looking at how his profile glows in the low firelight.

“Sarah's gonna love that house," you say after a bit of shared silence.

"Thanks to you. I would've probably bought the wrong one."

"I doubt that. You seem like a good dad."

Joel looks down with a shy smile. "I try." He takes a pull from his beer. "Never thought this would be my life, you know?”

“I know,” you say, your hand instinctively lying atop his. He turns his hand over, his calloused palm now resting against yours. There’s an instant warmth that spreads through your body, the same warmth you haven’t felt in so long.

"What about you? Is your life in LA what you thought your life would be?"

You stare at the fire. "I love my job, but..." You trail off, not sure how to explain the emptiness that sometimes creeps in, the silence that follows you.

"But what?" he prompts, the pad of his thumb brushing against yours.

"Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choices," you admit, turning to face him. "If leaving was worth it."

"You think about us?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper. "About what could've been?"

"Sometimes," you confess. "More than I should."

“I do too. A lot.”

"I think about that summer before I left. All the time."

The orange flames reflect in his eyes as he looks at you. "That was a good summer."

"The best," you whisper. You think of all those memories, you newly graduated from high school, Joel, almost twenty in his own tiny studio apartment. Both of you, young and in love, playing house, savoring each other as much as you could before you left for college.

"You know, when you first left, I thought maybe you'd come back after a semester. Then a year passed. Then another."

"I'm sorry," you swallow, not knowing what to tell him. 

"Don't be," he says, with a head shake. "You did what you needed to do. Built yourself a new life and a career. I respect that."

You study the lines that now mark his face, the way the passage of time has only made him more handsome, more solid. You wonder if he sees a change in you, too. If he sees the way your eyes have grown a little duller, your smile more practiced.

"I know it's crazy,” he sighs, “but sitting here with you feels like no time has passed at all."

You look at your joined hands. "I know what you mean."

"And at the same time, it feels like it’s been such a long time. Everything has changed."

“It’s nice,” you say, looking up at the stars that peek through the bare branches of the oak tree. “Different, but familiar too.”

You both stare at the flames for a bit, your hand still held in his.

"Can I… can I ask you something?" Joel’s question breaks the shared stillness.

“Anything.”

“You happier? Out there in California?

“I’m…” your fingers twitch against his palm. “I’m successful.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

You watch the sparks drift into the night sky and ponder happiness for the first time in years. “Sometimes I wonder if I deserve more.”

“You do.”

You huff a laugh. "How can you be so sure? You barely even know me anymore."

"I know enough. I see you sitting here, looking at this yard with something in your eyes that looks a lot like longing and questioning. I saw how your shoulders dropped the moment you walked into my house.”

The way he can still spot all of your vulnerability makes you pull your hand away from his.

“It’s just nostalgia, Joel. Austin stirs up old feelings.”

“So, is that all it is? Nostalgia?”

The fire crackling makes the shadows on his face darker.

"I don't know," you finally admit. "Maybe it's... seeing what could have been. What I walked away from."

"I used to think about that all the time. What if you'd stayed? What if I'd followed you to California?"

"Would you have?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

“If you had asked me to...”

“Really, Joel?”

He sighs. “I actually don’t know. I had Tommy to deal with ‘n everything else. I couldn’t hav—”

“I know,” you sigh.

“And without what happened between us… I wouldn’t have Sarah.”

You nod, understanding the two different chapters of Joel’s life. Before Sarah. After Sarah. And you only existed in the before.

“For what it’s worth, I’m happy for the life you’ve made here.”

"I'm glad you're happy for me… but I gotta admit, seeing you again, just brings up a lot. Nothing ever felt…” he trails off and looks back into your eyes. “Nothing ever felt like us.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as Joel turns more towards you and leans closer.

“I still wake up sometimes and wonder what you’re doing out there in California. If you’re happy, if you ever think about me.” “I do,” you whisper. “A lot.”

“And you… you don’t have anybody?”

“No,” you answer with a shake of your head. “There was a guy for a few years, but he wanted it all, and I wasn’t ready for… it all. Plus, he wasn’t you.” The last word barely makes a sound when you say it, but Joel hears it.

He nods, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “God,” he breathes. “Listen, I… know you’re only here for the weekend but… tonight would you…”

“Stay?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

His whole body seems to lose its tensity when you whisper your “Yes,” and he stands, reaching his hand to you, his fingers intertwining with yours when he helps you up. "It's getting cold out here anyway,” he says.

You follow him inside, he locks the back door, and when he turns to face you, his eyes roam your face, almost as if he’s convincing himself you’re there, standing in his living room.

"Want to watch something?" he asks.

You nod and sit on the couch. Joel slouches back on the couch, a respectable distance between you at first. He clicks on the TV, scrolling through channels before settling on an old Western.

“Still watching these all the time?” you ask.

He laughs. “Guilty.”

The volume is low, it’s just merely background noise to the heavy thud of your heart and the sounds of Joel’s breathing across the couch that feels too big. You shuffle and shift, scooting closer, and Joel does the same.

Soon, your legs touch, and his arm lifts, wrapping around your shoulders to pull you close against him. You rest your head against his chest, and for the first time in over a decade, you can hear the steady beat of his heart. You will yourself to keep your eyes open, to not get lost in the perfect moment, even when you feel the press of his nose against your hair and hear the way he breathes you in.

You don’t even think or stop yourself. You just lean up and kiss the lips you’ve missed for so long. You rediscover the plush of them, in a gentle, tentative way, but when Joel brings his hand up to cradle your face, the long-lost flame is ignited.

His kiss is more confident now, more self-assured, and you part your lips, letting his tongue slide against yours. He groans into your mouth, and you turn towards him. He clutches your hips, pulling you on top of his lap.

One hand finds the softness of his hair at the nape of his neck, the other finds the bristle of his scruff, thumb petting against the smooth heart patch of missing hair in his beard. "I've missed you," you whisper against his mouth.

"Sweetheart," he breathes, the endearment of yesteryear making your heart flip in your chest. He pulls back. "You have no idea." His ragged breaths pelt against your face. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”

You don’t say a word, you only nod.

He leads you up the steps, the walls covered in mismatched frames of accomplishments and happy, family memories. Then, down the short hallway to his bedroom. He flicks on a small lamp, the room lighting in a golden glow.

"Sorry about the mess," he says.

You notice a dead plant on the bedside table, a pile of clothes draped over an exercise machine in the corner. But all you really see is the large bed with a boring, beige striped comforter, and Joel standing nervously by the door.

Before you can tell him you’re fine with everything you see, that it’s perfectly his life now, he's crossing the room to you. He bands his arm around your waist, lifting your mouth to his, kissing you urgently and hungrily. He walks you backward until your back meets the wall, his body pressing against yours. He tucks his mouth into your neck, sucking and kissing as he pulls at your cardigan and you tug the snaps of his denim shirt open so he can shrug out of it.

He leans back, dark eyes under furrowed brows before he guides you to his bed and lowers you onto the mattress, the pressure of his weight delicious as it sinks you deeper into the softness.

Your fingers tremble when you unbutton your pants and lift your hips, working them down your legs. Joel helps you undress, pulling your turtleneck over your head, and then you're lying there in just your underwear and bra. He sits back on his heels, his eyes traveling over your body with reverence.

"God damn," he marvels. "You're still just as beautiful."

His white undershirt is tight across his chest, and your hands roam against the worn cotton before you tug it upward. Joel pulls it off, and then his broad, golden chest is revealed to you. You run your hands over his skin, so warm and strong, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles, stronger than they were, but now underneath a softer, more solid frame. You can hardly believe you’re here in this moment, inside Joel’s bedroom on a perfect, suburban street. He lies atop you, and you happily sigh underneath the weight of him.

Your hands flow down his body, to his belt, undoing it, before the button of his jeans. You can feel his cock hard against your palm when you grip the denim heft of him. He grunts against your skin. He’s just as big as you remembered, and your pussy pulses at the memory of how perfectly he always filled you. When you unzip his jeans, he groans, shifting to kick them off, the boxer briefs he’s wearing tented, the black fabric straining under the power of his dick.

You're dizzy as his kisses trail down your neck to your chest, he pulls down the cups of your bra, humming a low groan of appreciation at the sight of your nipples pebbling under his attention. His mouth closes over your nipple, teeth grazing at the sensitive bud, and you sigh his name, arching into him. His tongue swirls, and your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close to you.

His cock presses against your core, both of you still with the thin barrier of underwear between your bodies. How many years? How many days? How many times have you thought of the memory of this? You roll your hips heavenwards, seeking the pressure and friction of Joel’s big body.

His hand slides down your stomach, tracing the invisible line down to your hot core. He cups you through your panties, and when his fingers slip beneath the fabric to stroke your wet folds, your hips buck and you keen his name.

“God damn, sweetheart,” he rumbles against your breast. “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, head thudding against his pillow when he pulls at your panties and slides them down your legs. He licks his way up to your lips, kissing you deeply as you reach down, pulling his boxers down, his cock jutting out. He reaches behind you, grunting a sound of effort as he unclasps your bra and tosses it aside. Now, there’s nothing between you, just skin to skin, the invisible string that brought you back to him wrapped around you both.

He pulls away and kneels between your legs. His eyes tracing the shape of you in the low lamplight. He almost looks like the same young, handsome man you lost your virginity to after prom, your sophomore year of high school. Joel Miller, the senior, the handsome quarterback who’d pick you up every morning in his beat-up, faded navy blue F-150 and drive you to school with his arm around your shoulder. Now, a man in his thirties, just as handsome as he’s always been.

You watch the way his eyes follow his hand as he reaches between your thighs, his big, calloused hand running along the soft, wet skin of your needy pussy. His fingers circle your entrance before one slides inside, and you gasp. His gaze stays planted between your legs, his thumb pressing against your clit, softly pulsing it against you. Your back snaps then straightens when he adds another finger, fucking you slowly with it.

“Need you,” you beg, hips undulating under the feel of his hands, his fingers stretching you, running along your walls.

He builds you up, grinning a cocky look when he hears the soft gush of all of your slick on his fingers. He leans his body over yours, a hand planting next to your head, the other still between your legs.

“Need me?” he asks, almost reverently.

You nod with a moan. He pulls his fingers out and reaches towards the nightstand. The drawer opens, and he pulls a condom out. He sits back to roll it on, and you greedily watch him. Broad shoulders, strong thighs, hard cock. He grips himself, lying atop you, guiding himself right to where you’re craving him. His cock pushes in, and you have to move your hips to adjust to the size of him, allowing Joel to sit the long, wide length of him inside you. He stings you in the sweetest way.

“Jesus,” he breathes against your lips. “You feel incredible.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and kiss him as he begins to move, your ache for him meeting his ache for you. In and out, in and out, slow and savoring. His back is smooth and hot against your palm, his muscles flex as he moves above you. He groans with each stroke, forehead resting against yours. Lazy, hot kisses traded, your tongues greedy against one another’s.

It’s been so long since you’ve had something akin to this, to the cradle of sex and understanding. The need and gifting of pleasure traded amongst one another.

Joel begins to thrust faster, and your nails bend into his flesh, scratching and scraping along his back. He buries his face into your neck, nose pressing against your skin as he sucks and nips at you there. Your hips meet his, and the slap of skin and the smell of sex fill Joel’s bedroom.

“Fuck,” he grits. “Missed this.”

You’re smiling a dopey look as he fucks you harder, his body searing against yours. It’s been over 4,000 days since you’ve had this feeling, since Joel Miller’s cock has split you wide open, since his lips have kissed yours, since you’ve moaned his name into his ear. It’s been over a decade since anybody has made you cum like this. Your orgasm rolls through you, hands fisted tight as the type of euphoria you’ve been chasing for years overtakes you. Your vision goes blurry, and you feel like you’re spinning, time has turned irrelevant. Because now, now you have Joel again. Your cunt clenches his cock, your body breaks out in goosebumps, and his name floats out into the room along with your moans.

He stares, watching you fall apart underneath him, his eyes lit with the same color you dream of, the deepest, darkest, most beautiful brown.

“Joel,” you breathe, staring into his eyes. That undoes him, he groans your name, neck cording as his body grows tense and he cums. His hips pump as his cock pulses, his lips kissing yours, and you swallow his grunts and groans. 

He sighs, sweat collecting on his brow as he settles atop you, his cock still seated inside. Your hands run up and down his back, legs unwrapping from his waist, sinking lower into the mattress from his weight.

“Goddamn,” he pants, and you chuckle a “yeah.”

Your lips trade lazy kisses, his hand clasping your chin, thumb brushing against your cheek, before he rolls off of you and slips the condom off. He looks back at you, splayed out in the middle of his olive green sheets with a look of disbelief and adoration mixed on his face.

“It’s late. If you want to stay the night, you’re more than welcome to.”

You smile and nod before he turns to walk down the hall to the bathroom. You get up, sitting on the edge of his bed, taking the time you have alone to really take in the sight of his room. You’re actually a little impressed. The furniture is matching, definitely a set he walked into a furniture store and bought right off the show floor. There’s a stack of CDs, a digital camera on a charging dock, and a wicker hamper with a broken lid. It’s simple, and you commend the way he’s made his home so comfortable.

Your clothes are pooled in random places across his bedroom, your bra over by the hamper, your cardigan by the door.

Joel steps back in, wearing a pair of boxers. He strides over to his dresser and pulls out an old, faded gray t-shirt and hands it to you.

It’s soft, worn, and old. A smile breaks across your face when you read the front of it. CROCKETT HS COUGARS is emblazoned on the front.

“Of course you’d still have something like this,” you muse.

“S’pose you have nothing to remind you of the past in California?”

“Pretty much,” you shrug.

“You always wanted to forget this place,” he says low.

“That’s not true. I just always wanted… something else.”

“Texas was just never good enough for you, huh?” he says low, a hint of anger in his voice.

You don’t respond because you both know the truth. The silence stretches before you excuse yourself and head for the bathroom.

You take your time, letting the simmering anger Joel still holds hopefully cool. You wash the makeup off your face and take a steeling breath in front of the mirror before you walk back into his room.

Joel’s picked up your clothes, and they sit folded neatly on his dresser. He’s already in bed, back against the red oak headboard, still only in his boxers. His dark eyes brighten when he sees you clad in his shirt, and you spy the thick swallow that travels down his throat.

“I’m… sorry for what I said,” he sighs. “Just now, I—”

“I know,” you interrupt. “We’ve had years of thinking the same things. How I hurt you, how you hurt me. Can we just… call it even, just for tonight?”

He nods, and you take that as an invitation to slide into bed next to him. He lowers himself, reaching over to turn the lamp off before he wraps his arms around you and holds you close.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion of being back in your hometown, or the comfort of being back in Joel’s arms, but you fall asleep fast.

—-

The sheets don’t feel right, you’re burning up underneath a familiar heat that you’re sure you’re imagining. Your eyes open, and there’s a solid wall of Joel Miller’s chest in front of you. You carefully pull back from his hold, and your breath catches when you take him in. The sun is just beginning to shine, the blinds lit in a filtered, pale blue and orange.

He’s changed so much, but he’s still the same Joel you remember. He does have more lines on his face, a slight, soft furrowing on his forehead and gentle crinkles around his eyes. You wonder if they’re there from the stress of fatherhood, owning his own business, or from missing you. Maybe it’s a mix of all three. His plush lips are parted as he slumbers and you remember all the kisses you’d left there. You can’t help yourself, you reach up, running your finger along his pillowy bottom lip. He grunts a low sound and his eyes flutter open as he wakes, his lips lifting in an unguarded smile at the sight of you.

“Hey,” he growls, still under the haze from sleep. He wraps his arms tighter around you, and you melt against him. “You’re here, right?”

You giggle. “I am.”

The look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. It’s the same look he gave you all those years ago, when his voice cracked and he told you he loved you for the first time in your bedroom he had climbed the lattice up to sneak into.

He leans forward and he kisses you, his hand resting against your cheek, calloused thumb stroking your skin. He’s soft with his kiss at first, but when you sigh against his mouth, his lips press harder and his arm bands around you, hand planting on your back and he rolls you both. You settle atop him, your fingers tracing the strong contour of his jaw, brushing against the bristle of his beard. It’s so different than the smooth face of the almost-man you once knew.

You grind your hips down against him, and Joel groans into your mouth. His hands roam your back, moving down to grip your ass, helping you rub against his cock growing harder and harder through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers against your lips. His confession makes you even more desperate. You whimper, needing to taste more of him. You kiss your way down to his neck, licking along the junction where it meets his shoulder, and you bite down gently, sucking the skin between your teeth. His gasp is low and long, his hips bucking up at the sensation.

“Fuck,” he groans, fingers digging into your skin.

You smile as you kiss your way further down his body. Pressing against his collarbone, down to his chest where you nuzzle against the hair there. It’s thicker than you remember, trailing down his stomach that’s softer than it used to be, no longer the almost-six-pack of a high school football player, but you love the way it feels under your hands and mouth. You trace the trail of hair down his stomach, feeling the tense of his muscles, and when you reach his boxers, you look up at him. His eyes are hooded, dark with desire, almost black in the early morning light as he watches you. You tug them down, freeing his thick, hard, and perfect cock.

“Jesus,” you whisper, awed by the sight. Now, you can take your time and see how golden his skin is, see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly when you wrap your hand around him.

You lower your mouth to him, tongue darting out to taste the tip of him. His hands fist when you take him into your mouth, welcoming the heaviness of his cock against your tongue.

“Sweetheart,” he groans, hand moving to tangle in your hair.

You bob your head, eyes locked on his face, watching the way he loses himself as you take him deeper and deeper. His jaw is clenched, vein pulsing in his neck, he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen. Especially when his lip tilts up in a half-smile, half-snarl, that same cocky, pleased look you remember.

“Lemme taste you,” he pleads. “Lemme taste again.”

You take him to the back of your throat before you pull off, his cock slipping from your mouth. You turn around, knees bent and bracketing his head. Joel wraps his arms around you, palms pressing against your hips and ass, pulling you down to his mouth.

He groans loud when he first tastes you, and you choke out a sob. His tongue explores your pussy, licking, lapping, swirling. Your moans echo off the walls of his bedroom before you muffle them with his cock, sucking Joel harder than before.

His mouth is greedy for your cunt, he encourages your weight on his face, hands kneading your ass, pulling you closer and closer. Your hands dig into his thick thighs, his cock filling your mouth, and you can barely breathe as you gasp and gag on all of Joel Miller, tears leaking out the corners of your eyes.

Joel moans against you, and the wave builds inside you from how needy he sounds, the noises searing against your cunt. His tongue is just as insistent, circling your clit with the same disciplined patience he used to give you every Saturday night in his truck. The memory makes you rock against his mouth, grinding harder. Your hand wraps around his cock, in a tight fist and you lick and suck against the tip of him, stroking him wildly.

Joel’s legs tense, the big muscles under your hold straining as he loses control. He holds your ass, fingers digging hard into your flesh, tongue fucking you, devouring your needy cunt.

He twitches in your mouth, the telltale sign he’s close. His voice cracks when he grits out, “Oh, fuck, sweetheart, you’re so goddamn good, don’t stop, don’t—” Then he shoves his cock up into your throat, and you taste the hot, salty bitter taste of Joel Miller again.

Your orgasm follows right after his, stars bursting behind your eyes, body trembling as you swallow and gulp and let him fill your mouth. Joel keeps eating you, never slowing, even as he’s shaking and cursing against your slick, coming down from his own bliss. You collapse against him, a trembling heap, and rest your head against his thigh, watching Joel’s cock and the way it still leaks, softening and twitching.

He rubs your back and kisses your thigh, humming a low noise of contentedness. “Goddamn, baby,” he marvels.

When you can finally move, you roll off of him and right yourself, lying down next to him. You kiss him, both of you laughing against each other’s lips at the absurdity of having to make up for years of longing in a single, desperate night.

He tucks your body to his chest, hand splayed on your back. His breathing slows, and you rest your head against the broadness of his chest. The calming cadence of his palm running up and down your spine lulls you back to sleep.

—-

A low, frustrated “fuck” is the first thing you hear. “Sweetheart, it’s almost eleven.”

You stir, eyes blinking open to see Joel’s handsome face.

“Hey,” you stretch.

“Forgot to turn my alarm on, and my phone was on silent. I gotta go get Sarah.”

“I understand,” you say, rolling to get up, leaving the warmth of his bed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hand coming up the rest against the back of his neck.

“I get it,” you respond. “I should probably head home too, my parents are having a party tonight, and there’s a ton of things I need to do.”

You pick up your bundle of clothes and move to the bathroom to get dressed. When you exit, Joel’s already downstairs. You find him in the kitchen, standing by the sink. He looks so delectable, his broad body blocking most of the window that backlights him.

“Your shirt’s inside out,” you whisper, tugging at the tag.

Joel curses under his breath, his back to you as he grips the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing the muscles you had traced just last night. He shakes the garment, turns it right side out, and puts it back on.

He turns to face you. “Good?” he asks.

“Good,” you smile.

He stares into your eyes and sighs, his hand nervously pattering against his thigh. “I… you… Christ, it was good to see you.”

“It was,” you say, reaching a hand up to pet against his beard.

His eyebrows sit low over his eyes, a frown across his handsome face. He looks almost pathetic before he steps forward. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“And I’m gonna miss you.”

It reminds you of all those years ago, both of you younger, smaller, and less experienced with life, uttering the same words.

“I should go,” you whisper.

“Yeah, me too,” he says just as low.

He leads you outside to his driveway, your mom’s car parked next to his truck. He opens the door for you, and you step closer to him, studying him one last time.

“You have my number now,” you say. “And, I guess Austin isn’t as bad as I remember it to be,” you smile sheepishly.

He chuckles a low sound. “If it’s okay with you, can I call you and wish you a Merry Christmas?”

“It’s okay with me.” “Might not be until late, once Sarah falls asleep.”

“I understand. I hope she loves her Dream House.”

“I think she will,” he smiles.

Your lips meet, lingering against one another’s before you reluctantly pull away.

You don’t say goodbye, you just get into the car and pull away.

He watches you leave, and the ache begins to spread as you drive away. 

—-

You fake your smiles throughout the Christmas Eve party. Everyone wants to see the California girl, asking if you know any celebrities, if the weather is just as perfect as everyone says it is, if traffic is just as bad. You think of Joel the whole time, the night you shared last night, and the distance that will soon stretch between you again.

By the time your mom sits at the piano, and the Christmas carols begin, you’re about ready to book a plane ticket back home.

But, it feels nice to see everyone, even though all you think of is Joel through the forced holiday cheer.

—-

Your phone hums on the nightstand, you blink your eyes at the time. It’s after midnight. JOEL in bright green lights up the screen and your heart begins to race.

“Hey,” you answer, and you wonder if he can hear your smile.

“Hey, how was the party?”

“Ugh.”

He laughs. The memory of the way the lines crinkle near his eyes and his dimple deepens runs through your mind.

“I just wanted to let you know, Santa just left the Dream House under the tree, and I really think Sarah’s going to love it. Thanks again for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” you say, sitting up in bed.

“Merry Christmas,” Joel whispers, and your eyes close, tears threatening to well in your eyes at how gentle his voice is.

“Merry Christmas, Joel.”

His sigh reverberates through the speaker. “I can’t believe I just saw you this morning.”

“I know.” You should be embarrassed by the slight whine of your voice, but you aren’t.

There’s that familiar quiet that stretches between you. It’s not awkward, you’re not struggling to come up with words to say. No, it’s the same type of silence that only comes when two people understand each other.

“So,” Joel says after a bit, “tell me about the party.”

You prop your phone against the pillow and tell him all about your night… how your Aunt Lydia still makes those melting snowman cookies he used to love to eat, your mom still wears that same ugly poinsettia vest, and your cousin Pete had way too much bourbon in his eggnog.

Joel tells you all about all the gifts under the tree for Sarah and how he picked up her favorite blueberry muffins from the HEB for breakfast. The croon of his voice lulls you into a blanket of comfort, and by the time it’s well after 1 AM, he yawns and says he should go to bed.

“Sarah’ll probably be up in four hours.”

“Goodnight Joel, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

—-

Joel yawns again. He was right, Sarah bounded into his room at 5 am, ready for presents and muffins. His second cup of coffee has done nothing to wake him up. He hung up with you, tossed and turned, tried to fall asleep, but failed. Part of him wishes he hadn’t seen you again… his life was stable, predictable. All of those feelings he’s been able to lock away for a decade are right back, sitting in his heart. And you’re leaving in 24 fucking hours.

But, whenever Sarah beams, thanking him for each gift that she opens, he suddenly doesn’t feel as tired or verklempt.

There are little piles of red, green, and pink wrapping paper across the floor, A Christmas Story plays on the TV, and Sarah’s already moving her Barbies into the Dream House that made her scream with glee when she saw it under the tree.

Tommy stops by around noon, when Joel is on his fourth cup of coffee, now in his brand new ALL STAR DAD mug.

“Merry Christmas,” Tommy says, arms full of presents, his eyes widening when he spies the dark circles under Joel’s eyes. “You look like shit.” “Language,” Joel and Sarah both admonish at the same time.

“And that’s a quarter for the swear jar Uncle Tommy!” Sarah tsks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy grumbles, setting the presents in front of the tree before reaching into his pocket to fish a quarter out.

“Can I open ‘em?” Sarah asks, her eyes roaming the pile of gifts.

“Go ahead,” Joel allows with a smile.

Sarah begins to tear into her new gifts when Tommy settles next to Joel on the couch.

“Good to see you actually remembered quarters this time,” Joel winks before he downs the rest of his coffee. Willing the caffeine to have more of an effect on him, even as he lets out another yawn.

“Santa have a late night?” Tommy asks low, so Sarah can’t hear him.

“Could say that,” he sighs. He’s unsure what to tell him, but suddenly, all the excuses don’t feel right. So, he tells him the truth. “She’s back in town,” Joel sighs your name.

“No shit,” Tommy whispers. “Like, back back?”

“Just for Christmas,” Joel rubs against the stubble of his beard. “Dad got hurt, so she came here for the holiday.”

“So, I take it by the bags under your eyes, and why you needed me to babysit last minute, you saw her?”

Joel nods. “Slept like hell last night.” 

Tommy chuckles, shaking his head back and forth. “No wonder you look so lovelorn and pathetic. When she leave?”

Before Joel can answer, “Thank you Uncle Tommy!” is shrieked by Sarah when she unwraps her new panda Beanie Baby.

“You’re welcome, doll,” he responds, before turning back to Joel. “When she leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You seeing her tonight?”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ll watch Sarah,” Tommy offers.

Joel’s brows rise at the offer. Damn, his brother can be a pain in his ass, but he does have a heart of gold.

“Appreciate it, but I want Sarah in her bed for Christmas night, and I want to say goodnight to her. So it won’t be until late.”

“S’fine, think of this as your Christmas present.” Joel chuckles. “Thanks, Tommy.”

—-

Your parents love their gifts. Your dad gets a couple of hardcover books he’s been wanting to read, along with a new decanter and glasses that go great with the fancy bottle of scotch you got him. Your mom oohs and ahhs at her new charm bracelet, complete with a little palm tree for California, and she can’t wait to use the new pasta maker attachment on her Kitchenaid.

Their gifts to you don’t disappoint either… a fancy vetiver candle you love, a new set of linen bedsheets, and a gift certificate to your salon. You’re sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room, wearing your new Christmas pajamas while opening gifts, your parents lighting up when you react with delight to each gift. You almost feel juvenile.

You’re taking the ball of gift wrap to the recycle bin when your phone rings in your pocket. You hurry your steps, depositing the heap of paper before you answer.

The familiar JOEL lights up your phone.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Hey, Merry Christmas again.” “To you too.”

“You have plans tonight?” he asks.

“Not that I know of…”

“Meet me?”

“Of course.”

“It’ll have to be… not at my place. Tommy’s watching Sarah tonight for me, and I want to put her to bed, so I won’t be ready until after ten.” You smile at Joel’s devotion to his daughter, and the realization that you’ll see him later. "That's perfect. Meet at our old spot?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then,” you say, and you know Joel can hear your joy, especially as your voice pitches up.

“Looking forward to it,” he says softly. “I’ll see you later.”

“See you later,” you whisper before ending the call.

Your phone is clutched to your chest when you walk back into the house. You’re thankful your mom’s too busy finishing Christmas dinner and your dad’s too invested in the football game to notice your huge smile.

—-

Your parents are already asleep, you can’t believe you’ll be thirty next year, and you’re tiptoeing out of their home again.

Joel’s truck is parked right where you knew it would be, between the Methodist Church and your high school. You do the same thing you’d always do every Saturday night, get out of your car, and slide into his truck.

Joel didn’t like being home much, not until he got his own place two weeks after he turned eighteen. Your parents would never approve of you and your boyfriend upstairs on the opposite side of the house in your room. So, Joel’s truck was always your answer for a private place.

It’s almost just like it used to be, except Joel sure takes up a lot more space than he used to in the cab.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, the eye crinkles again, doing their job and making him even more handsome.

“Merry Christmas,” you grin, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. He pulls you closer to him, sliding you along the bench seat to sit next to him.

“Lookout?”

“Lookout,” you confirm.

The road that leads to Lookout Point isn’t paved, and it’s a slightly bumpy, muddy ride, but the mud on Joel’s truck tires is already worth it when the faraway lights of Austin are revealed to you. The lookout is private, on a parcel of land where your aunt and uncle live. It was your and Joel’s spot for the three years you were together. It’s where you shared your first kiss, where you first made love in the back of his truck, and it’s where you told him you got accepted into Stanford.

Joel turns off his truck and the headlights. Now, you’re both shrouded in darkness, looking out at the faraway lights twinkling.

“That was nice of Tommy to watch Sarah,” you note.

“It was, I, uh, told him, about you ‘n he offered.”

“He’s a good guy,” you smile.

Joel sighs, brown eyes roaming across the horizon of stop, street, and Christmas lights. “Barely slept last night,” he confesses. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.” “Me too,” you admit.

He turns to look at you, hand reaching for your face, his palm cupping your cheek. He leans in, hesitating for just a second before he kisses you. Reverent, gentle, reminiscent. His lips move to your cheek, crossing the bridge of your nose, to your other cheek, trailing down to your chin, your jaw and your neck, where he licks your skin there. You gasp, head tilting back, thudding against the headrest.

There’s no preamble, no slow-build, just the two of you on this bluff in the middle of nowhere. You’ll be boarding a plane in 12 hours, but all that matters right now is feeling Joel’s skin against yours. You’re clumsy and needy when you scrabble with your button and push the dark blue denim down your legs. Joel pulls back, lifting his shirt off before he reaches for the hem of your sweater and helps you out of it. He struggles with his jeans in the limited space of the truck cab, only able to push them down to his thighs before he gives up with a grunt and pulls you onto his lap, body squeezed between him and the steering wheel.

You’re both still, faces close, breaths mingling in the small area between you. You can see the specks of the past in his eyes, lit by the moonlight and the green glow of the dashboard clock.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel breathes, a low growl that clenches your cunt and heart at the same time. You melt into him, lips against his, your tongue licking his. You grind down on top of him as your hand trails down between your bodies, palming his cock through his boxers.

His hand runs up your thigh, squeezing, fingers sliding along the edge of your panties. You feel his shiver when he touches you, slipping between your folds.

“You’re so wet f’me” he groans. “Soaked.”

His hands rediscover you again, thumb swirling against your clit, thick finger pressed inside you, before he adds another. His fingers explore you in the way only Joel could, the way that always made you cum so quickly for him. You’ve been trying to chase this high, this bliss with random hookups, serious partners, or your vibrator… none of them measure up to Joel. Especially the way he stares into your eyes as you shatter for him, the way he asks, “Always took care of you, didn’t I?”

You’re moaning, nodding furiously as you come down from your orgasm. All of your equilibrium, made dumb by Joel’s fingers, is focused on the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down as Joel lifts his hips.

You tug him a couple times, filling the hard velvet of him in your hold. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, fishing a condom out with a sly but shy smile. You breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of it, an almost verification that Joel, too, was expecting this. The foil’s captured between his teeth, and he pulls the package open. You take the condom out, your head bumping against the truck roof when you rise up and slide the condom down his length.

Joel tugs your panties to the side and holds them as you line him up and sink down on him. He fills. He splits. He stretches. Joel hisses through his teeth when you take all of him in and stay there. The truck cab is warm, cocooning the two of you in a fog of breath and desperation.

“God, Joel,” you gasp, adjusting your legs in the cramped cab.

He holds you, arms bracketing your back, and moves you up and down on his dick, whispering your name into your ear. Your fingers thread through his hair, clinging to him when you begin to move. You lean back, and your back presses against the horn, a short honk escaping into the ether of the night. You freeze, guilty looks traded before you both laugh.

“Just like old times,” Joel chuckles, wrapping his arms around you.

He shifts, awkwardly moving to lie back against the bench, keeping his cock still seated deep inside you. Now, you can ride him the way you should be riding a man like him… even if your knee is digging into the middle seat buckle.

He keeps your panties pulled aside, thumb pressing against your clit with the perfect, rhythmic thumping that makes your thighs shake. Joel keeps saying your name, almost praying it, like if he says it enough, you might not leave tomorrow.

The windows fog completely. Your hand is planted on the back window, streaking your fingers down it, the other gripping the grab handle above the passenger door. Joel fucks into you, thrusting hard, the slapping of your skin mixing with the creak of his truck.

He whispers your name, over and over, as if it could keep you here, as if wanting was enough. Every utterance of your name that escapes his lips brings you closer to another orgasm, and then, when you look down, seeing the way his eyes watch you with reverence, a slight smile ticking his lip up, you cum, your fingers slipping down the fogged window, leaving streaks.

Joel watches you, awe and obsession all over his face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum,” he groans.

You collapse against him, folding your chest against his, panting for him. He slows, thrusting deep inside you but moving languidly, savoring the feel of your pussy wrapped around his cock. When his lips find yours again, he rumbles a sigh of happiness against your mouth. This doesn’t feel like fucking anymore. No, this feels akin to like the last night together before you left for college. Tears threaten in your eyes, but you blink them away, focusing solely on the luscious ache of Joel inside you. 

You can feel him getting closer and you pull away, staring into his eyes, one hand on the back of his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, the other resting your palm against the bristle of his cheek. He stares back, dark brown eyes wide and adoring. The way he looks at you, the slight part of his lips, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the longing in his eyes makes your pussy pulse, another orgasm making you even more love drunk on Joel. Your cunt clenches around his cock, milking his release out of him. His body arches into yours, the grip his fingers leave against your skin will surely leave marks you’ll want to stare at in the mirror and watch the way they fade. You watch the euphoria spread across his face when he cums, the sound of your name gritted out between his lips, the half growl, half groan of it makes your heart ache. Joel’s under you, his strong arms wrapped around you and you stay like that for a while, connected and breathing each other in. But soon, the truck turns cold, and reality creeps in. You climb off his lap, and you both get dressed, moving awkwardly in the small front seat. You sit together, warm, aching, and wanting to make time stand still. You lean your head against his shoulder, basking in the afterglow and comfort of him. Maybe you did screw everything up when you left? But you can’t change the past, and at least, for tonight, you made the right choice in seeing him again.

He kisses the top of your head. “This is it for us, isn’t it?” he says, his low voice full of gravel and heartache.

“Probably.”

“I’ll always love you, you know.”

You close your eyes at this admission.

“I know,” you whisper. “I always will, too.”

It's past midnight, now. Christmas is done, today you go home, back to LA, where your friends, your apartment, your career, and your life are. In only hours, you’ll leave Austin and the only person who really knew you.

Joel drives back to the parking lot, his hand on your thigh the whole way. You notice how he just drives around, taking streets that don’t lead to your car. But you don’t complain, you’re too busy watching the way the passing street lights glow and dim his face, tears close to welling in your eyes, but never allowing yourself that weakness.

His truck idles next to your mom’s car, now. And when he shifts the truck into park, he lets out a low, sad sigh. “This was… this was good.” “It was.”

“I got something for you,” he says. “Well… I’ve had it forever… but I want you to have it.”

He reaches across you, into the glove box, and he pulls out a rolled-up bundle of familiar heather gray. His shirt from high school.

“Wore it to sleep in ‘n everything last night, just like you always asked me to.”

You smile wide when you take it from him, imagining the way the shirt now sits tight on his filled-out adult frame.

“I love it,” you say, turning to look into his eyes. “I love it a lot.”

His smile spreads across his face before he leans in and kisses you. It feels like a goodbye kiss, deep and burning with desire, almost like his lips are begging for you to stay. When you finally allow yourselves to part, you’re both breathing heavy, and if you don’t leave now, you’re scared you’ll never leave. Joel opens his truck door, gets out, and you slide out after him.

The night air is cold, the breeze cooling your truck and Joel warmed body. He leads you to your mom’s car, and when you unlock it, he opens the door for you.

You kiss him again, and he pulls you tight against him, almost suffocating you, but it’s the best way to lose your breath.

“When you leave here, can we maybe still stay in touch this time?” he asks when he pulls away. “Even if it hurts?”

“I already planned on calling you when I got home.”

—-

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon, @valevntine

[beefros-sin-bin]

how dare you make me feel, Louvy. HOW. DARE.

God this was good. Good old fashioned pining never felt so angsty.

[sp00kymulderr]

i've got my love to keep me warm

Joel Miller x transmasc!reader

A lover boy ficlet

Words: 700~

Warnings/tags: Trans masculine reader, gender dysphoria due to reader hiding their transness from family, angst, comfort, love oh my god they are so in love, kissing. Mention of reader using binder and packer. There is no universal trans experience, and therefore this is personal to me. very quickly written, Gideon experiences emotions! Unedited and unbeta'd.

Summary: Visiting your family for the holidays has always been hard, but this year you have someone special by your side

“I can turn around, you know? We could just go home. Tell ‘em I’m sick or something…”

You sigh for the millionth time today and shake your head. Joel only wants to protect you, to make sure you’re happy, and you’re forever grateful of this. But this feeling isn’t one you should run away from, as much as you’d like to.

You continue looking out of the window, watching the neighbourhood, Christmas lights blurring as the truck speeds up.

“Baby, can you say something?” He reaches out, a squeeze to your knee.

“Yeah. Yeah...sorry...just…” You shake your head again, not sure what exactly to say. Unsure how to properly describe the maelstrom of emotions that have been stirring in your since the morning, threatening to break free.

It’s always been a hard time of year. Family is never easy, right? But you love them, you do, even as you hide the real you from their sights. You’ve told Joel about 50 times today that he needs to remember to call you his girlfriend, to use feminine pronouns, to not mention anything about the man that you are. He got it the first time, but he listened every time, as patient and understanding as the first.

“I should’ve worn something else”

Joel tuts softly, he knows this isn’t about clothes. He knows because you’ve been panicking about this all week. At first he thought you were worried about introducing him to your extended family but he quickly understood that it was far, far more than that. He glances over at you in your oversized Christmas jumper and a black jeans. You’d opted not to bind, just in case, and he knows you feel wrong without a binder and a packer. You’ve put a little makeup on today, to try and look more like what your family expects.

Still he only sees you. Just you, his handsome boyfriend.

“I packed your binder in my bag, just in case.” He mutters, all casual, like you don’t have to look away and blink back a sudden spring of tears because such a simple gesture means the entire world. No one knows you like Joel, no one at all. Your heart beats a little too fast, a little too loud in your chest. Just like every day with him, you are reminded that this is what being loved feels like.

“And those boxers of mine you’re always stealing. Hope Santa bought you your own pair this y-”

“Pull over” You interrupt, turning towards him.

Joel’s brows pull together in confusion, but he doesn’t question the request, pulling towards the sidewalk and putting the truck into park outside a house with a collection of cartoonish, plastic reindeers on the front lawn.

You waste no time in unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing awkwardly onto his lap, bumping against the gear stick and then the steering wheel as you make yourself comfortable. You take his face in your hands, thumbs caressing his cheeks. You lean in, and press your lips to his in a soft and infinitely loving kiss.

“Baby?”

“Why are you so good to me?”

Joel chuckles, and covers his hands over yours. He pecks another kiss against your lips before responding

“Well, y’see, I like you. Love you, actually”

The reindeers outside flash bright colours, illuminating the cab in red and blue and green. It reminds you of the night you met, fireworks filling the night sky.

“Love you too” You murmur, looking deep into his dark eyes, unsure how to fully convey just how much you love him.

You’re sure he knows anyway.

“And listen…” He starts, moving his hands to rest on your waist “I know this is going to be hard for you, but you’ve got me here. And if anything gets too much, or you need a break, or you need to go scream into a pillow or somethin’, you just tell me. Okay?”

You nod, and when his eyes search yours for more, you respond “Okay. I know... I have you”

“You have me, always. And I know you, always”

Reluctantly, you climb off of his lap and back into the passenger seat, already missing his warmth. As you drive on you wonder if you’ll ever tell your family. If with Joel's support one day you’ll get to that point. You hope so.

But for now that doesn’t matter. All the matters is that you have him by your side, and maybe everything is going to be okay.

[beefros-sin-bin]

I adore these two so much it hurts!

I love your iteration of Joel. So tender and sweet. He sees lover boy just as he is and loves him no less.

[strang3lov3]

8-Ball

Uncle Willie can fit the whole thing inside ya.

Tags - smut, inappropriate use of cue sticks, inappropriate use of an 8 ball, object insertion, cum as lube, unprotected piv, creampie, masturbation, very public sex, girthy age gap, and you clearly have low self esteem. 1.6k words A/N - ladies and gentlemen, my best work yet. the filthiest thing i've ever written. you're welcome

The Budweiser lamps hanging above the pool table emit warm, yellowy beams of light, and smoke curls through them. Uncle Willie, he calls himself, is next to you and watching closely as you line up a shot with your cue, and he’s puffing on his cigarette. He’s not a nice man, and he reeks of weed and tequila. Definitely didn’t shower today. This sleazy old fuck kicked off a conversation with you during a game of darts by saying whoever makes a bullseye first, the other has to take a piece of clothing off. Sure, you drunk old fuck, you thought. Play your little game. Willie threw his dart and you found yourself sliding off your panties from under your skirt as he watched, licking his lips. “Gimme those,” he murmured, and you dropped the fabric into his palm. Willie sniffed them, then tucked them into his front pocket. Suffice it to say, Uncle Willie’s not someone you’d ever take home to meet your daddy, largely because Willie’s got ten years on him. But then, those ten years are largely why you’re into this fucking creep. So…

He’s not…bad looking, though he’s not necessarily good looking, either. He’s not even particularly nice or even a good flirt. You’re just that broken inside, or something. But that’s a problem to address another day. Uncle Willie’s smacking you on the ass with his cue, urging you to hurry the fuck up. So you take your shot, and you miss. There’s solids all over the green felt, but the stripes are quickly disappearing. Willie said he’s always stripes. 

He clicks his tongue. “Gotta put your hips into it, kid. C’mere a second, let Uncle Willie show ya.” Willie rounds the mahogany pool table and comes up close behind you, leaning over you as he guides your movements. He thrusts his hips into you harshly, grinding his hard cock against your bare slit. “Yeah, ya feel that?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, arching back into Willie, dampening his pants with your arousal.  

“Yeah, you fuckin’ feel it. You like that, huh?” he whispers against your ear, now rolling his hips steadily, repeatedly. You can feel the blunt head of his cock against you, separated by only one layer of fabric - Uncle Willie doesn’t like underwear. Too constricting, he says. He’s gotta be himself, free that bird. 

“Now go ‘head and try it again. Don’t fuck it up this time.” 

You sigh when Willie backs away, frustrated by the loss of friction. Lining up once more, you focus on trying to hit an orange ball - pulling back on the cue, gearing up to hit it forward. Right as you do, Willie nudges your cunt with his own cue, making you gasp and screw it up all over again. 

“What’s the matter with you, fuckin’ dipshit?”

“You - you’re–” 

“I’m - I’m - I’m - Jesus, spit it out, goddamit.” 

“Teasing.”

“Yeah, well, this is the real world, babydoll. Uncle Willie fights dirty.” 

You roll your eyes, then let them flutter shut again as Willie comes up behind you, seemingly not done with his teasing. He drags the rounded edge of his cue up and down your slippery pussy, making you drip all over that wood, and heaven only knows how many people have touched it and when was the last time it was cleaned. Willie moves it through your folds, over your clit and back again, then pushes it into your drooling slit. You inhale sharply, bending further over the pool table as Willie examines his surroundings, taking note of a few people watching it happen. Men, some women. Some couples, too, with hands down each other’s pants, minding their own business apart from the fact they’re getting off on what Willie’s doing to you. 

“How many of these things can we fit inside ya, huh? Give - gimme that shit, yeah. Let’s see here.” Willie takes your cue stick out of your hand and sucks on it, making the wood drip with his saliva. He rucks up your skirt and spreads his hand wide over your spine, holding you down as he lines up the second cue with your entrance. Willie eases it into you, clicking his tongue when he’s met with some resistance. “Shit. Gimme a minute, baby. Gotta grease you up a little.” 

He rests both cue sticks on the green felted pool table, then undoes his pants with one hand in a slick, deft movement. Willie spits into the center of his palm loudly, then gives himself a couple of tugs before pressing the head of his cock against your entrance, and then he quickly slides into you. One swift, hard thrust, because that’s how he does it. No time for chivalry or gentlemanly bullshit, asking if you’re ready and if you’re okay. Fuck all that. 

You moan quietly, biting on your lip to silence yourself as Willie fucks you with no consideration for your comfort or pleasure. Because this isn’t the main course, right? It’s about one thing only. Two, actually - Willie stretching you out, and Willie painting your insides in all of his slippery, warm cum. He grunts as he pounds into you, his gray pubes tickling your ass cheeks. “Goddamn, baby. Y’got a real nice fuckin’ cunt.”

Willie speeds up, gripping both of your hips in his hands. He gives your ass a smack, alerting other bargoers to what he’s doing to you, and beyond somebody whistling, nobody gives a shit. “Fuck, oh - Jesus,” he grunts, the sound of his skin slapping against yours getting louder as he gets sloppier, closer. Willie groans loudly as he cums, shooting load after load of his hot fucking spend inside you until he’s emptied his balls completely. “Now you stay like that,” Willie commands, then sniffs loudly and spits onto the floor. He pulls his pants back up and collects a bit of his cum from your cunt that’s all stretched out and twitching, dripping a creamy mixture of both of you. 

Uncle Willie coats both of the cues with the mess and slides them both in much easier this time, fitting them as deep into you as he can. “Yeah, how ‘bout that. Hot fuckin’ dog, huh? Let me grab a few more. This shit’s gonna be on my Christmas card.” 

He leaves you lying there, bent over the table with your legs spread, two cues fit snugly inside your cunt. Willie grabs a couple more off the wall and returns to you, then downs the rest of his drink. He calls out to the bartender and points to his empty glass, then snaps twice. Another double, he mouths. Willie fits a finger between the two cues already inside you, collecting more of his cum, and lubes up the third and fourth ones. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moan, feeling him nudge the third one into you. He pushes further, chuckling to himself.

“You’re a fuckin’ trooper, kid. Doin’ great.” 

Willie’s about to add the fourth cue to the mix when he gets a better idea, though. The bartender replaces his drink, and sitting right next to his new glass of whiskey is a shiny black 8-ball. 

“Hey,” he says, patting you on the ass. “I’ll getcha whatever’s on your Christmas list if ya let me fit that 8-ball there in your little snatch.” 

“Mm, I want a pony.” 

“Sure kid, I’ll get ya a fuckin’ pony.” 

Willie pulls all three cues out of your pussy and trades them for the black resin ball. He smears what’s left of his cum inside you around the object (and there is plenty) and presses it against your hole that’s twitching and gaping. 

“Care - go slow.” 

“Oh, Uncle Willie’s real gentle,” he assures you, slowly easing the ball inside. “M’always gentle. Deep breaths, honey, you got it.” 

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut. Even with all the prep, the 8-ball is still a fucking stretch. “But don’t just fuckin stand there, sweetheart, rub your fuckin’ clit a little. Jesus. Give yourself a fightin’ chance here.” 

You reach between your thighs, feeling around for your clit. You drag your fingers over the 8-ball, over Willie’s fingers, then settle against your sensitive bud, rubbing it in circles. The pleasure that action creates masks the pain of Willie fitting that thick, hard fucking ball into you, allowing him to ease it the rest of the way inside you. 

“Make yourself cum now, sugar. Let Uncle Willie see.” 

Willie sips on his drink and sits on a stool under the dartboard, watching you rub your clit in circles. You moan his name with your eyes shut, and Gerry Rafferty plays loudly over the speakers in the background. In this quiet, dark corner of this shitty fucking bar, you work yourself to the edge, and push yourself past that point with Willie’s enthusiastic encouragement. “Yeah, baby. Cum fuckin’ hard for me.” 

That tense pleasure builds and builds until it spills over and you gush all over that black 8-ball, rapidly clenching around it. “Go-lly, sister,” Willie says in a low tone, whistling as you ride out your orgasm. He slides off his stool and snaps a picture of you with a digital camera he keeps on his person, flash on. “Go ‘head and push it out for me now, sweetheart.” Willie holds his hand under your cunt, waiting for the ball to drop into his hand as you use your muscles to push the object out of you. “Attagirl,” he says, placing it back onto the felt. 

“You’re not gonna like, clean it off?”

“Fuck, no. Shit's sacred and blessed now, baby. That’s good luck. Now fuckin’ scoot over, dammit. S’my turn.” 

Please reblog and say kind things if you enjoyed ❤️❤️ it keeps me motivated to write.

[beefros-sin-bin]

WELP. IVE BEEN CORRUPTED BY BILLIARDS NOW.

[bitchesuntitled]

Dieter Soothes His Soul wc: 1233

Summary: Dieter copes with stress by getting ice cream Warnings/Tags: Cursing, Reeses ice cream bar, driving, sober living, ice cream fiasco A/N: Being sober is some weird shit. The events in this story may or may not be based on a true story.... If I can't laugh at my own experiences then I'm just gonna wind up crying. Thank you much to @beefrobeefcal and @encasedinobsidian for their love and eyes. Also Kiki for the lovely photo of Dieter!

Masterlist||AO3

Dieter had never felt so stressed in his life. He was trying to cope as best as he could without the drugs or alcohol. He loved being sober but in times like this where the stress became too much, he felt he didn’t know what to do.

His therapist had encouraged distracting himself. He tried driving around but soon became bored, winding up at the gas station down the street from his house. A Reese’s ice cream bar. That is what he needed. What better way to distract yourself than ice cream? Ice cream was not the end all be all cure, but in the moment it helped. It soothed his soul to the very core. The cold cream going down his throat to his stomach felt like a satisfied itch that had finally been scratched.

The only thing it hadn’t helped was his waist line. He wore pajama pants more now for the stretchy band than for comfort. Although, they were comfortable too and that was important. He glanced down at his purple plaid pajama pants he had put on earlier this evening. They were a light and flowy material, perfect for the humid weather. Dieter loved these pants, the way they swished as he walked from his car to the gas station entrance made him feel glamorous.

Dieter made his way to the frozen container of sweet treats, eyeing all the options. Sure, he’d thought a Reese’s bar was what he wanted but who could be positive of their choice unless they knew all their options? But alas, the frozen good of choice was still the Reese’s bar. The way the cake pieces crumbled in his mouth after taking a bite was his favorite part and the peanut butter ice cream was a wonderful addition. Dieter grabbed one of the orange packages and triumphantly made his way to the cashier.

“Will that be all, sir?” The woman behind the counter asked, popping the gum in her mouth waiting on his response.

“Yes, please.” Dieter replied with a nod of his head. It felt like the times he was meeting his dealer to score some coke. His fingers fidgeted with the mat on top of the counter, his nail caught on the corner piece that was broken and produced a soothing click. 

“Rewards?” She asked, fighting back a yawn.

Dieter shook his head, his nail clicking against that broken corner of the mat faster- clickclickclick- growing impatient as he waited for the cashier to punch the keys on the register to ring up the delicious morsel he wanted to consume.

“That’ll be two sixtey-nine.” She grunted, her glasses sliding down her nose as she looked towards him again.

Dieter rammed his hand into his pocket, producing a twenty dollar bill. He threw it down on the counter before swooping up the ice cream again and made a dash for the door.

“Sir,” the cashier yelled after him, “Your change!”

“Keep it!” Dieter shouted, pushing all his weight into the door. The fresh humid air whipped him in the face as he walked to his car. He didn’t care about his change or how he looked like he may have just stolen something from the store. He just wanted to get to his car and eat his ice cream. It had been a day.

His car beeped, lights flickering across the dark asphalt, once he got close enough that the key fob would register. Dieter flung his car door open, quickly getting into the driver's seat and started the ignition. He sat debating before he moved— wait til he got home to eat his treat or eat it during the drive? Now, he knew he wasn’t the best at multitasking but the more he glanced in the passenger seat and saw the orange and brown packaging sitting there as if mocking him ‘I’ll be melted by the time you get home,” he had made up his mind.

Dieter reached over grabbing the reese’s ice cream bar and tore into the packaging with vigor. The small cake pieces crumbled off the bar and fell into his lap but he didn’t care. The first bite into the bar was beyond anything he could explain. If heaven were real, Dieter felt he had found it inside of this peanut butter ice cream bar wrapped in chocolate and vanilla cake pieces. He let out a deep sigh of contentment as he swallowed that bite and went for another, putting his car into drive and making his way home.

Two blocks. That’s all it took before all hell broke loose in Dieter’s vehicle. The Reese’s bar betrayed him! Dieter went to take a rather large bite of the treat and it broke in half. Two whole pieces of the ice cream bar toppled off the wooden stick and straight into his lap. He grabbed one, then the other, and began to panic as they started to melt in the palm of his hand. He did the only thing he could think to do, shove both pieces into his waiting mouth. 

He shrieked as the cold of the ice cream seared its way into his brain. He gulped down the ice cream that was in his mouth and let out a heaving breath. One of his hands tightened around the steering wheel and the other held onto the wooden stick while he screamed profanities at the windshield, as flecks of the cake pieces flew from his lips. It was too dark to see where all the cake pieces had landed and in his continued panic Dieter began to swipe his hand along the car's fabric interior, wishing he had taken the advice of the salesman at the dealership about getting leather seats instead of cloth.

Dieter could feel the crumbled mess through the thin material of his pants under his butt. How on earth did this ice cream bar have so many damn cake pieces?! He was only a couple blocks away from home, everything would be fine, he just had to make it home. He lifted the wooden stick, noticing the lump of ice cream that clung on for life. He poked out his tongue and licked it up, savoring the last little remnants of his blessed treat turned nightmare.

He let out a small satisfied hum as he pulled into the driveway of his home before reality settled in. The mess, the mess he made. He turned the car off and sat as the dome lights turned on. He glanced down to see a smear of dark chocolate coming from between his legs. He groaned as he lifted his butt off the seat to see better but his belly was in the way of his view. He let out an irritated grunt as he got out of the car and turned around to inspect the damage. Melted chocolate pieces warmed by his bottom threaded themselves between the fabric of his car’s seat. He groaned, folding his hands on the top of his car, glaring at the mess.

“Fuck!” He snapped, reaching for his phone, swiping until he found his assistant's contact, sending them a quick text.

I need my car detailed

“Oh fuck me!” Dieter whined, feeling the urge to cry as he stared at the mess again, wanting to reassure himself and his assistant he sent another message.

I swear I didn’t shit myself! It’s chocolate!

[beefros-sin-bin]

[fangirleaconmigo]

Angst fics can help people come to terms with their own grief, begin healing, or give people that good cry that they need.

Smut fics can help people affirm and accept their sexuality. It can help them explore their sexuality in a safe way. They can also just be fun, and having fun is a drastically undervalued way to improve your mental health.

Dark fics can help people face their fears or process their trauma. It can make them feel safer and more secure. It can help them find their courage.

Fluff fics can give people rest and respite and comfort. It can give them hope that soft places exist and that maybe there is one out there for them. It can bring up their mood, which, if they have depression, can be a life saver.

And every fic people write makes someone feel less alone.

Point being, just because a particular thing doesn’t serve you, doesn’t mean it lacks value.

This is not to say that we have to consume all fic uncritically. Of course not. It is just to say that entire “genres” aren’t trash or lacking value just because they don’t serve you.

[berryispunk]

Denim

pairing: Frankie Morales xf! reader

tags: dry humping, bulge appreciation, porn without plot, Frankie is a bit mouthy, unprotected PinV

word count: ~ 990

Happy Frankie Friday. Have this little treat for it 🤭

The couch is too small for this. Or maybe it’s just too small for both of you.

Frankie’s slouched low, cap tipped back, jeans rough under your bare thighs. His hands are heavy on your hips—steady, but twitching, like he’s fighting the urge to take over.

You roll against him, slow at first, feeling the thick line of him trapped under denim. The fabric catches on you just right, and you bite your lip, trying not to let the sound slip.

His breath stutters. “Mierda…” The word’s gravel in his throat, heat in your spine, making you burn up with need.

You keep moving, hips drawing lazy, deliberate circles, your hands braced on his chest. His shirt’s warm from his skin beneath, rising and falling faster now. 

“Baby,” he warns or maybe pleads. The brim of his cap shadows his eyes, but you catch the way they darken when you grind a little harder, the damp starting to seep through your underwear onto his jeans. 

His grip tightens. You can feel him swelling against the denim, the seam pressing into you until your thighs tremble.

Then you both feel it. The small wet spot blooming on his jeans where you’ve been riding him. His jaw locks, a sharp inhale dragging through his teeth.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice is low, wrecked. One hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in until your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling. “You’re gonna drive me insane doing that.”

But you just smile wicked and roll your hips again.

In this moment the last thread of Frankie’s restraint snaps.

One second you’re in control—his girl, straddling him, making him straining against his jeans—and the next his hands are everywhere.

He surges forward, one palm splayed across your lower back, dragging you flush against him as his mouth finds your throat. His breath is hot, lips moving in desperate, open-mouthed kisses that leave heat blooming across your skin.

“You think I’m just gonna sit here and let you do that to me?” His voice is thick, almost ragged, like it’s costing him something to form words instead of just growl into you.

You gasp when his hips push up hard, grinding you down onto him, denim against the thin cotton of your panties, the friction almost obscene now. The wet spot you left on his jeans spreads, catching with every movement, making his cock twitch eagerly under you.

“Feel that?” he murmurs against your ear, thrusting slow. “That’s what you do to me.”

Your fingers fist in the front of his shirt, knuckles white, because his pace is nothing like your teasing circles—this is needy. Every snap of his hips drags a sound out of you you can’t swallow down, so you moan.  Let the pleasure take over.

He groans in response to it, the sound shaking through his chest into yours. “Nena if I don’t get you out of these clothes in the next thirty seconds…”

You smile against his jaw, breathless. “Then don’t.”

That’s all it takes—his hands are already on your waistband, dragging it down. 

Frankie’s mouth crashes onto yours—hot, needy, claiming. The kiss is all teeth and tongue and low, guttural sounds he’s not bothering to hide anymore. His hands are everywhere at once, shoving your shirt up, skimming your ribs, cupping the swell of your breasts until you arch into him.

“You don’t know what you just asked for,” he groans into your mouth. You barely get a breath before the cool air hits your damp skin.

His warm, thick and calloused fingers find you immediately and he curses when he feels how wet you are. “Joder… all from riding me like that?” He strokes along your entrance once, slow, like he’s savoring it, then faster, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your breath catch and your fingers curl in his shirt.

You’re still straddling him, knees bracketing his hips, and when he slides two fingers inside you, the angle is perfect—deep, curling up until your head tips back. He watches every second, eyes dark and hungry.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, fucking his fingers into you, thumb pressing tight circles above. “Dripping all over me and I haven’t even—” His free hand is already working on his belt, impatience winning over.

The sound of the buckle is loud in the small space, and then his jeans are open, his cock springing free—thick, flushed, the tip already slick. He barely gets his jeans out of the way before he’s lining himself up, both of you still half-dressed.

He guides you to sink onto him in one slow, devastating push. His head falls back against the couch cushion, a broken fuck punching out of his lungs. His hands clamp to your hips, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Ride me,” he rasps. “The way you did before—no, harder—fuck, nena—yeah, just like that,” he encourages you.

The wet slap of skin-on-skin fills the room as you start to move, bouncing on him, every drag making your thighs shake. He’s muttering under his breath, a stream of Spanish curses and filthy praise, his hands guiding your rhythm until you’re both teetering on the edge.

When you come, it’s with your forehead against his, nails digging into his shoulders, his name falling from your mouth like you’ve forgotten anything else. Frankie grunts, pulls you tight against him, and spills into you with a shudder that leaves him gasping.

For a moment, neither of you move. His arms stay heavy around you, heartbeat thudding under your cheek like it’s trying to catch up. Then he huffs a low, rough laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You good?” he asks, voice so hoarse it sounds like it barely survived.

You nod, nuzzling into his neck with a little grin. “Better than good.”

His smile curves against your skin, tender but still laced with heat. “Yeah… me too. But don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

And you don’t know if you should be terrified or thrilled.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!): @speaktothehandpeasants @god-is-an-astronaut @chasingthepoguelife @harriedandharassed @kungfucapslock @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @whirlwindrider29 @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @mani-pedro @axshadows @sawymredfox @letsjustgowiththeflow @kirsteng42 @holbrk @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @thepilatesprincess @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @rav3n-pascal22 @misstokyo7love @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28 @perodjarin @enchantedreader @beezusvreeland @lillaydee @underneath-the-sky-again @zooty-and-fruity @angiewatson @vampiredoggies-blog @billionairecowgirl @titabel @katw474 @mystickittytaco @flyingovertheandes @marcuspikegf @604to647

[beefros-sin-bin]

good christ.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

D x C

Pairing: Bodyguard Clint Flood x Dieter Bravo x Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: Clint walks in on you and Dieter in a particular situation and decides to join in. Warnings: ALL PORN NO PLOT. SMUT, MMF threesome, boot riding, man on man action, handjob, fingering, anal fingering, unprotected p in v, unprotected anal sex, two dudes eating one pussy, ass licking, dick sucking, spit as lube, panty sniffing, face sitting, facial, cum eating after anal, cream pie, light choking, ass slapping, a singular slap against reader’s cheek, being called a cum slut, weed, whiskey, not beta read, writer mainly wrote this while ⬆️ and horned up. Words: 6969 <-nice

A/N: My first submission for mine, @schnarfer, and @mothandpidgeon's Magic Number Challenge. This is absolutely not beta read and is very much just self indulgent smut. I saw Freaky Tales on Sunday and uhhhh, I finished this REAL quick. Guys, what an amazing movie. I'm so happy @forspringcleaning and I can shout BIG MAN at each other again.

Masterlist

—-

Dizzying white smoke twists around Dieter’s face, spiraling in the air as he takes a slow hit from his joint. “That’s a good girl, look at you, pretty mouth full of my cock,” he grits, large hand resting on the back of your head. You stare up at him under heavy eyelids, knees pressing into the cool marble tile floor of the fancy, rented mansion. You haven’t even made it farther than the small entry way, both of you too drunk, happy, and horny for each other to do the proper thing and make it into the bedroom.

Dieter's cock drags in and out of your mouth, his hips bucking as he gently fucks your mouth, fingers intertwining with your hair, clutching slightly to guide your mouth.

His other hand fumbles in his pocket, taking out the delicate lace of your thong—the pair he just peeled off of you in the back of the limo, when his fingers slipped beneath your dress, exploring between your thighs, while his bodyguard drove up front, feigning ignorance to your muffled moans against Dieter’s neck.

He brings your panties to his face, pressing it against his nose and inhaling the scent of you in, his eyes rolling back when he breathes in your essence. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. "They're still so soaked."

Your fingers dig into the soft muscle of his thighs stabilizing yourself so you can slowly let the warm, heavy weight of him fill your mouth. He stretches your mouth, your throat relaxing to let him push himself deeper. He groans out a long "fuuuuuck" that makes your pussy clench as the pad of his thumb presses against the divot of your cheek as you hollow them, sucking and slurping, staring into his eyes as the joint hangs from his lips.

The straps of your dress slip down as you reach back, struggling to unzip the back of it as your mouth stays on Dieter’s cock.

A sudden woosh of chilled night air hits your heated skin when the heavy, wooden front door swings open. Your eyes widen in shock as the tall, broad-shouldered sillhouette of a man fills the doorframe.

Clint. Dieter’s ever-present shadow, his personal bodyguard, the opposite of your boyfriend. Intimidating, gruff, and serious, now stands frozen in the doorway. His face shifts from neutral professional to something darker and primal as he takes in the scene before him.

You, on your knees, Dieter’s cock in your mouth, your dress hiked up your back exposing your bare ass, while Dieter stands unabashedly naked. You immediately try to pull away, cheeks burning with embarrassment, but Dieter’s hand plants against your skull firmly.

“It’s okay baby, Clint wants to see you like this. Don’t you Clint?” he asks, looking over towards the menacing force of a man. Dieter doesn’t seem to mind, a lazy smile spreads across his face as he takes another hit from the joint.

Clint steps inside, out of the shadows, closing the door behind him. “Sir,” he says gruffly, now standing so close to you, you can feel his domineering presence, smell the scent of his leather jacket mixed with heady scent of Dieter’s smoke. He doesn’t move, he just stands there, his hands planted against his belt buckle, his dark eyes focused on you.

Your pulse quickens at both men’s attention. Dieter’s grip on your hair loosens slightly, allowing you to pull away, but there’s something in the way Clint’s watching you, that holds you in place.

"See how beautiful she looks?" Dieter asks, running his thumb across your bottom lip, slick with saliva. "I've never seen anyone take me so well."

Clint takes a single step forward, then another. The heavy thud of Clint’s boots matches the heavy thud of your heart against your chest. His shadow overtakes you, you forget how to breathe around Dieter’s cock as you feel Clint’s hand grab a strand of your hair and pet it.

“She’s perfect,” Clint says, his voice deeper than you’ve ever heard it.

Dieter chuckles, a puff of smoke escaping his lips. "You've been watching her for months, haven't you? I've seen how you look at her when you think I don't notice."

“Mm,” Clint lowly hums an affirmative noise.

“You like watching how she sucks my cock?”

Dieter gently taps against your head reminding you to move, you obey immediately, bobbing your head and swirling your tongue.

Clint’s rough fingers thread into the hair against your scalp, joining Dieter’s, as if he can’t deny himself.

“Go ahead baby, show Clint how good you are. Show him what the pretty mouth can do.”

Both of their hands guide you along Dieter’s length. Pushing you all the way down to the base of him dark with curls, saliva pooling in your mouth as you slightly gag, your wide eyes staring up at Dieter unblinking with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he watches you deep throat his cock. Clint’s grip is firmer than Dieter’s, less forgiving, as he pushes you forward.

The marble floor is hard against your knees, but you welcome the discomfort as your thighs clench together, slick with arousal for the two men. You’re writhing, as both men pull against your hair in tandem, making you suck and slobber all over Dieter’s cock. You accept their power, moaning around Dieter's cock, the vibration making him hiss through his teeth.

“I think you like watching her,” Dieter says with a arrogant smirk. “I think she likes you watching. Don’t you baby? You like having an audience?”

You manage a small nod against their hands, writhing on your knees, hands clamped around Dieter’s thighs, trying to balance yourself as you pray for a taste of friction against your cunt.

You can feel the tension in Clint’s body without even looking at him, much different than Dieter’s unworried stature.

“Looks like you’re suffering down there, aren’t you babygirl?” Clint grits, you can feel his labored breathing behind you.

You whimper along Dieter’s cock before he pulls himself out of yout mouth. “Answer him,” Dieter commands.

“I am,” you respond breathless.

“Good girl,” Dieter praises. “Clint, you think you can take care of my girl?”

“I think I can Mr. Bravo.”

"Please,” you plead.

You feel Clint's heavy boot sliding forward between your knees, pushing them apart. The toe of it nudging at your inner thighs.

“Spread wider for me,” he commands. The gravel of his voice causes a new gush of want to spill out of your pussy.

You obey instantly, your legs trembling as you let your knees slide against the floor, widening to let Clint position his boot directly beneath you.

Hard leather presses against your cunt, a gasp leaving your lips as Clint applies just enough pressure. You feel exposed, vulnerable, caught between the man you love and his powerful bodyguard.

Clint begins to rock his foot slightly, your wetness covering the leather. You moan, grinding your cunt down, relishing in the friction from the leather.

“That's it, babygirl," Dieter encourages, his hand guiding your mouth back to his cock. "Show Clint how good you can be for both of us."

You’re dizzy between eagerly taking Dieter back between your lips as the tip of Clint’s boot rubs against your swollen pussy.

Clint’s hand tightens in your hair, his breathing growing more ragged behind you. “Look at her, she's soaking my fuckin’ boot.”

“She’s a greedy girl,” Dieter chuckles, tapping your cheek affectionately as you hollow them around him. "Aren't you, baby?”

You nod eagerly around Dieter’s cock as you look up at him with veneration. Your movie star boyfriend, too cool and calm to care that another man’s boot against your pussy is making you squirm.

“Tell her what you want to do to her,” Dieter regards to Clint, low and commanding. “She likes it when you talk.”

Clint's hand slides from your hair down to your neck, his calloused palm wrapping around your throat from behind. Not squeezing, just holding you there, reminding you of his strength as his boot continues to press against your aching center.

"I want to watch her cum on my boot first. Then I want to taste her ‘n clean her little cunt off.”

Your entire body shudders at his filthy words. A moan vibrates around Dieter’s length as Clint’s grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your pulse beat harder.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Dieter asks, his thumb tracing your stretched lips. “Another man’s mouth all over your pretty pussy.”

You nod desperately, grinding harder against Clint's boot. Your thighs tremble, dress bunched around your waist as you rock shamelessly against the leather.

"Look at her," Clint grunts. "Fucking desperate for it."

Frantically nodding, your hips swirling down, working in earnest against Clint’s boot as your mouth worships Dieter’s cock. Clint’s hand around your throat sends currents through your body, making you feel owned and possessed by both men.

“She’s close,” Dieter groans. "I can tell by the way she's sucking me. Gets sloppy when she's about to cum."

Clint increases the pressure of his boot, angling it so the hard edge presses directly against your clit. "Cum for us," he orders. "Show us what a good girl you are."

Your body responds instantly to his command, crying out around Dieter’s cock as your orgasm given to you by both men crashes into you. Your pussy gushes out against Clint’s boot as he continues to rub it against you. Your eyes rolling back as your release washes over you in overwhelming waves.

"That's it," Clint grits, his grip on your throat tightening slightly as you ride out your orgasm. "Give it to me."

Dieter pulls out of your mouth, letting you gasp and cry out properly as your body convulses. "Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he admires, stroking your hair tenderly as you collapse forward, catching yourself on your hands.

Clint moves his boot from between your legs, before he kneels behind you, gripping your hips. "Sir?" he asks, looking to Dieter for permission.

"She's all yours," Dieter says as he lazily strokes his cock, still wet with your spit. "Show her what you've been thinking about all these months."

Clint wastes no time, flipping you onto your back against the cold marble floor. He looms over you, a fire in his eyes. His usuaully stoic face is transformed with hunger, jaw clenched tight as he stares down at your disheveled form.

"Been watching you parade around in those little dresses," he says, resting his large hands on your knees. "Listening to you moan through the walls when he fucks you."

You’re heaving for air as you watch him take you in, slowly spreading your knees apart exposing your glistening pussy. Your dress is bunched around your waist, straps hanging off your shoulders, your tits spilling from the top of your low neckline.

“Look how pretty my girl is,” Dieter muses, sitting cross legged on the floor next to you, his joint still burning between his fingers as he watches. “All swollen and ready for your tongue Clint.”

Clint doesn't respond with words. Instead, he lowers himself to his knees, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider as his rough hands slide under your ass, lifting you slightly off the cold marble.

“Let me taste what’s yours, sir,” Clint growls, his possessive, hot breath searing against your pussy.

“Oh god,” you whimper as Clint lowers his face between your thighs. The first dash of his tongue makes you arch your back.

While Dieter's tongue is playful and teasing, Clint's is methodical and precise, flat and firm as he licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit.

“Jesus,” you gasp, one hand grasping Clint’s slicked back hair while the other finds Dieter’s soft thigh beside you.

Dieter strokes your hair as he watches Clint devour you. “Let him hear how good he makes you feel. Say his fucking name for me.”

“Clint,” you moan.

Clint groans against your flesh, vibrating against your cunt. His mouth works against you with precision making your thighs quiver around his head.

“Give her more,” Dieter directs. Clint immediately obeys, sucking your clit between his lips, his large hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider as his tongue delves deeper. He's relentless and focused, his dark eyes occasionally flicking up to watch your face contort in pleasure.

"Look at her," Dieter says lazily, taking another hit from his joint as he strokes your hair. "So fucking beautiful when she's getting her pussy eaten. In fact...” Dieter says, climbing across the floor and laying down next to Clint. “Move over, share my girl with me.” Dieter grins lazily, nudging his shoulder.

It’s almost comical watching two broad shouldered men try to fit in between your thighs, your muscles burning as both men stretch each leg open with a gripping hand.

A twitch of frustration passes through Clint’s usually stoic features before it turns into lust as two tongues work against each other lapping and sliding across your pussy.

“Oh my god,” you cry, clutching Clint’s hair with one hand as the other grips Dieter’s.

It’s obscene, the wetness between your legs being shared by them both as they devour you.

“I— I can’t—“ you stammer, struggling to breathe through it. Your body twitches, trying to pull away but Clint’s firm hands hold you in place.

"Yes, you can," Dieter says, his voice commanding even though he sounds just as wrecked as you. “And you fucking will.”

The two men create a rhythm against your swollen flesh that has you writhing between them, your body suspended in their grip.

Their tongues dance around each other, sometimes meeting in the middle against your flesh. Clint’s strong hand grips your thigh with bruising intensity while Dieter’s hand softly holds your thigh, trailing his hand teasingly along your inner thigh.

You’ve never made these noises before, crying, keening and wallowing both men’s names.

"Watch," Dieter commands, and you force your heavy eyelids open to see him slide two fingers inside you while Clint focuses on your clit. The visual alone—Dieter’s soft waves of chaos mixed with Clint’s perfectly swept back hair working together between your thighs—nearly makes you cum.

"I can feel her tightening," Dieter growls. “She’s close.”

Clint responds with a deep groan that reverberates through you. His dark eyes locking with yours as his tongue works faster.

"That's it," Dieter encourages, his fingers fucking you faster. "Give it to us, baby. Let us feel you”

The pressure inside you builds. You’re caught between the two men—Dieter’s fingers stretching you open, Clint’s steady tongue, two pairs of dark brown eyes watching you, the cool marble against your hot skin. It’s all too much.

“I’m—I’m…” you moan, unable to form coherent thoughts, let alone words, as your orgasm builds within you.

"Say our names," Dieter commands.

"Dieter," you gasp, your voice breaking. "Clint—oh god, Clint!"

The dam walls shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you with devastating force, your body arching off the floor as you’re pulled under by both men.

Dieter slides his fingers out of your quivering cunt with deliberate slowness, the wet sound echoes in the marble entryway. Your release coats his fingers, glistening in the dim light as he holds them up between himself and Clint.

"Look what she gave us," Dieter purrs as he presents his fingers to Clint. Your slick drips down toward his wrist.

Clint's usually impassive face transforms, his dark eyes fixating on Dieter's hand with an almost religious intensity. He leans forward slowly, his broad shoulders shifting between your spread legs.

"Go ahead," Dieter encourages, a lazy smile playing across his lips. "Taste what's ours."

Clint's large hand wraps around Dieter's wrist, steadying it as he leans in. His lips part, revealing the pink of his tongue before he takes Dieter's fingers into the heat of his mouth. Your breath catches at the sight—Dieter's fingers disappearing between Clint's full lips.

Clint's eyes lock with Dieter's as he sucks, hollowing his cheeks around Dieter’s fingers, just as he watched you do earlier.

Dieter groans as Clint’s tongue works between his fingers, cleaning every drop of you from his skin. You watch, enamored by the scene—big, strong and intimdating Clint sucking your boyfriend’s fingers before he releases them with a wet pop.

“She's delicious isn't she?” Dieter asks with a cocky smile.

“Better than I imagined,” he rumbles.

You’re still sprawled on the marble floor, dress in disarray, body shivering with aftershocks from your orgasm. They both watch you, your chest heaving, eyes wide, and mouth agape.

"Look at her," your boyfriend admires. "Fucking wrecked and we've barely started."

His bodyguard growls low in his throat as he rises, standing over you, his prescence large and controlling as he begins unbuckling his belt.

Dieter crawls across the floor, gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest as he sits cross-legged on the marble with you perched atop his lap. He grabs the hem of your dress lifting it over your head.

“You want to suck him, babygirl?” Dieter asks against your ear, his hands roaming your naked body. “You want to feel Clint’s cock inside your pretty mouth?”

You moan out a long yes, as Dieter’s hands cup your tits.

Clint’s eyes don’t leave yours as his hands work at his zipper, lowering his fly.

“She’s eager Clint, look how she’s watching you.”

You’re squirming on Dieter’s lap, his cock pressing hard against your lower back as he licks a line across your neck.

You feel each heavy step in your body as Clint slowly prowls over, the top of his jeans opened, the metal of his belt clinking with each step.

He stops in front of you, staring down at you. “Open,” he commands.

You instantly obey, parting your lips as he frees himself from his boxer briefs.

Fuck, he’s just like Dieter, but a little thicker and longer, with a prominent vein running along the shaft. A bead of precum glistens just for you as your tongue darts out to taste him.

Clint hisses through his teeth as you tongue at his tip, his hand immediately coming up to tangle into your hair.

"Such a good girl," Clint praises.

“She is, isn’t she?” Dieter asks, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face upward. “You like how my girl’s mouth feels?”

Clint hums an affirmative as you part your lips wider, letting him feed his cock into your mouth inch by inch. He’s heavier, more insistent than Dieter as your jaw stretches to accommodate him.

“Fuck,” Clint snarls. His stoic composure cracking as your warm mouth envelops him.

Dieter chuckles against your ear, his hands sliding down your body to grip your hips. "She's good at taking cock, isn't she? Should see how she takes it in her tight little pussy."

Clint’s hips jerk forward when he feels the vibration of you moaning at Dieter’s filthy words.

He glides his cock deeper into your mouth as Dieter’s fingers trail along your body, pinching and pulling at the stiff peaks of your nipples.

You’re pinned between them again—Clint’s cock heavy on your tongue, Dieter’s cock jutting into your back.

Clint’s head tilts back, a long, low groan slipping out as he begins to fuck slowly into your mouth. “Feels so fuckin’ good,” he growls, eyes half-closed in pleasure you’re providing him. “Better than I thought it would.”

Clint’s fingers splay across the back of your head, guiding you, controlling the movement as he thrusts. He handles you with the same commanding intensity you see him excude everyday.

Each time he eases his length from your mouth, you gasp a quick breath before he fills it again.

“You like that? My pretty girl likes getting used by us?” Dieter nips at the shell of your ear.

Clint's hips rock faster, his grip on your hair tightening as he fucks into your mouth.

Dieter's hand slides down to the apex of your thighs. “Spread for me, baby,” he whispers against your ear.

You stretch out as much as you can on top of his lap. Dieter hums his approval as his fingers trail between your folds.

"Mmm, sucking Clint's cock is getting you all worked up again, isn't it?" he muses, slowly circling your clit with the pads of his fingers.

You whimper a yes around Clint’s cock, he groans above you as he looks down, watching Dieter stick a finger into your entrance. "Fuck, look at her, taking it so well at both ends."

Dieter chuckles. “The more she gets, the more she wants,” punctuating each word as he slides in and out of your tight cunt.

Muffled moans spills from your lips, vibrating against Clint’s cock as your hips jerk in Dieter’s lap.

Clint snarls, fucking into your mouth more erratic, his breathing huffing in deep breaths. The wet, obscene sounds of him fucking your mouth echo off the tile as drool drips down your chin.

Dieter trails his other hand down, drawing deep, long circles against your clit as he fucks you open with three fingers. You’re insatiable, whimpering around Clint’s cock as you writhe all over Dieter’s lap. "Cum," he demands in your ear. "Now."

You instantly cum at Dieter’s rumbling command. Your cunt clenching around his thick fingers as you orgasm. You’re pulsing electricity as both men use your body.

Your screams should be echoing across the room, but all you can do is suck and slurp against Clint’s cock as Dieter’s fingers continue pumping your overworked pussy as you shudder and shake atop his lap.

Clint pulls out of your mouth, allowing you to gasp for air. A string of saliva connects your lips to his cock, and he uses his thumb to wipe it away before pushing his thumb past your lips.

"Suck," he instructs.

You’re gasping, overwhelmed with the sensation of filling your lungs with air. Clint's thumb traces along your swollen bottom lip as you try to catch your breath, your chest heaving. His dark eyes boring into yours.

"I said suck," he repeats.

Youre too dazed to immediately comply. Clint lightly slaps your cheek, catching your attention. Not enough to hurt, but with just enough of a sting to make you gasp. Your chin is grasped firmly, your face tilted to meet his eyes.

"When I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?"

You give him a shaky a nod, your pulse quickening at the sharpness in his tone. Dieter lowly chuckles behind you, amused by Clint taking charge.

"Answer him properly, baby," Dieter instructs.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “I understand.”

You open your mouth, he slides his thumb back between your lips and you suck obediently, swirling your tongue around the pad of his thumb.

“That’s a good girl,” Clint rumbles. He withdraws it, rubbing the pad of his thumb around the tip of his cock.

"What do you say, Clint?" Dieter asks. "Want to try out her sweet little pussy for yourself?"

Clint swallows hard, his intense gaze roaming over your face. "Yes, sir. I'd like that very much."

"Good man," Dieter chuckles, helping you stand on shaky legs. Clint reaches out to hold your hips, steadying you as you slightly sway.

“Why don't you sit on that chair in the living room?” Dieter instructs tilting his head over the the leather chair in front of the large window overlooking the city.

“Baby, why don’t you come help me pour us some drinks." He leaves a sweet smack against your ass when you head towards the bar.

Clint sinks down into the leather chair, watching as you grab two tumblers for Dieter to fill with whiskey.

“You good baby?” Dieter asks lowly.

“Yes,” you shakily breathe out. “More than good.”

Dieter smiles and winks, handing you one of the glasses before taking a sip from his own. “You’re so fucking hot, go ahead, give Clint a drink.”

Clint sits up straighter as you approach, his eyes raking over your body, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He’s still perfectly clad in his zipped-up leather jacket and dark shirt, while his jeans hang open, his half hard cock lying in his lap.

You climb onto his lap, straddling his muscular thighs as his hands rest on your hips, thumbs rubbing soft, tiny circles against your hipbones.

You haven’t kissed another man in years, not ever since the night you met Dieter. Until now, when you lean in and press your lips to Clint's. His mouth moves against yours, tracing the seam of your lips before you part them, allowing him to devour you.

You unzip his leather jacket without breaking the kiss, dragging it down his arms before Clint shrugs out of it and throws it to the side. You unbutton his shirt, letting it fall down his arms.

His tongue dances against yours, as his cock hardens beneath you, leaving you feeling wanted and desired by the statue of a man. Your hips rolls, grinding down and earning a low groan from deep in his throat.

"Getting him nice and hard for you aren't you?" Dieter asks from behind. "Go ahead ‘n fuck him for me.”

Climbing off his lap, you help Clint quickly tug off his jeans and boxer briefs. His cock stand tall and thick for you. You turn around, backing up slowly to position yourself over his lap, reaching between your legs to grasp his cock. Clint hisses through his teeth, hips twitching up.

You keep your eyes locked on Dieter’s as you slowly sink down onto Clint. His thick length stretches you in a way unlike Dieter, your head falls back aginast Clint’s shoulder as he fills your cunt completely.

Dieter leans forward, elbows braced on his knees as he watches you take another man’s cock.

“Amazing,” Dieter whispers incredulously as you begin to move, rising up until just the tip of Clint’s inside you before sinking back down. Clint groans, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you back to him, his plush lips licking and kissing against your neck as he fucks up into you, thrusting into your cunt with more force than Dieter, his hands more calloused and steady. You're bouncing on his lap, head thrown back against his shoulder, a litany of moans spilling from your lips.

Dieter rises from the couch, prowling towards you with dark eyes. He kneels in front of you, hands skating up your thighs. "Look at you, taking his cock so well. Such a good girl for us."

He leans in and captures your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, reminding you that you’re his even as Clint’s cock splits you open.

He pulls back, lips wet and shiny as he looks over your shoulder at Clint. "How does her pussy feel?" he asks.

"Like heaven, sir," he replies, gritting out each word with a hard thrust. "So fucking tight and wet."

Dieter laughs darkly, happy with the way Clint praises you. He tilts his head, moving his face closer to Clint’s. You watch, transfixed, your breath catching in your throat as Dieter closes the gap and press his lips to Clint’s.

It's filthy and hot, watching your boyfriend kiss his bodyguard whose cock is driving into you. Their tongues slide and tangle against each other, both men grunting while you moan watching them.

Dieter pulls away, his gaze turning back to you. “Like seeing me kiss another man while he fucks this perfect pussy?"

"Yes," you gasp, grinding yourself down harder onto Clint's cock. "God, yes."

Dieter reaches over, picking up Clint’s whiskey tumbler and takes a slow slip.

“Open,” Dieter commands to Clint. He obediently parts his lips as Dieter tilts the glass towards him. Clint doesn’t swallow immediately, instead he lets the liquid pool in his mouth.

“Let me taste,” Dieter lowly says.

Clint’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest as he tilts his head forward. He slowly opens his mouth, the whiskey flows from it in a small stream, cascading down your collarbone and breasts. Glistening trails are left across your heated skin as it trickles down your body across the plane of your stomach.

Dieter’s tongue follows the path of whiskey down your body before he lowers himself to the floor, his face hovering in front of your pussy. A shock of pleasure is lit through your body when you feel a sweet lick against your clit. His tongue trails down your pussy as Clint’s cock pumps in and out of you. Clint groans beneath you, his hips stuttering when Dieter’s tongue grazes against his shaft.

A path is licked down to Clint’s balls and up to your clit, following the trail back and forth. Dieter hums against you when he tastes both of you together.

It feels so filthy and intimate, just as you’d expect from Dieter fucking Bravo. His dark hair bobbing between your thighs, his pink tongue darting out to taste another man’s cock as it fucks you.

Clint makes a choked noise as Dieter laps at his shaft.

Dieter pulls back slightly, his face shining with your’s and Clint’s arousal.

"You like watching me lick his cock, baby?”

“Yes. Fuck, Dieter, it’s so hot.”

He smirks. "You know Clint, I bet she'd love to watch me suck your cock, hm? Take you deep in my throat while she rides your face."

Clint makes a strangled sound at the suggestion, his cock twitching inside you. "Jesus Christ.”

“Let’s move this to bedroom then,” Dieter suggests, rising and reaching his hand out to you. You take it, Clint’s hold on you loosening as you slowly lift yourself off his thick cock. A small grunt from him mixes with your soft whimper at the loss of each other. Dieter leads you by the hand toward the bedroom. Clint follows closely behind, his breathing heavy, his cock still soaked in your wet.

You’re thankful this huge mansion has a massive bedroom with a California king bed that can fit both men currently flanking you. You feel so small sandwiched between Dieter’s broad body and Clint’s even larger and intimidating form.

“On the bed," Dieter tells you with a gentle slap against your ass. You climb onto the mattress, kneeling at the foot of it waiting for more instruction. “You too,” Dieter instructs, lightly swatting at Clint’s ass. “Lie back.”

Clint’s body easily takes up half of the mattress as he lays down on the bed. He’s so broad and strong, his dark eyes watching you as his cock stands hard and soaked between his thighs.

“Good. Now, baby,” Dieter turns to you, “why don’t you climb on his face?”

You nod, crawling across the mattress, positioning yourself above Clint, your knees planting on the bed bracketing his face.

He grips your thighs, pulling you down until your swollen pussy hovers just above his mouth. His hot breath fans against your sensitive cunt, dripping with need and ready to feel Clint’s mouth on you again.

“Ride his face baby,” Dieter encourages.

You’re pulled down against Clint’s mouth, his deep groan vibrating against your cunt as he tongues at your swollen clit. A tight gasp and long moan leave your lips as he devours you—methodical, thorough and relentless. Your hands grasp against the firm muscles of Clint’s thighs to brace yourself, Clint’s hands plant against your ass, spreading you wide for him.

Dieter’s eyes darken with each step he takes as he watches you moan and writhe atop Clint’s face. He crawls between Clint’s spread legs, his hands sliding up Clint’s thighs until they meet yours.

“Watch me,” Dieter orders, staring in your eyes as he lowers his head.

You couldn’t look away even if you wanted to try. The sight of Dieter—your Dieter—wrapping his fingers around Clint’s thick cock almost makes you dizzy. Clint’s hips jerk up at the contact, a gasp puffing against your pussy.

Dieter holds Clint's cock in his fist, giving it a few lazy strokes before lowering his head. His eyes never leave yours as his pink tongue darts out to lick a slow, deliberate stripe from base to tip. Clint's entire body shudders beneath you, his groan vibrating against your cunt.

"Holy shit," you breathe, amazed by the sight before you.

Dieter smirks, his lips hovering just above Clint's glistening tip. "I told you to watch," he reminds you before taking just the head into his mouth.

Clint's fingers dig deeper into your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth anchoring himself to you.

Your hand reaches out to thread through Dieter's soft waves, tightening your hold to guide him further down Clint’s shaft.

Dieter's eyes light with mischief as you push him further onto Clint's cock. Clint's body tenses beneath you, his hips bucking upward as Dieter deep throats his cock.

It’s beautiful, your boyfriend's lips stretched around another man's cock as that same man devours your pussy.

Dieter pulls off Clint's cock with a wet pop, his lips shiny with saliva. His hand continues to stroke Clint's length as he locks eyes with you.

"Spread his legs wider," Dieter commands, his voice dropping an octave.

You push at Clint’s inner thighs, spreading him open for Dieter, who hums appreciatively, lowering his head to lick a long stripe from Clint's heavy balls up his shaft.

Clint groans against your pussy, his tongue circling your entrance before dipping lower, circling your asshole with light, experimental licks.

"He's licking my ass," you gasp, eyes wide as you look at Dieter.

Dieter's grin turns predatory. "Is he now? You like that, baby?"

You nod frantically, unable to form words as Clint's tongue presses more insistently against your tight ring, his hands spreading your cheeks wider.

“You know baby, I think Clint would like the same treatment,” Dieter says lowly as he moves lower between Clint’s spread thighs. Dieter’s hands push Clint’s thighs up and back, exposing him completely.

His tongue trails from Clint’s balls to the sensitive skin below. You watch, enamored by Dieter’s tongue circling Clint’s tight hole.

“Fuuuuuck,” Clint whispers against you.

Dieter pulls back with a devilish smile before he spits across Clint’s asshole. You moan when you watch Dieter press his thumb against Clint’s entrance, circling it slowly.

"Jesus Christ," Clint hisses against your ass, his tongue stilling.

Dieter’s thumb slowly pushes in Clint’s tight ring of muscle. Clint's entire body tenses before he forces himself to relax, his shoulders sinking deeper into the mattress beneath you.

You can feel Clint’s reaction through his entire body as Dieter's thumb sinks deeper and deeper—the way his stomach muscles clench, the slight arch of his back, the firmness of his grip against your skin, the desperate “fuck” that vibrates against your ass.

Clint grips your hips, moving you up and down against his mouth, licking long lines from your asshole to your clit and back.

"Look at him," Dieter purrs. "Big, tough bodyguard taking my thumb in his ass while he eats my girl's pussy. You like that, don't you, Clint?"

Clint groans against you, a shiver running across his body.

"I think he likes it," you gasp, grinding down harder on Clint's face.

Dieter laughs darkly, leaning down, taking Clint's cock back into his mouth while working his thumb deeper.

You’re all connected, Clint's mouth on your cunt, Dieter's mouth on Clint's cock, Dieter's thumb working Clint's ass, Dieter’s eyes on you.

A long moan leaves your lips when Clint sucks hard on your clit, your back arching as his hips rock upward into Dieter’s mouth.

"Oh fuck," you gasp, clenching your thighs around Clint's head as he continues to feast on your drenched pussy. "I'm… gonna…"

Dieter looks up at you through heavy-lidded eyes. "Cum for me baby. Cum all over Clint's face."

That's all it takes to send you over the edge. Your entire body trembles and convulses under the power of your orgasm, grinding down on Clint’s face as he eats you through it. Your arms go weak, and you slump forward against his body, breathing hard. Running your cheek along the soft nest of coarse curls above his cock. Dieter grips your chin, guiding you to turn your head, taking Clint’s cock out of his mouth, guiding it into your mouth. You’re still humming and moaning from your release, your mouth working over Clint’s shaft as he groans against your overworked clit.

“I think you got her nice and worked up for me Clint,” Dieter says. “It’s time for me to fill my girl’s pussy.”

Dieter grabs your limp, overwhelmed body, laying you down on the bed next to Clint, your back nestling against the soft sheets.

Clint’s dark brown eyes watch as Dieter lines up, his tip dipping between your folds and rubbing against your clit before thrusting into you, burying himself in your cunt. Your body jerks forward with the force of him, a loud scream bursting from your lungs. Clint groans, as he watches Dieter’s hips slap against yours, ruthlessly pounding into you, owning your pussy after Clint’s had his way with it.

Clint can’t take his eyes off of you, staring into your eyes, watching as your face contorts in pleasure as Dieter fucks you harder and deeper. Your back arches off the bed, hands grasping the sheets tightly as you take Dieter’s cock.

"Fuck yes," he grunts. "Get behind me Clint. Finger my asshole while I fuck her.”

Clint moves behind Dieter, his large hands running over Dieter's ass before spreading him wide. Dieter groans when Clint's finger circles his tight ring of muscle, teasing him.

Dieter growls, slamming into you harder, staring into your eyes as Clint pushes his slick thumb past the ring of muscle, pressing deep into Dieter's ass. “Holy shit,” Dieter gasps, a wide smile lighting his face before he leans forward and kisses you, his hips jerking against yours as Clint works him open.

Dieter’s head tips back, groaning loudly as he drives into you even harder, pushed to the edge by Clint’s finger stretching him open.

“Fuck my ass,” Dieter orders, pressing you farther down into the mattress under his weight.

“Yes sir,” Clint growls, spitting in his hand and slicking up his cock before he slowly notches himself against Dieter’s asshole.

Dieter’s hips stutter as he pauses, breathing hard as Clint stretches him open with his wide cock.

“Fuuuuuck,” Dieter hitches. “You’re so fucking big.”

You watch Dieter’s face, a blissed-out smile lifting his lips, his eyes fluttering shut before he opens them, staring down at you as Clint starts to fuck him in long, slow strokes.

You clutch on Dieter’s strong arms, gripping his golden skin tight as he moves with Clint, the slow drag of his cock pulling out of your cunt before thrusting back in steers you closer to another orgasm.

You’re tangled in each other, Clint’s large body laying over Dieter’s, Dieter’s lips biting and licking at yours, your moans and groans echoing off the walls of the expansive room.

Dieter’s head drops to the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as Clint surges in and out of him.

“Gonna cum,” Dieter whines against you. “Gonna fuckin’ fill you up while he fucks me.”

The three of you move as one, your pussy clenching around Dieter’s cock, Dieter’s asshole taking Clint’s cock. “Cum for me baby,” you urge. “Give me your cum.”

Clint’s pace turns brutal, pounding into Dieter deeper and harder. Both men’s weight bears down on you—pinning and claiming you as the center of their desire.

“Fuck,” Dieter lifts his head, staring into your eyes as he begins to cum, a deep, guttural groan escaping his throat as he empties himself inside you. His handsome face contorts with pleasure, teeth gritting, eyes locked on yours as he shoots his big load inside you.

“That’s it,” Clint growls behind him, fucking into him as Dieter’s body tightens around him. “Give her every drop, sir.”

Dieter’s cock pulses inside you, filling you with his heated release that triggers your own orgasm, your walls clenching him hard, milking every last sweet drop of cum from his cock.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Clint groans, pulling out of Dieter. "I’m close.”

“Cum on my girl’s face,” Dieter orders, rolling off of you and pulling you into his arms.

Clint stalks forward, his knees dipping into the bed as he kneels in front of you, stroking his cock, his bottom lip captured between his teeth.

You reach a hand up, massaging his balls, firmly pressing against them, giving him the perfect amount of pressure.

“Gonna cum," he grunts through gritted teeth. "Fuck, I'm gonna..."

Dieter's hands slide up to cup your breasts, squeezing roughly. "Do it," he encourages. "Give her what she wants. Paint that pretty face."

With a strained groan his cock pulses in his hand as he strokes himself, aiming the tip at your waiting face.

"Open," he commands again. You obey, sticking out your tongue in offering.

Thick ropes of cum spurt from Clint's cock, striping across your cheeks, your chin, your outstretched tongue. You moan as he marks you, claiming you as his own.

"So gorgeous covered in another man's cum. My perfect little cum slut,” Dieter admires.

You whimper as Clint milks the last drops onto your waiting tongue before he looks down, admiring his work, your face glistening with his release.

"That's my good girl," Dieter praises, his fingers tracing through Clint's cum on your cheek before pushing it between your parted lips. You suck his fingers clean, moaning at the taste as both men watch you with hungry eyes.

Clint collapses onto the bed beside you, his chest heaving.

“Well done Mr. Flood,” Dieter chuckles, running his hand through Clint’s hair. “I think we’ll keep you.”

—-

Proof it's 6969. lol

Also, please know I referenced this GIF by @perotovar A LOT while writing this.

—-

Tagging some moots and people who were interested: @sawymredfox, @sp00kymulderr, @almostfoxglove, @evolnoomym, @ace-turned-confused

@bitchesuntitled, @beefrobeefcal, @magpiepills, @joelmillerisapunk, @arcanefox207

@quinnnfabrgay, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @milla-frenchy, @jokesonthem

[beefros-sin-bin]

YEE GADS. JUST... OH... HOLY CINNAMON TOAST FUCK.

[schnarfer]

Wine Stained Lips

Lucien de Leon x f!reader

Rating: Just angst (my whole blog is over 18's please) Summary: You run into your ex-boyfriend Lucien, the loss of your life, at a funeral. Word Count: 1,150 Content: Emotional torment. You're at a funeral. Lucien is your toxic ex. Smoking, drinking, FEELINGS. Always fleabag coded. Let me know if I missed anything. Listen to: Let Down, Radiohead.

AN: Thank you so much to @katareyoudrilling who reminded me that I had a Lucien languishing in my drafts. I wrote most of this in January but I was inspired to finish him today. Just some classic schnarf style emotional torment, unresolved feelings and maybe a dash of hope.

My masterlist

Wine stained lips 

His hand, once so familiar, now belongs to a stranger. As Lucien reaches up to hold your chin, tips your jaw so your eyes look into his, you search for traces of the fire that once licked at your skin. The warmth of his palm is merely a faint echo of the one that burnt so fiercely it left deep scars that nobody can see but you. Somehow your body remains offensively unmarked, outwardly fine. The secret hurt is charred into your very bones. Like a kind of grief, a pain that is always there. It doesn’t get any smaller, you just learn to live with it. 

Except... Now his thumb is tracing against your wine stained lips, the gentlest of pressures and you know he can feel every crease, every tip of skin that holds onto the blood red pigment of the wine, his eyes dark and thoughtful. Your breath catches in your throat as you try and stop the unfurling of the heartbreak that’s been locked within you for over a decade, struggle to not to let it seep under the doors you’ve worked so hard to keep shut. 

“Red wine lips. You always get them…why?” His gaze flicks from your lips back to your eyes, his voice so quiet, questioning, “I can’t see a bottle of red and not think of you.” 

“My body likes to hold onto things,” you try to soften how his words pierce your skin, to let a little laugh escape, “I bruise like a peach.”

“I remember.”

And just like that, the door swings open. You’re falling into the memories. The real life cuts, scratches and bruises that came from a love affair that almost destroyed you. 

The harsh red indents on your shoulder blades from being pushed against a sharp stone wall whilst he’d kissed you like both your lives depended on it. 

The finger shaped bruises from where he’d clasped at your wrists, both so lost in passion you hadn’t noticed until the deep purple appeared, marking you.  

The claw marks on his face from where you’d ripped at his skin in fury, after you’d realised you were the other woman. Dumbstruck, stood in his kitchen wearing nothing but his t-shirt, remnants of his skin under your painted red fingernails.

These marks have long since faded, but they all found a way to crawl under your skin, somehow permeate into how you hold yourself today. Every relationship you had after him had been tainted by fear; that you’d be hurt once more, or worse, that you’d never feel love like it again. You knew you needed to be vulnerable and open to let love in but you fought it, closed your heart in a way that you’d never even thought to with Lucien, making your fears come true. There was so much more pain in the years that followed but never the divine torture of an all consuming love.  

“I almost didn’t come.” Your voice is so quiet you wonder if he’s even heard you, your admission feels broken, “I’m bad at funerals, but I thought I owed it to Billy to say goodbye.”  

Lucien's voice is soft in return, the soothing caress of his sweet southern lilt kissing at your ears, “I’m glad you did.” He pushes a loose strand of your hair behind your ear and you watch as a mischievous smile creeps onto his lips. “Was it ‘cos of me?”

You push hard against his chest with the flat of your palm, the silky softness of his shirt jarring against your skin when what you want to feel is anger. 

“Yes. Because of you Lucien. I wanted to say goodbye to my friend and not get wrapped up in all your shit again and… and look at me? Against all my instincts here I am, right back where I started.” 

He has the audacity to chuckle lightly, a flash of those pearly whites and a flick of his tongue, “With me.” 

You sigh, won’t get drawn into his amusement, your face remains impassive, “I wasn’t a good friend to him.” 

Lucien pulls back then, you watch as he considers your statement, all the history between the three of you. There’s a deep frown across that beautiful brow, heavy lines that weren’t there the last time you saw him. You consider if he’s doing the same to you, if he can still see the girl you once were under the layers of cynicism and laughter lines. 

The beginning of your doomed affair, you’d accidentally become part of the kind of love triangle that you can only have in your early twenties, a confusion of so many feelings and torn loyalties. Billy and Lucien had been best friends, and you? What had you been? A strange sort of prize that tore apart their friendship. Lucien had won but then after all that hurt and turmoil, discarded his trophy without a second glance. 

“Look, I know he loved you. We… we both did. But you were young, you couldn’t change that you didn’t love him the same way.” Lucien pauses, lights a cigarette, eyes connecting with yours once again as he takes a deep drag, almost pleading, “I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t help that I loved you more.” 

You’d always felt like Lucien had used Billy being in love with you as an excuse to hold back, as a way to put distance between his feelings for you and his refusal to show any kind of commitment. A story Lucien told himself and why he insisted your passion for each other was hidden from sight, disguised in the darkness. All clandestine hook-ups and dirty secrets. Now, all these years later, you’re not so sure it was make-believe. Perhaps for all his selfishness, sometimes Lucien did think of others. 

The scent of the tobacco takes you right back to that time; the familiar smell of Lucien’s aftershave and the Marlborough swirl within you, a heady mix of regret and bad decisions. Of being so in love with him it physically hurt. Time falls away and you can see you both as you once were; youthful, impulsive, fingers reaching for each other under the table, bodies drawn together as if on instinct, the caress of his tongue forever calling out for you and driving you to a kind of insanity. 

A hiss escapes your lips, “Fuck.” 

Lucien doesn’t speak, but he leans closer, taking the cigarette from his lips and placing it between yours. A strange sort of kiss. You’re grateful for it, your fingers curling around the paper and finding it comforting, a forgotten sin that your body instantly recalls, welcoming the smoke into your lungs. The distraction stops the tears that were threatening your eyes, your deep inhale ushering them away and making your head spin with the rush of nicotine.

“I haven’t smoked in years. It tastes like you.”

My masterlist

Dividers by @saradika and image from Pinterest.

Tagging in some pals, as always let me know if you'd like me to take you off.

@toomanytookas @secretelephanttattoo @mothandpidgeon @whocaresstillthelouvre @pascalssbabyy

@milla-frenchy @sawymredfox @sin-djarin @aurorawritestoescape @sp00kymulderr

@ghotifishreads @readingiskeepingmegoing @beefrobeefcal @maggiemayhemnj @almostfoxglove

@burntheedges @guiltyasdave @arcane-fox @magpiepills @sizzlingcloudmentality

[beefros-sin-bin]

Good heavens... you paint a picture I can feel.

[schnarfer]

I Think Of You All Of The Time - Part 5

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Series rating: Explicit - but this part is angst/hope only (my whole blog is over 18’s only) Summary: Best friends to lovers, to worse.  Word count: 3,405 Part 5 Content: Set in 2025 & Dieter and reader are around 40 here. Reader POV. We're in Tokyo. References to drugs & alcohol. Reader has a nickname (Angel). Emotional torment and longing. A kiss. Reference to infidelity. There are Britishism in here but I kept them because I liked them, yeah? Fucking about with canon. Soulmates & Best friends to toxic lovers, to…. ? Always Fleabag coded. Let me know if I missed anything.  Listen to: Deeply Still in Love by Rolemodel (the whole album is so Dieter coded tbh) and of course, someday I’ll get it by Alek Olsen (the inspiration behind the title)

A/N: It’s my birthday! And I’m celebrating by giving these two lovebirds an ending. We’re going hopeful lads! Thank you so much to everyone who has read along and shared your thoughts, it’s honestly meant so much to me 🖤 Long term readers may recognise some of the last part, as it originally began life in the ‘save hello, wave goodbye’ fic, which I’ve rewritten - I always knew I had so much more story to tell with that one and I’m so happy I revisited them 🖤As always, huge thanks to @toomanytookas for the beta read and helping me to create this world. Thanks to @secretelephanttattoo for yet another emergency Al having a wobble read through. So much love to @mothandpidgeon & @whocaresstillthelouvre @pascalssbabyy for being my cheerleaders.

Series Masterlist / PREV

A hotel lobby, Tokyo, 2025

Dieter’s in a ratty green dressing gown. You’re in a pink wig. None of it matters. 

You’re stood a few feet apart. You both stopped dead in your tracks when you spotted each other across the near empty hotel lobby. He’s truly unmistakable, a wild halo of hair around his head and even with forty years of mischief written all over his stupid, beautiful face, he still has that boyish smirk down perfectly. You don’t mirror it, your face remains strangely impassive. Once the initial burst of excitement pops, you feel a heavy sigh escape your chest. 

“Let me guess, flying visit? When are you leaving?”

Dieter’s smile fades quickly, “Whiskey commercial. My flight is tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll miss you then.”

“You can have me now? All of me.”

It’s hard not to scoff, you let a mean, sharp laugh out at the very idea, “Dieter, I never get to have all of you, it’s always these ridiculous stolen moments where you belong to someone else… the studio, the people shooting an ad, the PR guy… your wife? You know you’re never mine.” 

You shudder at the cruelty in your tone, wish you’d been able to cool it before it slapped him in the face. You haven’t seen each other in years, why is your first impulse to push hard against him, hurt him with little jabs, your words like sharpened nails scratching at his skin? He looks so broken, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. 

“Ex-wife.” It’s practically a whisper. 

You take a breath so hard your whole body tilts back, unsteady, a dizziness descending down your spine, making you unsteady on your feet for half a second. Your sarcastic reply dies in your throat and your hand instantly reaches up around yourself, feeling the rush of your pulse against your fingers. Your grip stills the jumble of words that almost spill out. 

A useless, “Oh,” falls from your lips instead. 

You had no idea. He hadn’t told you, hadn’t thought to send one text, not even a rushed email. He’s ended his marriage so quietly even the gossip mags didn’t know. You have to remember to take another breath. 

Dieter’s eyes lift to meet yours for a just moment; pleading, questioning, “I should have told you, but I… well… I wanted things to be different this time and we hadn’t spoken in so long. I didn’t know how to break back in, to be us again.” You watch as he swallows thickly, “Maybe now, maybe I can truly be yours? No pretending.” 

And you don’t mean it to happen, but you can feel hot tears filling your eyes. You have to turn away, purposefully root around in the Chanel bag slung over your shoulder for a lighter, so you don’t have to meet his eyes. You roll the cigarette in your lips gently from side to side in your anxiety. Hope your mascara won’t betray you.

You will the tears back, refuse to let them escape, ignore their sting, “D, this is a lot. I need a moment to think.” 

You’re both a little better at silences now. He waits patiently. Well, as patient as Dieter fucking Bravo can ever be. That nervous energy always bubbling underneath, feet unable to be still, a tap tap tap coming from his hotel-slippered toes as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He grips a glass of whiskey low in his large hands, dropped down unnaturally to be level with the loops of the dressing gown belt. He jiggles the glass so the ice rattles against the sides. 

He shuffles a little closer, fingers lightly grazing your fluorescent bob, head cocked to one side, “I like the pink on you…” He tucks a tiny bit behind your ear, so soft, so gentle, as if every part of him is calling out to you, “Let’s get out of here shall we, angel?” 

You glance up from your bag, let your gaze linger on those sad, deep, dark eyes that hurt you just by looking in your direction, “Dieter, it’s pouring with rain? It’s 11 at night?”

He throws back his whiskey, places the now empty glass on the marble side next to him. He closes the gap between you, reaches out a hand to grip yours, silver rings hard against your trembling fingers, “Do you care? Did we ever care?” 

You finally find the lighter, waste not a second more in igniting your long, thin cigarette and taking a smooth drag, letting your eyes flick up and down Dieter. It’s the same boy, it’s always your same boy. Maybe a little more tired around the eyes, maybe the mess of his hair a smidge wilder, maybe a touch more greys flecked into that patchy beard. You wonder if he’s doing the same to you, appraising if you’re changed? How you’ve weathered the years since you last ran into each other in a hotel halfway round the world and somehow, somehow, not been surprised that fate has brought you together again. 

The loss of your life. The permanent missed connection. You’ve let go so many times it’s a wound that’s become a scar, it doesn’t even itch any more. Fine, sometimes, in the middle of the night when you’re barely conscious, you do feel a prickle in your skin. Where it used to be soft and smooth, now there are eternal indents, ridges where he once was, flesh knitted together in a way that isn’t quite right. 

Seeing him now, it picks at what felt like it was almost healed.

But you still wait for him. In a sad, lonely-looking chair by the elevator, while he leisurely makes his way to his room to put on some actual pants. You throw away the wig, sit and smoke, try to keep your mind blank, stop yourself from rushing to all the corners where you hide the decades of Dieter mementos. You keep them packed up normally, safely in boxes behind doing taxes and standing in long queues and books you never finished. Places you don’t rummage around in too often, so he can’t escape and haunt you with his stupid lopsided grin and the way he whines ‘angel’ when he comes. 

He finally reappears when you’re on your second cigarette. 

As you step into the street Dieter opens a huge Suntory whiskey umbrella to shelter you from the cascading rain. He’s a walking advert for the drink he’s here to promote, although you question the wisdom of the marketing director who selected a Hollywood star just as famous for his frequent stays in rehab, as his Oscar. 

“I thought you were in recovery?” You try to keep your voice neutral, know that your judgment never does any good, never changes anything. 

He shrugs his shoulders, “California sober. And Hibiki 17 year. Maybe the 12 year at a push.” 

There’s a sharp tension in your jaw that you ignore, your tone still soft, “Not the hard stuff?”

“No, not since… well, you know.” 

You do know. Keep that particular episode in an entirely different place. Can’t keep it upstairs and around to infect the other memories. It has its own special place in your chest, locked tight. 

He wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulls you in close and you let him. The bright lights that surround you, the noises of the street, you feel like you’re entering a doorway into the future and it’s not quite real. Yet you are very much here, the now impresses itself upon you; it’s in the smell of the rain, in the familiar sound of Dieter’s gravelly voice as he nervously fills the silence. His voice has deepened with age, yet it’s somehow softer, an echo of all the Dieter’s you’ve known and loved. 

You’re not sure where you’re walking to, just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, instantly in step with Dieter, sure strides together across the shiny wet pavement. 

“Do you dream of me, angel? I dream of you all the time. Not anything creepy, just like, ordinary shit. And then when I wake up, it’s weird that you’re not there.”

You stop abruptly, a jarring moment where he sort of tumbles a bit against you as his body had expected you to keep walking. 

He takes a deep breath, resets himself, “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say shit like that to you.”

“It doesn’t do any good, D.” 

You purposefully won’t catch his eye, keep looking forward into the hazy futurescape before you. You resume walking and you can feel his grip on you getting tighter, almost like he’s worried you’re going to slip away into the night, into the rain, if he doesn’t hold you close enough. 

He finally gives into your need for silence and you thank him by winding your arm around his waist. Thicker maybe than it once was, a softness that you find you want to squeeze against. You always fitted just right, all these years. You could slide into each other like no time had ever passed. Kisses, fucking, fingers through fingers. You just fit. 

A jagged feeling of dread runs down your spine. You didn’t always fit. You hurt each other in ways that obliterated the natural comfort that once existed. You weren’t a puzzle waiting to be put back together; you were fire meets fire, you were mutually assured destruction. 

You shake your head, as if that will stop this cascade of negativity, these same old stories you’ve told yourself one hundred times before. You were toxic and confused, twisted up in other people’s lives and never ready for each other, but what could you be now?

“It would have to be different this time, D. We’d have to be different.” 

He squeezes his hand at your shoulder playfully, “No boyfriends? No fiancés? No wives?” 

You knock your hip against him, “I’m being serious, D. No drugs either. And no scaring me to death by looking for answers at the end of too many lines, please?” Your voice cracks a little, your fingers tight at his flesh, kneading at it a little, finding comfort in the warmth and softness of him. 

Dieter whispers into the shell of your ear, “No running away from our feelings and shouting at each other in the middle of the street?” 

You suddenly realise that you’re soaked through, the downpour is so heavy that even the giant branded umbrella has done no good. Fat drops of rain are bouncing off the ground and hitting your exposed skin. You both start laughing at the same moment and hearing Dieter’s familiar wheeze is a strange kind of relief. You hate it because it stings, pokes at you and your closed doors, but it also makes you smile mindlessly, mirror it with your own breathless laughter. 

There’s a sense of freedom that’s opening up, one neither of you have experienced together before. Just as quickly as the dread flooded your senses, this new feeling crawls into your chest; a lightness, a warmth that tastes like a sweetness. 

You think you’re beginning to understand now, that you don’t have to be defined by this shared, tortured past. As chaotic and as messy as it has always been, perhaps it’s the love that will bleed through to the present and somehow you can leave the doubt and the hurt behind. That’s what it feels like now, wandering these streets you’ve never encountered before, wrapped in Dieter’s arms and walking into the unknown. You are safe. You are loved. 

The invisible strings of your life are tugging you both into place one last time. It feels like there’s finally a chance to rewrite the prophecy that you and Dieter forced upon yourselves. A break in the timeline, a pause where you can at last make sense of it all, together.

Dieter tips the umbrella to the side and you both hold out your palms to feel the rain against your hands. Let it run down your neck, wash away some of the heaviness that was hanging between you both. You’re still giggling as he takes a hold of your soggy hand, the painted black nails of your fingers intimately linking together. He runs with you to find cover under a brightly lit canopy. 

You want to kiss him now. An inevitability that there’s no point in fighting. He can see it in your eyes and he looks so fucking grateful, so fucking soft, that you stand on your tiptoes and reach out to stroke at his scruff. He leans into your hand, pressing himself against your touch. 

“I love you, angel.” 

“I know.”

“And you love me too?”

“I’ve always loved you, D.” 

Dieter lifts up his hand so his thumb caresses your cheek, as he’s done a hundred times before, like it was made to be there. You know he’s got a confession, you can feel it seeping into your skin, so you wait. You wait and you hope. 

“Back at the hotel, I cancelled my flight. I’m staying here with you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, but a small smile edges its way onto your lips, “Oh yeah? For how long?” 

“I was thinking… for as long as you’ll have me? Maybe… maybe we try forever this time?” 

Somewhere, a door opens. You take a deep breath, step through it.

“Oh, D. Yes, yes, I think so too.” 

His arms envelop you and you sink into them. You’re both wet and clammy but the discomfort feels right, there are no perfect moments. Even if it does feel sort of perfect when his always warm lips meet your always cold ones, when he pulls you even closer and your mouth opens to beckon him in.

When his tongue finds yours, you don’t feel a surge of electricity, you finally feel peace.

Series Masterlist / PREV

All images Pinterest & dividers from @saradika-graphics

Tagging in some pals & Dieter fans, let me know if you'd prefer to be taken off.

@sawymredfox @arcanefox207 @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape @sin-djarin

@burntheedges @sp00kymulderr @katareyoudrilling @wannab-urs @guiltyasdave

@yxtkiwiyxt @ghotifishreads @jessthebaker @magpiepills @devineconjuring

@readingiskeepingmegoing @moonlitbirdie @maggiemayhemnj @ozarkthedog @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain

@oliveksmoked @thelightsandtheroses @baronessvonglitter @itsokbbygrlbutworsethistime @yopossum

@almostfoxglove @ishabull @kedsandtubesocks @itwasntimethatdidit40 @604to647

@evolnoomym @thundermartini @beefrobeefcal @megangovier @lorettafudge

@imdrinkingpedro @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @80ssong @eff4freddie @tammythr

@lu62 @bitchesuntitled @puddles221b @here-briefly @jennaispunk

@copperhalfcent @sunnytuliptime @noisynightmarepoetry @daydream-believer19 @stylesispunk

@katw474 @radiowallet @anoverwhelmingdin @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @titlee78 @whirlwindrider29

[beefros-sin-bin]

YES. YES!!! Oh lordy loo - this is it. MY SWEET MISGUIDED BABIES!!!

10/10 beefs

[bageldaddy-deactivated20260329]

i know it when i see it // masterlist

ao3 | playlist

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: it's the golden age of porn. sex and sin are the national pastime. your career in adult films starts opposite a man who goes by the name texas.

all future chapters will be posted to ao3

[beefros-sin-bin]

Honestly - this whole fic so far is EVERYTHING.

I just picked it back up and DAMN IT. PERFECTION.

[toxicanonymity]

Power nap, 18+

PAIRING: Tommy Miller x f!Reader | LENGTH: 2100 words NOTES: inspired by this gif by @iamasaddie and this post by @millers-girl555 Tommy is single and thicc. You're neighbors. WARNINGS: 18+ unsafe sex, dirty talk, tummy grinding, daddy kink. Tommy Miller Masterlist | Main Masterlist

After splitting wood, Tommy calls it a day. He gets home out of breath, chest heaving, wiping his forehead with the back of his forearm.  He opens the fridge and bends down with a grunt to reach for a tall can of beer on the bottom shelf and sighs as he grabs it and stands back up.

He dwells in the cool air for a moment before closing the fridge door.  Still sweating buckets, he rests back against the counter and rolls the cool can against his neck for a moment before cracking it open and taking a sip. Before he knows it, he's chugged nearly the whole can. Might as well finish it off and grab a fresh one before he leaves the kitchen. 

He settles in on the couch, cracks open the fresh beer, and puts his feet up. Takes two big gulps before setting it down. He partly catches a belch in his mouth and after letting the air escape his cheeks, mumbles "scuse me," to no one. Once he's settled in, he doesn't wanna get up. He bridges his hips to empty his pockets, reaching into the ever tightening denim to take out his wallet and work keys. 

That's better. 

He unbuckles his belt while he's at it and scratches where it was digging into the under curve of his lower belly.  He unbuttons his jeans. Much better. 

He's real comfy now, and he's dead tired. So tired he falls asleep. 

It's the kind of nap where you slip into a deep sleep right away and sleep like a baby. He doesn't even hear his neighbor knock on the door forty minutes later.

When he doesn't answer, you assume he isn't home. That's okay, you know where his spare key is, and you're supposed to leave the power drill he lent you on the table inside if he isn't there. You come in and shut the door behind you and hear something mumbled from the next room, and the click of metal.

Shit.

"It's me," you announce, and round the corner to see the barrel of Tommy's gun pointed at you. He's leaned forward, alert, legs spread wide. "I come in peace," you add.

"God damn," he sighs in relief and lowers the gun. "Shit, reckon i must'a dozed off..."

He puts the gun down, rubs his eyes, and relaxes back into the couch. His undershirt has ridden up, exposing a mouth-watering slice of his belly, garnished with his light happy trail and framed by his unbuckled belt and unzipped pants.

It isn't until he follows your eyes that he realizes the state he's in and tugs down his undershirt. The room is dim, it's just after sunset, but you can practically feel him blush as he mumbles something like, "Gimme a sec, darlin'," turning slightly away from you and  leaning back to suck in and button his jeans.  

Fuck, he's hot.

Something possesses you to say, "Don't."

He chuckles, still tugging at his jeans, and glances nervously at you. He has to do a double take at your face when he sees the look in your eye. He drops the denim

"It's a good look for you," you tease him, enjoying a surge of confidence from finding him in a vulnerable position.

You've had a crush on him for a while, and got the feeling he might be into you too, but he never made a move. You never had the courage to, either. Never felt like it was your place, until now.

You step forward and repeat, "Stop."

He abandons the chore of buttoning his jeans, instead leaving them unzipped as he slowly sinks back into the couch, watching you approach. His stomach rises and falls with his breath, heart racing from the scare of being woken up.

Your own heart is pounding with adrenaline as he watches you set the tool on his table. You're just gonna go for it. You reach for your own jeans and flick the button open.

His lips part, and his eyes are captivated as your pants drop to his living room floor.

He wonders if he's dreaming. He mutters your name, and it comes out as a question.

You pause with your thumbs hooked into your panties. “Tommy?” You respond.

“Careful now,” he warns.

“Why’s that?” You ask.

A clock on the wall seems to tick slower as you wait for his response.

He wets his bottom lip and says, “One more step, I’ll have you flat on that table.”

“Is that a promise?” You ask.

He chuckles and adjusts himself, easing into the dynamic. “Sounds like you wanna find out,” he says.

“Well, I’m in no hurry to,” you muse, and turn around, giving him a 360 view.  You press your hands below your butt cheeks, giving him a lifted view, then let them drop.

He lets out a low whistle. “God damn, sugar.” He rubs himself over his jeans. “Look at all that ass…C’mere.”

You make him wait for it, treating him to a little strip tease. Heart racing despite your cool demeanor. Your hands run over your curves and you watch his eyes devour every inch of you.  You rub yourself over your panties, and he moans out loud.

“Yeah, come to papa.”

Each tick of the clock, each pump of his heart, has more blood rushing to his loins, stiffening his cock with an aching need to be in you.

By the time you drop your panties, they’re soaked.

His gaze settles between your legs, where your hand glides down your mound, down, and your fingers slide through your slippery slit, bringing slick forward to your clit.

Without taking his eyes off your cunt, he pulls his boxers down, and his cock springs free, smacking heavily against his belly.

At a low volume, you tease, "Just like that, huh?"

And his eyes meet yours to answer, "what'd I tell ya?"

He squeezes his cock, then puts both hands on the couch to scoot forward and his belly swells forward, forcing his cock down and toward you, but no less stiff or aching with the change in position. He lifts his ass to pull down his jeans and boxers and kicks them aside.  "C'mere," he commands.

You haven't even given him the titty show yet, but you obey and close the distance. Once you're in reach, he grabs the backs of your thighs, hurrying you into straddling him.

He takes off your shirt as soon as you're in his space and tosses it over to your pants on the floor. The tip of his cock nudges your mound as he takes your tit in his mouth and sucks your nipple. He pulls you closer against him and your hips seek pressure against his belly.

He moans into your tit and you grind against him, struck by an aching need when his weeping cock-head grazes your clit. You gasp and repeat the motion, with his fat tip peeking out between his lap and belly, rubbing against your throbbing clit with each rock of your hips. 

He unlatches from your tit with a wet smack and breathes, “oh, fuck, i gotta have ya right here.”  He flattens his back against the back of the sofa, stretching his middle out, making room for you. The apex of your folds, wet with slick, presses into his soft stomach as he holds his cock for you. The dripping mouth of your cunt finds his swollen, leaky tip. You sink down on his thick shaft, and he pulls you down with a moan, back still flattened against the sofa-back as though exhausted by sheer arousal. 

His spine arches and he thrusts upward, fully seating himself in your warmth. 

You throb and pant and whisper, "fuck," as your insides swell and sweat around his rock-hard girth. “Fuck, you're big,” you gush, full of his cock, mound pressed against his belly. 

“Yeah, you like big Tommy?” He asks, Watching you darkly, hands on your hips as you ride him. His hips move under you, rocking his cock in your cunt. “Fuck, you can take it, too.”

You ride him slow, grinding against his middle.

“Yeah, take that cock,” he murmurs. “Take that big cock. Mmm…. Just like ya always wanted.” He bites his lip and his hands guide your rhythm. “Mm yeah,” he breathes, swollen shaft fully buried in your pussy. “Yeah, good girl.” 

He begins to sit up a little, groaning “ohhh,” and holding your body against his for leverage. “Ugh,” his middle swells against yours as he pulls himself up, tensing his core, making his cock move inside you. “Yeah, good girl.”

With one massive arm wrapped around you,  his other hand lifts your breast, feeding himself your nipple. “Mmm,” he moans into your breast and your walls flutter. You slot your fingers into his hair. He releases your breast and sighs, “Fuck, sugar…hang on for me. Hang on tight”

He rocks forward, nudging a special spot inside you as the power of his meaty quads forces him to his feet with a grunt. You wrap your legs around him and he carries you a few steps to the table before setting you down on the edge. 

“Down,” his hand gently pushes your chest and you lean back on your elbows, admiring his solid form, glistening and heaving. His neck vein bulges. His eyes pan over your body. “Look at you, buck naked, legs spread… yeah,” he pants, and with his hands on your thighs, he pushes his hips forward, bottoming out deeper, making your head tilt back with a muttered, “Fuck.” 

“That’s my girl,” he nods, staying seated fully inside, rocking his hips. 

The rub of his paunch against your clit has your neck all tense, your brows knitting together, tension pulling in your gut, begging for release. 

Thrust by thrust, he’s rougher, faster, his hair is damp. “Yeah,” he pants, “oh, yeah, c’mon baby, come on big Tommy’s cock.” 

He leans forward and his gold chain swings as he fucks you. The table creaks with the rhythm. 

Closer and closer, you whine with the tension pulling tight, tighter, so tight. 

“Yeah, that’s right, c’mon,” he encourages, “oh fuck,” he breaths, “c’mon baby, milk daddy’s cock, take it baby, take it.” 

Your spine arches and the tension snaps, “Fuck, daddy,” you whimper, “oh god,” clenching on his cock, relief tearing through you in waves, stinging your eyes with tears.  

“There it is,” he pants, fucking you through it, then slams his hips forward and groans, “Ugghhh” as his cock throbs in your cunt. Each twitch of him is fully felt as your own climax wanes. He drains himself in you, then his eyes pan down your body, admiring the scene. 

“How long we been neighbors?” he asks. 

You let out a weak laugh and rest flat on your back, look up at the ceiling, catching your breath. “Long enough,” you answer. 

“Yeah, I’ll say.” His cock slides out and he mutters, ”Oops,” to himself, then uses the tip of his cock to catch what’s trickling out of your cunt and push it back in.

“I was gonna spread those pretty legs one of these days,” he says as he pulls out again. “All the better you spread’em yourself though.”  He chuckles with a slight smile. He sighs and looks at you with kind eyes, making sure you know he’s just being nasty. 

You bite your lip and tilt your head, checking him out, then you close your legs as you sit up. 

He puts on his boxers and picks up your clothes. 

“Just like that,” you observe. 

“Oh, you’re stayin’ over, by the way,” he clarifies. “But we gotta go see Joel first.” He looks at his watch. “While it’s still visting hours.” 

“How’s he doing?” you ask. 

“In good spirits,” Tommy says. “He’ll get a kick outta this.” 

“Out of what?” you laugh. 

“Me bringin’ ya by all fucked out,” he smiles to himself. “Said he’d fuck you himself if I didn’t get to it.” 

Your breath hitches and your eyes widen. 

“He’d prolly do it too,” Tommy says, and pulls his shirt over his head, and tugs it down over his stomach. “Don’t need him bustin’ any stitches though.” 

When you’ve put your shirt on, he steps toward you and brushes your temple with his thumb as he admires your face. “Starvin’,” he mutters. “You eat yet?” 

“No,” you answer. 

“Alright, that’s stop number 2.”  He helps you off the table. 

“Just gonna take me all around jackson, all fucked out?” you ask. 

“Yeah, pretend you don’t like it,” he says with a wink. "c'mon." 

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Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please let me know <3333

[beefros-sin-bin]

Toxy, you sweet fox. I AM IN LOVE. BIG TOMMY YES PLS ON THE TABLE JUST. LIKE. THAT.

10/10 beefs.

[schnarfer]

I Think Of You All Of The Time - mini series masterlist

Young Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (my whole blog is over 18’s only please) Summary: Best friends to lovers, to worse. Mini Series Content: Childhood best friends - we meet Dieter and reader at 17 but follow them over the years as they can’t get their shit together, begins in 2002. Emotional torment, VERY heavy on the angst and the yearning, infidelity, slow burn leading to smut (when D & reader are in their 20’s). Serious misuse of drugs and alcohol. There will be heavy themes so do read warnings on individual chapters. Limited physical descriptions of female reader. Fucking about with canon. Soulmates & Best friends to toxic lovers. Always fleabag coded. Listen to: Someday I’ll get it by Alex Olsen & That Time by Regina Spektor.

A/N: I tired not to write Dieter Bravo. Failed spectacularly. Bon appetit! I’ll be dropping one a week & I so hope you like it, I'm obsessed with them.

🖤 Part 1: 2002

🖤 Part 2: 2008

🖤 Part 3: 2014

🖤 Part 4: 2016 coming Thursday 8th May

🖤 Part 5: 2025 coming Tuesday 13th May

Please let me know if you would like to be tagged!

Tagging in some pals & Dieter fans, let me know if you’d prefer to be taken off:

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[beefros-sin-bin]

i just power blasted my way thru this - it's been on my tbr since you announced it - and...

I LOVE THEM. I LOVE THEM I LOVE THEM I LOVE THEM AND I LOVE YOU!

@schnarfer this is top tier shit, this is. I'm at the edge of my seat waiting to see what happens next!

[couldsewyouastitch]

Home [Frankie 'Catfish' Morales]

pairing: frankie 'catfish' morales x reader

wordcount: 787

warnings: none

The loose floorboard in the hallway groans a warning as Frankie eases the apartment door shut with his hip, willing the latch to catch without waking you. It doesn’t cooperate. The sound reverberates like a gunshot in the predawn stillness.

He winces. Holds his breath. Tries to focus on any other sound that isn’t the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Half-expects to hear the rustle of sheets, the padding of concerned feet.

But the bedroom remains silent. Small mercies. 

In the cramped kitchen, he deposits his keys in the stoneware bowl you made in that pottery class last spring — the glaze a blue so pale it’s almost grey. Frankie likes the weight of it in his palm, the way the cool lip catches on his fingertips. Solid. Real. Just like you.

He then sheds his jacket. The leather one you say makes him look like one of main characters from those Mexican telenovelas your mother used to watch. Drapes the garment over the wonky lath-back chair neither of you use. Stops. Closes his eyes. 

The grey half-light filtering through the blinds paints his skin in shades of ash and sorrow. He knows what he’ll see if he looks in the mirror hanging beside the door. Hair overdue for a cut. Stubble gone rogue. Crow's feet carved deep as canyons around eyes that have seen too much. Bruises under his eyes darker than the ones blooming across his ribs, souvenirs from a world that's always been more keen to break than to bend.

But there are laugh lines there too, now. Trenches carved by joy instead of worry. Your love marks him in kinder ways. And when you run the pad of your thumb along the furrow between his brows, it’s always a little less deep than it was this time last year.

You’re gentling him. Slowly, slowly. A feral creature coaxed in from the cold, learning to trust the warmth of the heart.

Frankie fills the coffee pot. Catalogues his aches as it percolates. His shoulder throbs and his knuckles sting beneath their ripped scabs. Nothing he hasn't endured before. And if he’s being honest, he doesn't remember what it feels like to wake up without something hurting. Without some part of him crying out in remembered pain.

But it's duller now, muted. Easier to breathe through.

He looks away.

There are pink dish gloves, as size too small for his hands, draped over the faucet. A mug with a chip on the rim waiting beside the sink – a faint lipstick print still visible.

You’d waited up. You always wait up. 

His heart clenches and his chest fills up with that feeling that always leaves him a bit disoriented. A little bit dizzy. 

He carries his coffee to the sagging couch, the one you'd picked out together at the thrift store down the street. It's ugly as sin but sinfully comfortable. He sinks into it now, letting the worn fabric absorb his weight, his weariness.

The first sip scalds his throat but he welcomes the burn. Lets his head fall back. Stares at the ceiling. There’s a water stain in the corner that looks like a lopsided heart. He wonders if it’s shaped like yours, misshapen from making room for him inside its chambers. 

His eyes prickle. He closes them. 

The bedroom door sighs and there’s a soft shuffling of bare feet on hardwood. And then you emerge — hair sleep-mussed and eyes barely open. But then you blink at him, your eyes still hazy with dreams, soft and rumpled and smudged at the edges.

His chest constricts, a sweet ache blooming behind his ribs.

"You're home," you mumble, padding to the couch on quiet feet before climbing into his lap, graceless with exhaustion, all elbows and knees and cold toes seeking warmth. You fit yourself against him, your head finding the crook of his neck like it was made to rest there — your cool nose nuzzling against his pulse point.

He wraps his arms around you. Tugs you closer.

“I’m home,” Frankie whispers into your hair, and you only burrow closer. Tuck your cold toes under his thigh. Hum contentedly when his fingers slip under your shirt to trace your spine. His ribs creak as you settle but he doesn’t shift you. Just breathes you in. You smell like sleep and fabric softener and something that might be peace. 

The weak winter sunlight inches across the floor, tentative and pale, reaching for you with gossamer fingers. He lets it come. Lets it wash over you, chasing away the lingering shadows of the night. There are no shadows here it can’t touch. Not anymore. Not while you’re in his arms. 

Not while you're his home.

[beefros-sin-bin]

Oh this is just beautiful!

[absurdthirst]

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