bijou

i wuv pedrito pascalito 24 | she/her | minors dni

[bonkhrnyjail]

desert eagle

pairing: young joel miller x f!plus-size!reader (age unspecified, no specific physical descriptions other than plus-size and able-bodied) summary: joel gets reluctantly dragged to the strip club after a long day of work. god knows he wasn't expecting to meet someone like you... rating: explicit 18+ mdni word count: 8.8k (sorry) tags: thigh riding, oral sex, so much oral sex, ass play, 69, reader is a stripper, joel is down horrendous, JOEL MILLER LOVES BIG GIRLS, gentleman!joel, until he's not, sub!joel if you squint, joel and reader are both aggressively texan, i'm midwestern so i do not take responsibility for inaccuracies i did my best a/n: soooo this is based off of the beyoncé song desert eagle, the first time i heard it i immediately thought of this idea and i couldn't get it out of my head and i was having literal sex dreams about it so i decided to write it. this is my first time writing joel too so i'm scared :P anyways i love writing about confident beautiful fat women but i think anyone can enjoy this fic so yeahhh anyways you should listen to the beyoncé song and then read the fic or vice versa ok love you bye

Joel didn’t want to go to the strip club. 

In fact, Joel wants nothing more than to be alone tonight, and yet he finds himself uncomfortably perched on the edge of a half-crescent booth, dragged along by Tommy and some of the idiot twenty-somethings he’d met on their most recent project.  

“Loosen up, old man!” one of the cocky landscapers barked at him when he tried to decline. “A pretty pair a’ tits in your face’ll turn that frown right upside down!”

He almost did say no, almost played the foolproof dad card; unfortunately for him, Sarah had already planned to stay at her best friend’s house the next few nights, taking advantage of the last week of winter break. But he saw the premature wince forming in Tommy’s eye, waiting for the inevitable sting of Joel ruining his chances at making some semi-decent friends in this town—friends that wouldn’t land him behind bars on the weekend, anyways. So Joel surrendered with a begrudging grunt, under the terms that he could stop by home to shower and change clothes. Miraculously, he convinced the other guys to do the same.

Inside, violet and teal spotlights cast a thick fog across the large stage. It illuminates the performers whilst somehow clouding them too, their bodies winding and whirling in a periwinkle haze. Joel’s skin feels humid and suffocated beneath the clinging fabric of his flannel shirt; the glass of Jack Daniels he’d spent the last ten minutes nursing only abets the formation of dew trickling down his neck and spine. The only thing keeping him cool is the wet curls he slicked back sitting at the base of his skull, providing a momentary chill with any slight breeze. He feels claustrophobic, displaced; like his presence was altogether a clumsy wedge into somewhere he didn’t quite belong. 

Nothing another glass of whiskey couldn’t fix.

Joel excuses himself from the group without much notice. The boys are hovering over a meaty stack of ones, attempting to divvy up the bills in even increments without having to count them out individually. He strides across the room with a languid ease, scanning the room and the scattered clusters of men, appeasing his unconscious instinct to confirm safety wherever he is—and to keep tabs on the people he should keep Tommy away from. He stops short for a moment, palming his pocket to confirm his wallet and keys haven’t left his side.

“Pardon me, honey.” 

A soft, seductive drawl takes him by surprise as a hand on his lower back guides him inches to the left. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, the crisp snap of his neck to follow the voice leaving a slight dizziness in its recoil, the trailing scent of cinnamon and honey wafting beneath his nose. 

When he finally sees you, actually sees you, Joel finds himself powerless to avert his gaze. Your body is awash with exquisite peaks and valleys, velvet curves clad only by precarious strings and swatches of fabric covering mere inches of glistening skin. The clack of your heels leaves him hypnotized as you leave him in your wake. His jaw slackens and his lungs become paralyzed as he witnesses the way your body moves like water with every step; like the current that flows across the edges of your figure, rippling as you step onto the stage and coil yourself around the silver pole.

Good god.

The bones in Joel’s knees suddenly turn gelatinous, a huff of air escaping his mouth as he stumbles backward into the bar, bracing himself with flat palms against the polished marble. He steadies himself, blinking out the sting beneath his lids, trying to moisten the dryness in his eyes—a consequence of his bulging stare.

A soft giggle lilts from behind him, piercing through his trance and hammering his conscience back into the earth. Joel turns to the source to find the bartender, shaking her head with laughter as she drags the rim of a glass through a bowl of salt.

“Don’t worry, ain’t the first time I’ve seen a man nearly lose his footin’ around Paloma,” she jeers, a smirk threatening the corners of her mouth. “She’s really somethin’, that girl.”

Joel nods, clears his throat, and swallows the saliva that pools at the back of his tongue. Somethin’ was an understatement, an insult to the ethereal vision twirling before him. The fog and dusky lighting prevents him from capturing a defined image of your face, only catching glimpses of soft cheeks and plush lips as you spin and float with ease, but he’s certain you’re breathtaking.

“You want another Jack?” the bartender offers, pouring out a picture-perfect margarita, the lime hue nearly fluorescent in the lowlight.

Joel grunts in affirmation, his eyes not once straying from your direction.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” she ribs, chuckling as she reaches for the whiskey.

“Sorry, long day,” Joel winces, suddenly painfully aware of how rude he’s been. “Is she, uh, new ‘round here?” 

“Who, Paloma? Been ‘round for about… six months or so? She’s done real well for herself, honestly blew all us away with how much she was able t’make from the jump.”

He bites down on the tip of his tongue, a sharp, electrifying pain searing through his nerves. It does nothing to fracture the beguiling spell you’ve somehow cast upon him, and Joel finds himself staring again, studying your every move, knowing nothing but need.

“Do you know if she… when she’s done here? Her shift, I mean.”

The bartender laughs exuberantly, a wide smile revealing a far-too-pristine row of pearly veneers that nearly glow under the lilac beams.

“Well, I don’t think I can tell you that, sugar,” she coos, sliding Joel’s drink across the space between them. “But you can ask her yourself! I promise, she don’t bite. Sweet as honey, that one.”

Honey. 

It still lingers in the air, thick and cloying in a way that grips like a hand wrapped around his throat, like a demanding croon singing over and over: Eyes on me. He can taste it too, a whisper of it stagnant on the back of his tongue, a lurking craving impatiently waiting to be satiated.

Joel thanks her in a low gravel, and strides back towards his table with newfound urgency nipping at his heels. He arrives at the booth with no reaction from the boys, the party too enveloped in counting their stack to be stirred by his presence. It’s only when Joel clears his throat, the force of it deep and thunderous, that the men take any notice.

“I’m gonna need me some of those.”

.   .   .   .   .

You didn’t expect the club to be busy tonight. 

In fact, you practically relied on Wednesdays being the slowest day of the week. You often used the opportunity to practice new routines, test out new outfits, try something different with your makeup; pretty much anything you didn’t particularly prefer for a crowded audience to behold.

Tonight you find yourself testing the limits of a string-bikini-esque number, the laces doubled around your torso and triple-knotted in the hope of extra security, and the triangular fabric cutouts stuck down to the curve of your breasts with double-sided tape. You climb the pole with ease, perfectly-formed calluses on your palms and heels aiding you with improved grip. 

It took just a month of pole classes for you to develop an addiction to the burn of sleek metal sliding across your skin. Something about the sting of it, alongside the quiver of your core, the aching clench of your thighs; it was a remarkable blend of pain that spilled through you like pleasure. It soon became an unholy replacement for Sunday worship—melding yourself around the pole; bathing in the sweltering beams from the spotlights; inhaling the musky scent of crumpled bills lying at your feet. It was entirely meditative, and you’d found a sort of spiritual enlightenment amongst it all.

You let your head fall back as the rod swings you around in tight circles. Normally you let your eyes close when you spin, but tonight you feel called to the fuzzy warmth that pools behind your brows when you get good and dizzy. Your surroundings bleed and curve like an Expressionist painting, and an unmoving figure lurks amongst the brush strokes, appearing and disappearing and blending until it’s a constant image: a broad, stoic, masculine body, melting into everything you can see.

The invasion peeves you. Sure, you know you should be pleased that a customer is watching, clearly interested and coming closer, but for Christ’s sake, you’ve been out for less than five minutes. At 6pm. On a Wednesday.

You carefully bring your body to a halt, slowly inching down the pole until your shoes meet the hardwood. Your vision lags far behind you, skipping like a scratched disc, and it’s enough to nearly knock you from your feet. A lightness billows through your blood and tries to whisk you away, but you sink against it, sitting on your heels and fastening your grip on the cold steel.

Lines begin to gain their sharpness again, and the figure in your peripheral starts to look less and less like a Van Gogh portrait. The man’s face is still muddled, dimly-lit and shrouded by the bill of a baseball cap. You smile at him on instinct, and you notice his chest jerk, like he was entirely unaware that he too was being observed; like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You also can’t help but notice how broad he is, even from this distance. The plaid lines of his button-up sprawl across his chest, his arms, his waist, and though the shirt clearly isn’t skin-tight, you can tell the expanse of him fills it out with ease. With a slight tilt of your head you motion for him to come closer, and your balance finally stills enough for you to trust your feet again.

The man strides across the room with a glimmer of urgency—not fast per se, but with a spirited buoyancy hot beneath his heels. He parks himself at the table nearest to you, pulling the chair from its nestled nook under the table, and makes himself comfortable, splaying his knees and crossing his arms tightly atop his chest.

God, he’s big.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before,” you lilt, descending the stairs from the platform and taking a seat on the table in front of him.

One of his hands peeks from beneath the sleeve of his flannel. It looks gruff, firm, and tightly grasps a palmful of ones, and the sheer width of his fingers make the bills look like Monopoly money. 

“Ain’t really been ‘round here before,” he shrugs, his voice exactly as deep as you expected, and steeped in what you immediately recognize as a born and raised Texan.

His eyes are noticeably shifty, ping-ponging between the floor, the stage, your shoes, his watch; anywhere that isn’t your gaze. The majority of his face is still shaded by his cap, and even this close his features remain more vague than you’d like them to be. You realize he must be new to this, and you’ve heard that drawl before; the drawl of a man who was raised to mind his manners.

You don’t make him ask.

“You want a dance, baby?”

You graze your fingers over his, and have to bite down on a grin when his chest hitches sharply against the row of buttons resting over his sternum.

“I… um… no, thank you sweetheart—”

“What’s your name?”

He clears his throat with a stifled, nervous cough.

“Joel,” he blurts, a sober assuredness possessing his voice. “Joel Miller.”

He finally meets your gaze, just as a whirling spotlight dances over his face. A split second of illumination reveals a whiskey-brown stare, dripping with warmth, glinting with a sedated hunger. You bite down on the flesh of your cheek and extend your hand to shake his.

“Paloma,” you croak, imitating his baritone husk, pausing to repeat his cadence. “Paloma Blue.”

A dimple appears amongst a veil of brown scruff, the faint edges of a charming smile peeking through the shadow from his hat. His shoulders remain rigid, hiked with an invisible thread tugging them toward the ceiling.

You really can’t read him.

“Can I do somethin’ for you, honey? You seem tense,” you question.

“I was… I was wonderin’ if you might be interested in lettin’ me buy you a drink. When you’re done workin’, f’course. Wouldn’t wanna get you in any kinda trouble.”

You find it impossible not to let out a chuckle. It’s not the first time you’ve sent a man into a flustered mess of shifting-eyes and stuttering words, though that would usually come after he got too bold and you needed to put him in his place. Joel Miller doesn’t look like those men; college-aged hooligans or machismo cowboys that are all bark and no bite. He doesn’t look like a man who gets nervous; yet here he is, fidgeting profusely with his watch, and you’re quite relieved he’s sitting down.

“Well, ain’t you a sweet one…” you drawl, half-teasing despite the truth to the statement. “I’m s’posed to work ‘til close tonight, but if you can convince my boss to let me leave early, I’m all yours.”

You don’t miss the swell of Joel’s pupils at your affirmation, a look of determination you had yet to witness on the man. The chances of getting out of your shift tonight are next to none, considering there’s merely three of you working the floor and a new hoard of howling youngsters just came tumbling through the entrance.

You point out your boss behind the bar and Joel follows with his gaze, nodding and starting towards her without a word.

You’re a bit shocked at his immediate action; not to mention the lack of the typical prying you’ve accepted as routine. He’s been extraordinarily polite; a man of few words but refreshingly direct despite the subtle shake in his voice, and the honesty alone makes your cheeks flush.

You’re far more used to taking control and providing entertainment for the countless men that frequent the club, always catering to their needs first and foremost, smothering them with flattery—or degradation, if you notice a well-timed “good boy” summons a bigger bill from their pockets. It’s work, but it’s undoubtedly started to bleed into your personal life. The lines between you and your Paloma persona have blurred these days, making you unsure of what you’re supposed to want and what you actually want. You find yourself lost in thought, gazing at the black and white tile as your legs swing underneath you, until the interruption of two dirty boots break your trance.

“Boss said you’re good to go. F’you still want to.”

How the hell did he manage that?

Your jaw hangs slightly in shock, racking your brain to make sense of what he may have done to convince her. You can’t help but be impressed by his vigor, by all of it, and a smile lifts your cheeks to the heavens as you recognize the feeling stirring in your tummy, a feeling that has laid dormant for far too long. You want him.

“I’ll go get my stuff, just hang tight.”

.   .   .   .   .

Joel stands by the exit of the club, waiting for you to grab your things. He hadn’t thought a damn thing through before he asked you out, and his voice of reason was nowhere to be found when he forked over 200 bucks to the club owner to get you out of working for the rest of the night. Any semblance of forethought vanished when he saw you, all sashayed hips and strut and so undeniably, deliciously Texan. And your face—oh—once he saw that sweet face of yours… he didn’t stand a fucking chance.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know where exactly he should take you to get a drink. Should he have asked you to dinner instead? The last thing he wants is you to think is that he’s trying to buy you for the night, or that anything is required of you just because he got you out of work. He just wants to know you, be near you, bask in your presence. He wants to treat you like a gentleman, like he was raised to, because he’s damn sure the kind of men who wind up at that club don’t give a damn about chivalry.

You emerge from the narrow hallway leading towards the exit, clad in gray sweatpants and a flowy white tee that somehow still clings to the most feminine parts of your figure. You shoot him a beaming smile, a playful glint in your eyes as you haul a small duffel bag over your shoulder.

“You’re not takin’ me anywhere too fancy I hope,” you snicker.

Joel offers one hand to hold your bag and swings the door ajar with the other, holding it for you as you pass through. The trail of your perfume—that soft, sugary scent—leaves his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he tightens his grip on the doorframe.

“You need somethin’ to eat? We could get some supper,” he suggests, offering his arm to you.

“Yeah, actually, I usually wait ‘til after my shift, considerin’ work ain’t too far off from a non-stop Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Y’get used to it after a while, but—”

“Better safe than sorry, I bet.”

You look up at him and nod with a half-grin, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

With just a single look, Joel’s stomach flutters and dick twitches at the sight of you. The glow of your face beneath the warmth of the streetlight; your soft features and the intensity of your persistent gaze is beyond mesmerizing. You’re pretty, the epitome of it, all batting lashes and pillowy lips; the very definition of divine feminine. You’re the spitting image of the hazy being that appears behind his eyelids when he touches himself and lets his mind wander; the body he craves to wake up tangled with every morning. 

He follows you to the passenger’s side of the car and opens the door for you without a thought, leaning in to his tendencies and muscle memory. You hum a sweet thank you as he extends his arm to help you into his elevated truck, but you barely need the support, your strong legs lifting you into the height of the car with ease. 

As Joel turns the key in the ignition, the scream of the roaring engine sends a full body cringe snaking down his spine.

“Sorry, uh, she’s a lil’ noisy,” he winces with an apologetic brow. “She’s fine, runs great, just—”

“A bit of a talker?” you blurt.

He smiles diffidently and nods. You’re better with words than he is, and he finds himself thankful for that—lord knows he needs all the help he can get in your presence.

Joel flicks on the radio, an old Willie Nelson tune lilting from the rear speakers. You let out a hearty grunt of approval.

“Haven’t heard this one in forever,” you slurred. “Practically grew up on this music. ‘M sure you did too, I can hear it in that drawl f’yours.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches his arm around your seat, crooking his head back as he shifts the truck into reverse. 

“That bad, huh?”

“Not bad! Just strong. Just how I like it, really,” you admit, pulling your lip between your teeth, doe-eyed and eager as you catch his gaze.

God, he’s absolutely fucked.

He dials up the volume as he clears his throat and starts down the jagged road. You relax into your seat, curling one of your feet up to tuck beneath your thigh as you hum along to the radio.

He knows exactly where to take you.

.   .   .   .   .

A twenty minute car ride with Joel revealed that he wanted to know as much as he could about you. He asked question after question, about your life, your hobbies, your family, and not one thing about your job, which was honestly quite refreshing. Not that you had any shame about your occupation, but most men were more fascinated about what it was like to be Paloma, and most importantly what it could mean for them at the end of the evening. Not Joel, though. It seemed as though he was almost afraid to breach the subject; out of politeness or avoidance, you weren’t sure. You crossed your fingers that it was the former.

You arrive at a little shack of a restaurant, some sort of fusion between a diner and a sports bar. It looks as though it should be empty, the exterior of it run down in a way that makes it appear frozen in time, but it isn’t. Clusters of customers sit in long-stretched booths that fill the width of the windows and the entrance is shrouded with people; some smoking, some chatting, and some seemingly waiting to get in. You scan the crowd and find that everyone visible to you appears quite innately blue collar, down to the sea of Levi’s Jeans and scuffed up boots, extra-illuminated by the cheap plastic solar lights haphazardly stuck into narrow beds of mulch.

Joel hops down from the truck before you can even say a word, and with a quick shuffle he’s arrived at the passenger door. You have to laugh at the absurdity of it, how it seems he has—cover to cover— studied a textbook of how to be a perfect gentleman. Alongside the frequency of nerves you can sense radiating from beneath his skin, you know you need to get a drink in him. 

He offers his arm as you hop down onto the pavement and swiftly rests his palm on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd of patrons with ease. A cheap, crackling doorbell sound chimes as you pass through the doorway. The hostess offers a wide and toothy smile, hollering to announce Joel's arrival, by name, towards the kitchen. She appears surprised but delighted to see him, making a point to let him know how much she has missed him with a cringeworthy attempt at a bit too much physical contact. She asks about a Sarah, and your stomach tightens with concern—you hope to god she's anything but a wife. He requests a booth, a cozy, curved table in the shaded, sheltered corner of the restaurant, and the staff oblige him immediately, one waitress clearing the tabletop of dishes and the other wiping the surface down in one clean swipe.

“Hope this is ok,” Joel says. “You’re definitely not the only one wearing sweatpants in here, if it makes you feel at ease.”

“It’s good, seems perfect,” you slip the innermost part of your bottom beneath your teeth and let your eyes do the smiling. “They sure are treatin’ you like royalty in here.”

Joel seems to relax a bit, his spine softening into the back of the cushion and legs splaying wide. He isn’t looking at you as you observe him; his eyes dart around and he musters a casual wave to anyone visibly moved by his presence. The constant, worried scrunch of his brow smooths out for a moment, just as the beams of passing headlights rake over his features, and you finally realize:

He’s fucking gorgeous.

You could see him before, sure, but you didn’t actually see him, not with the lingering luminescence of the warm white that shines through the outspread window behind you. He was steeped in shadow, but now he’s colored in, every detail and curvature entirely yours to behold.

The bend of his nose draws your attention first, strong and angular, demanding your eyes pay it mind. Your gaze follows a natural map, a sporadic trail of sun spots that dance across his cheek, conspicuous evidence of long days working outside in the relentless Austin heat. A few silver hairs are sprinkled amongst his umber scruff; a well-kempt beard and mustache sits just above the soft curve of his lips, flushed with ruddy hue.

He’s gorgeous, plain and simple. 

The waitress brings Joel a whiskey before even saying hello. Joel asks what you would like, calls you sweetheart in a low, thick growl. You order a vodka cran and try to ignore the hostess currently staring a hole into the side of your head. 

“You gonna tell me why they treat you like royalty ‘round here?” you tease.

“Not royalty—” he cuts himself off with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “They just ain’t seen me in a while. Used to bring my little girl here for breakfast every Sunday.”

“Ah,” you release with a sigh, the ball of tension sitting in your chest following behind. “Sarah?”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“Was worried she might be a wife for a second there.”

“Oh, no, I- I’m not… I wouldn’t…”

“S’alright. I’ll admit though, I’m real glad she ain’t.”

Joel’s face turns a soft shade of pink and a whisper of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicker, lingering on your lips, a flame dancing behind his pupils, before meeting your gaze again. You can’t control the smile that possesses your face, nor the simmering heat that blankets your chest, and you can’t recall that last time a man made you feel like this. 

Every facet of Joel’s appearance exudes an air of dominance. He dresses much like the hordes of men who approach you with their usual excessive bravado and unwarranted sense of ownership over your body, but he seems to act entirely the opposite. He seems apprehensive, wary, like he’s trying desperately to be the right kind of man around you, to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.

You decide to try what Joel orders, some sort of off-menu special order the waitress jokingly calls “The Miller Deluxe”. It isn’t long before you finish your drink, and another appears before you can even ask. You inquire more about Joel’s daughter, his life, his work; returning the line of questioning he surveyed you with in the passenger’s seat of the truck, and you find yourself mirroring his smile as he tells you all about Sarah. He rambles off a brief explanation of his business and Tommy; you immediately know who he is, a somewhat troublesome regular visitor at the club. Joel apologizes for Tommy before you even say a word about him, and your food arrives at the table before you can explain that he’s more of an occasional nuisance than anything else.

The whiskey seems to unwind the tension in Joel’s stature, and words begin to flow with much more ease than they did before you arrived. A natural, charismatic charm seeps through, sticky sweet, until it’s all but enveloped his demeanor, blanketing his palpable apprehension with an earnest geniality that radiates warmth like a fireplace. It washes over you, clinging to every inch of your skin, seeping through to your veins and igniting a flame low in your belly, a flickering heat that demands to be noticed.

You’re fairly certain he won’t be the one to cut through the guarded distance between you. Despite the unmistakable hunger in his eyes, he remains heedful, taking extra care to keep his hand from grazing yours as he reaches for the chip basket and keeping his body at least a foot away from yours. You want—desperately want—to shatter the glass partition he seems to have placed between you, to destroy the self-imposed barrier keeping his temptation at bay.

You start by sliding closer, closing the gap between your knees until they touch. That gets his attention, but he doesn’t retreat, he only meets your eyes with a look of inquiry, curiosity, and a hint of apprehension. You flash him your most doe-eyed, encouraging smile, sanctioning the proximity of your bodies, silently divulging that you want this, that you like him, that he can finally release the imprisoned breath he’s been holding beneath his sternum since he uttered his very first words to you. 

Joel swings an arm around your shoulder, resting against the wooden panel atop the booth seat, leaving a few inches between your skin and the sleeve of his flannel. He doesn’t have to tell you a thing; you oblige him immediately, leaning your shoulders back and relaxing into his forearm. You fit seamlessly into the crook of his elbow, and the warmth emanating from his body makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention.                       

The second vodka cran—the one that you nearly shotgunned—possesses your will for a split-second and you find yourself reaching for his face, whisping the pad of your thumb across his wiry scruff. Despite the rough tickle it leaves behind, you immediately crave the sensation elsewhere, certain that the drag of it across a more delicate area might just feel like heaven.

“Can I be honest?” you whisper in a low lilt, tracing the brim of his cap with lazy fingers.

Joel nods with a thick swallow, his Adam's apple jumping almost comically in his throat.

“Yeah, f’course,” he responds with a strained attempt at nonchalance.

“I don’t like this hat.”

You grip the bill of the hat, wiggling it back and forth playfully. Your actions are outrunning your thoughts by a mile now, and you’re unable to keep your hands from wandering towards Joel’s magnetism. His face transforms into a bewildered, amused grin, one brow furrowed and the other cocked toward the ceiling. 

“Mm,” he hums, a low, resonant sonance from the pit of his chest. “Why’s that?”

“I can’t see you,” you whine. “Can’t see that pretty face of yours, s’all hidden by a shadow.”

“I, um—” he whisks the hat off, running his fingers through a slicked mountain of curls. “My hair’s still wet.”

Christ. The light bathes his face, every detail revealing itself to you in absolute glory. He’s fucking beautiful, his features demanding of your undivided attention, an impossible balance between striking and soft. The flicker of need at the base of your core spreads at the speed of a wildfire, setting you ablaze with a hunger you can no longer ignore.

“Joel?”

His name spills from your throat, sliding off your tongue like a siren’s nectar. Your fingers find their way to his mane, weaving through the strands with a gentle tug. His inhale catches in his lungs, the air held prisoner as your nails trace along his temple and jaw. His eyes finally meet yours as the pad of your thumb drags across his lower lip, and it’s only then that you will his breath to freedom, a stuttering exhale pulsing with anticipation.

“I think we should get the check.”

A momentary shock quickly turns to realization, and with widened eyes and a stifled smirk he nods, wasting no time to flag down the waiter and ask for the bill. Neither of you speak; you find it almost impossible to do so, your gaze spellbound to the curve of muscle and veins that lay beneath his collar, and you swear you can see his pulse jumping beneath his skin.

You want nothing more than to feel the rush of it beneath your tongue.

Joel offers his arm to help you out of the booth, his flannel rolled to his elbows, exposing his thick and freckled forearms and a modest watch strapped to his wrist. He wastes no time whisking you towards the door, his palm flat against your lower back, waving a few rushed goodbyes to the folks he chatted with on the way in. You can feel his heat, his fervor, singeing your skin through your shirt, his fingers curled into the soft skin just above your ass. He holds the door for you as you lock eyes; you’re met with primitive opacity in his gaze, the desperation of it surging straight to your cunt.

You grasp his hand, and book it towards his truck, counting down the seconds before you lose control.

.   .   .   .   .

Joel hums with surprise as you twist the neck of his flannel into your fist, tugging him into you and colliding your lips savagely with his.

Fuck, you taste better than he could’ve possibly imagined.

He didn’t intend for the evening to end like this. In fact, he almost wanted to avoid it, wanted to take you out with the crystal-clear message of no expectation whatsoever. But he’s just a man after all, and the second your eyes started talking and hands started wandering, he knew there was no way he could resist giving you what you wanted.

His hands find their way to your hips with magnetic force, slipping under the hem of your shirt with ease and grasping at the softness that lies beneath the fabric. The strength of his hands is enough to push you flat against the passenger door as he tilts your pelvis towards him, easing your knees apart with an effortless nudge of his leg. 

You gasp into his mouth as he pulls you onto his thigh, grinding you into the thick denim. The sound of you, breathless and needy, stirs a ravenousness in his chest that Joel had thought was long laid to rest, an avidity that only you have managed to awaken. You, in all your glory, drenched in honey and cream, calling out to him to come and taste.

As he bucks your hips a second time, you whine, your hands shooting up and tangling in his hair. You tug his head back, distancing his lips from yours, and he can’t help but groan at the loss of contact. Your gaze bears into his eyes with a newfound ferocity, a determination that leaves him straining against the confines of his jeans.

“You gonna give me what I need, Joel Miller?” you speak against his mouth in a hush.

Goosebumps litter the better part of his neck and chest as his eyes struggle to keep you in focus. The sting of pain at the back of his scalp only swells his desire, a sensation so staggering that he finds his breath caught, full and tight in his lungs, escaping only through labored, silent sighs.

“M’gonna give you whatever you need baby, whatever you want,” Joel pants, slurring his words against your gluttonous smirk. 

Suddenly you’re diving beneath his jaw, dragging the heat of your mouth across the pattern he knows follows a prominent vein in his neck. Fuck, it feels euphoric, his pulse jumping against your tongue, every rush of blood to and fro delivering another wave of want straight to his cock. He gives in, letting his eyes roll back into his skull, no longer able to maintain any semblance of insouciance as he’s damn near collapsing under your spell. He can’t recall the last time he’d been touched like this. On the rare occasion he’d bring a woman home he found himself falling into routine, taking control because that’s what he sensed she would expect, fulfilling some sense of duty as a man that he never quite understood. He’d always felt a sort of magnetism toward assured women, but somehow they were never the ones who ended up in his bed, only wavering ladies who looked to him wide-eyed, waiting for instruction.

He’s quite sure he’ll never go back.

Joel drags your hips against him once again, this time increasing the friction, bearing you down on his thigh enough to feel the damp spot that’s pooled between your legs. You yelp, biting into his neck, the sting of your canines against his skin bordering on vampiric. Joel hisses, the pain once again blossoming into some sort of pleasure, twitching and crying from the head of him. 

“Babydoll—shit—” he curses, stunned as you drag your lower teeth towards his ear, undoubtedly leaving behind a sketch of crimson. “You wanna get in the truck baby? Plenty’a room in the backseat.”

You hum in agreement, your lips wrapping around his earlobe, flicking it against your tongue before giving it a feeble nip. Joel fumbles in his pocket until he manages to unlock the door with his key, wasting no time as he pulls you tight to his chest, swinging the door ajar before offering a hand to help you inside. Despite his lust-stricken haze, his gentlemanly charm seems to be beaten into the very fiber of his being. You step into the car, gracing him with a personal view of the perfect splay of your hips and ass, only revving his hunger as he follows suit.

.   .   .   .   .

You don’t allow Joel but a second before you’re caging him in between your legs, straddling his thighs against the backseat of his truck. The rough grip of his hands on your hips, grinding you down on his knee, kneading into your curves; it was enough to set you entirely ablaze. No more matchstick flickering at the pit of your stomach, every cell in your body is pulsing with need, pleading for release by the hands of Joel Miller.

You can’t help but glide with a sharp rock of your hips across his lap, desperate to return some friction to the pounding ache within your walls. Your eyes lock with his as your clothed cunt skims the sizable tent of his jeans, observing him feverishly as he groans at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he grunts, his chest heaving as you slowly drag away again. “Easy, easy baby…”

His hands find the valley of your waist with ease, slowing your pace to an achingly languid speed. With each brush of your throbbing clit against the seam of your panties, another gush of slick floods from your core. It’s filthy, obscene, soaking all the way through the thick material of your sweatpants and onto Joel’s denim. You can’t even remember the last time you were this wet. It makes you burn that much more, the way his mere presence alone was enough to turn you into a sopping mess.

“Joel—” your palms cradle the curve of his jaw, holding him still to allow you to study him in the lowlight. 

He’s so fucking beautiful, positively mesmerizing, his pupils blown wide with a raptured stare, the sharp curve of his nose like something carved from ancient marble. The pad of your thumb snakes across the pout of his lower lip, pressing down until his jaw goes slack, parting his mouth with an exhale.

Joel seems to lose himself in your gaze, his eyes not once leaving yours as you slip your thumb between his teeth and force him even wider, applying pressure to the tip of his tongue and feeling the muscle flex against your fingertips. You need his mouth, need it anywhere and everywhere and right fucking there, you need him to clean up this mess he’s made of you.

“You know how gorgeous you are, sugar?” you hum, spreading the slick from his tongue across his lower lip and down his chin. “You know I don’t do this for just anybody, right?”

“You’re the gorgeous one, baby, so goddamn gorgeous,” Joel pants, snaking his hands higher, up the bend of your waist until his palms reach the yielding skin that cloaks your ribcage. His thumbs trace the band of your bra; smooth, fluid motions that send chills crawling up your spine. “So beautiful I reckon’ it might jus’ kill me.”

You can’t help but smile at his sweetness, his accent reduced to a slurry of words, appearing to be drunk on your aura. It seems you’ve managed to reduce him down to his very core, the heat from your body melting through the hardened layers of gruff masculinity to reveal an almost desperate eagerness to please, a yearning to relinquish control.

“I can’t have you dyin’ on me, honeypie,” you allow your hands to wander, your fingertips finding their way to the uppermost button of his shirt. “I got far too many plans for that pretty little mouth of yours.”

You lean down to kiss him once again, your thumbs making quick work of the trail of remaining buttons. Your lips move sloppily against each other, the both of you unable to stifle your muffled moans, swallowing each other’s pleasure as your tongues waltz in the in-between.

“Tell me what to do, baby,” Joel croons against your cheek. “Fuck, want you s’bad, jus’ wanna make you feel good.”

Your fingers nestle into the damp mess of curls at the back of his skull. With an innocuous little tug, you guide his lips to the expanse of bare skin on your chest, his mouth settling at the heart of your sternum. You don’t even have to ask, his tongue darting past his lips, savoring the taste of you with a deliberate torpor. The graze of his scruff against your thumping heart feels better than you could have possibly imagined, sharp yet soft, ticklish enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You blanket the backs of his hands, your fingers settling in the spaces between his, maneuvering the wide expanse of his palms to splay across your breasts. You can’t believe the sheer size of his hands, enveloping your tits entirely, calluses harsh against the sensitive peaks veiled beneath the mesh of your bra. 

“Touch me here,” you sigh, unable to keep yourself rocking slowly against his thigh. “Taste me. Show me how bad you want me, pretty boy.”

Something akin to a growl claws from his throat, and you gasp as his nails hook around the seam of your bra, exposing the peaks of your breasts with a relentless tug. He wastes no time, pulling your nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud mercilessly.

“Fuck, oh fuck, that’s good baby,” you bear down into his thigh as his thumb finds your other nipple, rolling it between his forefinger. Your core surges with another wave of need, crying for attention, spilling her tears from your center and dampening the denim-clad thigh beneath her. “I need— shit— I need you lower, Joel.”

In your hungered haze, you push Joel flat against the seat of the truck, his eyes wide and wild as you climb atop him, his chest hiking and falling against your bare tits. He looks downright enraptured, licking his lips like a kid in a goddamn candy shop, fiending for a sugar high.

“You wanna taste me, sugar plum? You gon’ let me feed you?”

“Christ—” Joel curses, his hands wandering along your torso, lifting your shirt above your head and flinging it across the dash. He unclasps your bra with his free hand, sending it flying the opposite direction. “Please darlin’, need’ta taste you.”

You manage to kick off your sweats while Joel holds you steady by the hips, his eager words somehow igniting even more fervor in your movements. His thumbs knead into the give of your lower tummy, meandering beneath the waistband of your panties and twisting the elastic around his knuckles, slack-jawed and nearly possessed by the sight of your bare curves alone.  

Joel gives you a nod, cupping your ass to ease you forward as your knees find a home adjacent to his ears. He pets along the length of your thighs, damn near drooling at the sight between them.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” Joel slips a finger beneath the seam of black lace, teasing against the soft damp skin closest to where you need him the most. “M’a big boy, can handle myself.”

You gasp as he shoves the soaked cloth covering your cunt to the side, brushing your desperate clit with his knuckle as he does so. You’re bare to him now, surely glistening and ripe and ready to be devoured.

“Don’t doubt it, cowboy,” you croon, raking a hand through his curls before lowering yourself onto his eager mouth.

A rocket of white-hot pleasure shoots straight through you as Joel latches on to your clit, nestling the bud between his lips. The searing sensation is enough to make your hips twitch forward, sending your hands to scramble for purchase to keep you upright. You can’t even make a sound; the release of euphoria coursing through you stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you to choke on empty inhales until Joel finally gives your nub a moment of reprieve.

His tongue dips into the pool of your center, sending another swell of nectar from your core, coating his scruff in sweet slick. You hear him groan, muffled between your thighs, as his arms lock around your hips and push you down even further. 

“Fuck, Joel—” you hiss, trying to keep yourself from grinding against the sharp curve of his nose, pulling yourself away slightly.

You swear you hear a hum of disapproval from between your legs as Joel chases you with his mouth, his grip tightening and his fingers digging mercilessly into the give of your thighs. His tongue is deep, drinking straight from the source of your arousal as his arms begin to rock you against his face, his nose grazing against your clit with an impossible precision; sending wave after wave of pleasure coiling up your spine. It seems dangerous, the way he’s devouring you without a single breath, but he holds you steady, bearing the weight of you onto his mouth with no hesitation.

“Baby, shit sweetheart— you gotta breathe,” you manage a fistful of his hair, pulling him off you with considerable force. 

He looks thoroughly dazed; glassy irises and pink parted lips glistening with your dew, like a man who’s been given a taste but is nowhere near satiated. His chest swells and shallows rapidly beneath your ass, each breath bringing more color to his cheeks and a myriad of pearls forming across his hairline.

“Need more,” Joel pants, his fingers weaving around the lace stretched across your hips. “Need these gone, angel.”

You oblige him with a swiftness, pulling the garment to your knees, dismounting him to allow you to slip it past your ankles. His palms cup your ass and squeeze, his thumbs spreading you open to reveal even more of yourself to him. The stretch feels good, the sensitive muscles fluttering with the shock of the exposure, sticky and soaked from the steady drip seeping from your sex.

“So pretty…” he kneads into your pliable cheeks. “Can I taste it? Please sugar, need’ta taste all of you.”

God, his desperation is like a siren song, your desire burning hot and full in your throat. You hum with approval, mounting him once more but reverse this time, a wave of goosebumps skittering across your skin in anticipation. 

He starts gentler this time, licking a languid stripe from your taint to your tailbone. His tongue splays across your skin, wide and flat, making sure not to miss a single inch. A guttural moan escapes your lungs; an uninhibited response to the forgotten feeling of heat in that region, an entirely distinctive kind of pleasure that sends your eyes spinning to the back of your skull. Your nails dig crescents into the cushions your hands are so violently clinging to, your back arching, curving in a manner to match the little moons left behind by your fingers. 

Joel groans in response to your noises, biting at the supple flesh gathered in his hands, his hunger surely spurred by the sweet sounds of your euphoria. Like a switch, his mouth turns greedy again, lapping against your puckered skin with a ferocity that makes you cry out his name. He gives you no moment of respite, jerking your hips toward him and seizing your clit with his curved tongue and pulling you into him, his nose practically fucking your cunt.

“Ohhh, that’s…” you trail off, your eyes beginning to water from the sheer intensity of it. “Christ, you’re heaven.”

At that, Joel seems to lose control, seemingly possessed by a determination to make you meet God. His palms jerk your hips back and forth, your clit never once escaping the grasp of his lips, his nose delving into your pussy with reckless abandon. Pleasure ravages the whole of you in a frenzy, wave after wave surging in your belly until you’re all but crying, quivering as you white-knuckle the headrest holding you steady. Your orgasm topples through you, your vision blasting with light as your walls clamp again and again, squeezing the length of Joel’s nose buried in your cunt.

Joel doesn’t release your clit from his mouth until you’re yelping, twitching and gasping from overstimulation. His grip softens as you fly forward to your hands and knees, your chest heaving with exhaustion, your muscles bearing through the aftershocks of your release. His lips find the backs of your thighs, trailing sweet, slow kisses across the expanse of skin. They feel like praise, almost like he’s thanking you without words; a mellifluous tempo of graciousness that you had yet to experience from him. 

Part of you wants to linger in the divinity of this moment, but from your position you find yourself face to face with the bulging mass beneath his jeans. It looks painful, the outline of his shaft straining against thick denim and a sturdy zipper. You manage to unbutton the pants with your one free hand, slipping your palm beneath the waistband effortlessly. 

“Jesus, Joel,” you chuckle, astonished by the way his cock fills your palm, heavy and thicker than you would have ever anticipated. You begin to stroke him above his boxers, softly and slowly, swirling your fingertips across the head of him as you feel him groan beneath you, dampening your fingers with his weeping tip. “Lemme help you, sugar.”

Joel grunts out his approval, his palm splayed across your ass, seemingly as a means to ground himself to this mortal plane. The callused pads on his fingertips clutch you relentlessly as you free his dick from the confines of his clothes, holding the base of him steady as you glide the tip of your tongue across his glistening slit.

His hips jerk forward at the sudden contact, sending the length of him thrusting into your open mouth. You welcome him wholly, savoring the salty musk that coats your cheeks and the sting in your jaw as you stretch to accommodate him.

“Fucking—shit—” he growls, his breaths coming in short, shallow bursts. “C’mere, god damn—”

He tugs you back onto his open mouth, burying himself into you once more with a reignited ferocity, drinking the remnants of your orgasm. You yelp, your throat flexing around his tip as he flicks your overstimulated clit, the blend of pleasure and torment accosting your nervous system. 

It’s downright mean, the mercilessness of his tongue sending you straight into overdrive. Two can play at that game.

You take him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks as you swirl your tongue around his girth. He groans into your pussy, licking you faster, pulling your lips apart with his tongue and spreading them like angel wings. You can’t help but grin, the unspoken competition between you revving with intensity with each passing second, sending the both of you toppeling into bliss, warmth spilling down your throat as you cry out against his cock. Your thighs begin to shake as you reach your peak, tears beading in your eyes as you grasp tightly onto the flexing muscles in Joel’s legs. You choke on his name as his dick falls from your lips, bearing through surge after surge of euphoria. The pleasure is so consuming that it coils itself around your windpipe and renders you mute, holding you hostage until it’s had its way with you and leaving you dizzy when it finally relents.

Your arms give out on you and you collapse, exhaustion possessing you for a moment until your consciousness returns. You feel Joel pressing soft, sweet kisses to the back of your thigh, and suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re likely crushing his sensitive dick beneath your weight. You ease off of him slowly, your legs quivering with the effort, turning to face him as he shifts himself to a seated position and fastens his jeans.

The moonlight catches the sweat beading at his hairline; the glassy whites of his eyes and the dew on his lips beaming under the cool-toned hue. He looks like art, soft lines and harsh edges painted exactly where you’d want them; masculine shadows dancing across his skin as he shifts his weight, daring you to watch them move. You’ve never been so completely mesmerized by someone. Not once in your life has a man rendered you speechless, but here you are; irreversibly hypnotized and a stranger to the English language. You’re aware of yourself—painfully aware of your staggering silence and your gawkish gaze—and you shake your head, laughing at the unbelievable effect washing over you.

Joel’s cheeks turn ruddy, his irises shifting between you and his lap as he drapes his arm across his chest, giving his own shoulder a hearty squeeze. 

“What’s funny?” he breathes, insecurity creeping in his throat.

You come to suddenly; the stark realization that you’re probably making the man nervous is enough to break you from your trance. You crawl towards him, your fingertips grazing the underside of his jaw, tilting him towards you until your lips are merely an inch apart.

“Nothin’ sugar,” you hum, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “You’re just one hell of a cowboy.”

[80ssong]

Take Me Home Tonight

doggie daycare worker!Frankie x female reader || 5.6k words ||

MDNI 18+

explicit casual sex, alcohol

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BELOVED @sunshinehaze1! I'm completely swamped with school and have so much to catch up on (still working on yours, @baronessvonglitter) but I had to give my favorite girl a birthday fic pressie. She asked me to share this with the world and eeeeep, I hope you like!

many thanks to @ak-vintage for beta'ing and keeping it a secret

You have the biggest crush on your dog's daycare worker, Frankie. Never making a move, it isn't until your best friend drags you for you a night out that things suddenly take a turn.

This fic also comes with a playlist! It's an immersive experience!

“You’re going out tonight,” your best friend Zoe tells you on the phone one Friday afternoon during lunch.

“Excuse me?” You splutter. “Who says I’m going out?”

“Me,” she replies easily. “One, I haven’t seen you in a couple months. And don’t tell me it’s because you’re swamped with work - I know that you got your expense reports done for the quarter already. And two, you need to get laid.”

You cough. “Zo!”

“Am I wrong or something?”

Okay, true. You haven’t seen Zoe in more like four months but you were truly busy. You had new tasks delegated to you thanks to a big time promotion, so you begged off anytime Zoe invited you out. The late nights at the office were taking a toll on you and you were pretty sure your poor pup Sage was starting to forget you, thanks to leaving her behind with her daycare’s extended hours.

And, while you could argue celibacy is character building, it had been a rather embarrassingly long time since you were under someone. At your pap smear, you were surprised your gyno didn’t find cobwebs in your cervix.

It wasn’t for lack of trying, though. Your last relationship was a long one and one that left you feeling rather drained. You did all the apps with the guidance of Zoe and her rather active life. Soon you learned that Tinder was for sex, Hinge was for actual dating, Bumble was for spineless men, and OK Cupid was like searching for millennial marriage. If you’re being honest with yourself, you didn’t care enough to have another relationship, never mind the sex. The sex is nice, though. But that’s why you have toys.

“Sure, fine,” you give in to Zoe’s delighted squeals, “but I’m only going to hang out with you. What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s go to Henry’s?”

Henry’s was your favorite karaoke dive bar. An old staple in your past memories of fun.

“You’re on. Let me just grab Sage from her daycare and get her nice and settled in,” you agree. “Dinner at 8 and drinks at Henry’s after?”

“Sounds good, babe! Can’t wait to see your cute face!” Zoe gushes and all you can do is smile while hanging up.

Since it’s Friday and now currently 5:00 PM, you decide to give yourself an early (for you) weekend start. You pack your laptop, grab your lunch bag, and shuck your jacket on. You say goodbye to your colleagues who are staying later, feeling them look at you enviously, but you don’t let that get to you. You deserve some personal time.

You’re feeling excited now that you are going out for the night. You decide to grab a tall coffee from your usual coffee shop, now needing the little caffeine boost. On the drive to Sage’s daycare, you’re blasting a Friday playlist you have for moments like these. It was a hard rock kind of night since you’re going to Henry’s, so you throw on your cheesy 80s hard rock mix. You’re respectably head banging and belting along to “Love in an Elevator” by Aerosmith, already deciding what songs to karaoke to tonight. You’re definitely singing a Fleetwood Mac song, you decided. Maybe “Rhiannon”? Or “You Make Loving Fun”? And you already know Zoe Is going to want to duet “Leather and Lace” by Don Henley and Stevie Nicks (you are always Stevie, Zoe is always Don).

Before you even realize it, you’re at Sage’s daycare. Your stomach is bubbling nervously and it’s not from the coffee perk. You pull down your visor and look into the mirror, doing a quick once over; touching up your makeup and hair, smoothing out any wrinkles caused by your seatbelt. You take a deep breath and exit your car, walking up to the entrance. A bell rings off the door hinges to the daycare, signaling your arrival. The front desk is empty, and you lean against the high desktop, your feet dancing nervously.

A tall, gorgeous man comes to the front mere seconds later, a blinding smile plastered on his face. “Hey, it’s Sage’s mom!”

Frankie. Frankie, Frankie, Frankie. A gentle soul of a man who is too shy to smile. His beard is patchy but always neatly kept and littered with grays, and he has a heart-shaped hairless spot on his jaw - it is NOT weird to notice it, by the way. His lips, oh God, his lips; pouty and plush and always slightly chapped. His brown eyes are dark and so soft; surrounded by crows feet, he looks like a man who laughs a lot but with the right people. His broad shoulders are always covered in a snug worn band shirt (today is Styx) with an even more worn flannel thrown on top. His shiny, dark brown curls spill out of his Standard Oil hat that’s attached to him like second skin. You always wonder what Standard Oil meant. You always want to make him laugh genuinely, not politely because you’re a client, but because he truly finds you hilarious and is enjoying your company. God, would you just want to have a moment outside of this daycare to hang out with him.

“Frankie, I’ve told you to call me by my name,” you playfully roll your eyes.

“Yeah but I like ‘Sage’s mom’ best,” he grins at you. “Let me grab our girl real quick."

Your stomach butterflies at the mention of our girl. Oh god your crush was so bad on this man. Zoe always pestered you to do something about it but you thought that was kinda weird. Besides, he’s just nice to you because he has to be. And it would look bad on him dating a client. But Frankie was so easy on the eyes that a harmless crush couldn’t hurt?

You hear a loud, joyful bark and your sweet Sage comes running to you, tugging on her leash that Frankie is holding onto. You laugh and bend over to grab Sage into a hug, allowing her to sniff and lick your face. Sage is a six year old rescued pit bull mix you adopted three years prior. Sage has been your bestie, your confidant, and the messiest roommate you ever had.

“I’m happy to report that Sage was a good girl today and she played with all her friends,” Frankie reports and hangs back to watch you and Sage cuddle.

“I don’t expect anything less than a good girl report from Ms. Sage,” you say while scratching between her ears. “She’s literally perfect.”

Frankie laughs and nods his head. “I can’t argue with that,” he agrees softly.

You stand up to do the mandatory sign out process the daycare implemented. “You picked up Sage early today,” Frankie says casually as he logs into the computer to start the process.

Frankie noticed your schedule? Oh…

“Oh, yeah,” you stammer out, clutching Sage’s leash, “I figure I’d get an early start to the weekend.” You focus on Frankie’s big index fingers typing on the keyboard, trying not be flustered at Frankie possibly noticing you, and you realize that he types like an old man.

Frankie looks up at you, his eyes peering at you from underneath the brim of his cap. “That’s good! I’m glad to see you pick up Sage before 6:00 PM.”

You can feel your cheeks heat up and you look down at Sage, who is sitting politely and looking up at you with her tongue hanging out. “Yeah…. Yeah, it’s good to have a life sometimes,” you joke lightly.

Frankie gives you a little smile at that, allowing his eyes to roam over your body from head to toe. Your stomach absolutely somersaults. He catches himself and looks back at the screen, coughing lightly to mask his nervousness. You feel your shoulders sag a little.

He types something in and moves his mouse around. “And you’re all set! Ms. Sage is free to enjoy her weekend with her mom.” He looks up at you and that smile again, good Lord, does it make you weak; you just nod and say a meek goodbye and Frankie does the same, making a point to wave bye to Sage.

At home you throw your heels off and set your bags down. You unhook Sage; she takes the opportunity to run into the kitchen and takes a deep drink from her water bowl. You set off to fill Sage’s food bowl, knowing she’ll graze throughout the night. Sage has already played around with the other dogs so she doesn’t need her nightly walk just yet. You take a quick shower, washing off the day to get ready for night. Since Henry’s is a dive bar and usually dimly lit, you decide to not go heavy on the makeup. Just some mascara and eyebrows and a lip tint will do. Henry’s isn’t exactly upscale, you throw on your comfiest high waisted jeans with a DIY crop top faded band tee, deciding on a Journey shirt. You’re not expecting to bring home a Henry’s regular so who cares how you’re dressed.

A text from Zoe tells you she’s just left her apartment and she’ll be at your dinner place in fifteen minutes. That gives you ample time to quickly take Sage for a potty break, grab your jacket and bag, and drive to the restaurant.

Dinner at Mr. Fung’s, your favorite Chinese hole in the wall where the owner smokes while making your meal and the menu is in Mandarin, is always a must before a night at Henry’s. And when you find Zoe at your normal booth in the back, with two bowls of steaming hot and sour soup and a teapot, you knew that you’d be in for a good night.

***

After a shared ride to Henry’s, Zoe is at the bar buying the first pitcher of beer while you’re holding your table. You look through the karaoke song book, putting in the request for “Leather and Lace”, yours and Zoe’s karaoke song; a frosted glass is placed in front of you and you look up to Zoe pouring out the beer.

“Did you put in ‘Leather and Lace’ yet?” She asked, sipping her glass.

You nod. “I’m debating on what to sing first though.”

Zoe grabs the song book to look through it herself. “Oh!,” she points to the page, “Put me down for that Aerosmith song.”

You look down and see that Zoe picked out “Dream On” by Aerosmith, so you jot her name down and song title. After a few other songs picked, you’re penciling in your name for “Rhiannon” by Fleetwood Mac when you hear the DJ announce that a Catfish is now up with “Rhiannon.” You groan and avert your gaze to the stage and see Frankie.

Oh god, Frankie is here! Holy fuck. Your palms start to sweat and you take a deep drink off your glass.

“What? What’s happening?” Zoe panics as she sees you down your beer.

You slam your empty glass on the tabletop and wipe your mouth. “That,” you say as you point to the stage, “is Frankie.”

Zoe’s eyes widen comically and she stretches her neck to look. “Frankie? The Frankie?”

You nod frantically. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you bury your face in your hands.

“Oh he is hot.” Zoe says, eyeing him appreciatively. “Good job, friend!”

You lifted your head out of your hands, hoping to not cause any commotion. You sneak glances over at Frankie singing along. He has a new band tee on (swapped Styx for a faded Led Zeppelin shirt), a new flannel on, and darker washed jeans. He still had on his Standard Oil hat, making you grin. Frankie actually has a really nice singing voice - something that pleasantly surprised you. Frankie was holding onto the mic tightly and singing with his eyes closed, like he was too shy to watch over his adorning audience.

At the end of the song the bar bursts into applause and Frankie shyly hands back the microphone and grabs his empty glass, smiling bashfully and raises his hand in acknowledgement to everyone.

“Go talk to him!” Zoe encourages, nodding her head in his direction. You shake your head. Zoe rolls her eyes. “Do it!”

You look back at Frankie, who is somehow called Catfish?, and see him with a group of guys who are cheering and watching the karaoke. The DJ calls for a Pope to come up to the stage, his song pick being Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me.” Pope is an even better singer than Frankie. He hams up the performance for the bar, rubbing on his chest during the chorus, and playing air guitar.

“Is that his friend?” Zoe leans in to yell, her hands clapping. You laugh and shrug, “it looks like it!”

“Listen, if you’re gonna talk to Frankie, I gotta talk to that Pope guy,” Zoe says with a raised eyebrow.

Soon enough the song ends and Zoe is cheering the loudest for him. You can tell that Zoe is going to push you to go to their table to finally talk to Frankie. You’re hyping yourself up when you hear both yours and Zoe’s names called to sing your duet.

Normally you’re not shy to sing karaoke, especially at Henry’s of all places, but now that your crush is in the crowd you’re feeling especially nervous. Zoe hands you a mic and you remember you’re leading off the song. You’re always Stevie, after all. So you grin and bear it, singing Stevie’s parts, and getting really into the song with Zoe.

You catch Frankie looking up at the stage at you, smiling widely and nodding along to the song. Both your eyes catch and he raises his eyebrows at you and lets out a loud whoop. You laugh and continue swaying to the music, watching him as you sing along with Zoe. At the end of the song, Frankie is cheering the loudest.

You’re making it back to your table when you see that Frankie is walking up to you from his. Oh god, keep cool, keep cool…

“Sage’s mom! I didn’t know you had pipes!” Frankie and his stupidly cute grin greet you.

“Frankie! Or should I say Catfish?” You say, raising your eyebrows as you pour a new drink from the pitcher.

Frankie barks out a laugh, a real genuine laugh, and shakes his head. Frankie leans against your table, keeping eye contact, grinning ear to ear. “You caught me. It’s my karaoke alias.”

“Uh huh,” you nod in an exaggerating way, “karaoke alias aka your stage name. Got it.”

“Frank, man, you gonna introduce us or what?” Pope elbows Frankie playfully. Pope is shorter than Frankie with coiffed black hair and a five o’clock shadow that started at nine am. He’s definitely cute but he’s not Frankie, for sure.

“Oh yeah! This is Sage’s mom,” Frankie says and Pope sticks out his hand to shake.

You roll your eyes. You give Pope your actual name and Pope smiles, his handshake firm but gentle. You introduce Zoe to Pope (“Name’s actually Santiago, but please, at Henry’s I’m Pope.”) and they quickly fall into flirtatious banter.

“So you come to Henry’s often?” You ask Frankie when he and Pope come back from the bar with a fresh pitcher for all of you.

“Yeah, we’re regulars here,” Frankie nods. “Didn’t take you for a Henry’s regular though? I never see you here…”

“That’s because she’s got a big girl job now so she’s been a hermit!” Zoe interrupts and you give Zoe a look. “Well, it’s true! You’re never out anymore!”

“Contrary to what Zoe says, it’s true I don’t go out anymore but before my promotion I did go to Henry’s more often,” you explain.

Frankie’s eyes scan your body, his smile softens. “It’s a shame we never ran into each other here, huh?”

Oh you didn’t notice that Frankie has dimples too? Fuck.

“Well, I’m thawing out now,” you tease and both you and Frankie tap your glasses.

“Salud,” Frankie winks and your heart falls straight to your tummy.

***

“I gotta ask: why Catfish?”

Frankie and Pope exchange looks and laugh. “It’s his call sign!” Pope yells, “from the Army. Like Pope is mine.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a priest or something,” Zoe quips.

Both men laugh again. “Nah,” Frankie clears up. “It’s because this pendejo can’t shut up if his life depended on it so we just started calling him Pope.”

“And they call you Catfish because…?”

“Because have you seen his beard?! He can’t grow that out for shit!” Pope exclaims and the table bursts into laughter.

Frankie shrugs sheepishly and runs a hand along his jaw.

“It’s a good look on you though,” you say. “It looks nice.”

Frankie is smiling softly at you again. “Yeah?”

You nod, “I think you pull it off nicely.”

Frankie just keeps smiling and takes another drink from his glass, his eyes on you the whole time.

Throughout the night, you can feel Frankie sit closer to you. You notice him getting into your space to listen to you talk over the loud music. That’s when you smell him and you don’t think your crush could get any bigger but, yeah, it definitely did. He smells like old smoke, leather, soap, and an underlying musk that is specifically him.

And then, during “Kiss Me Deadly” by Lita Ford, Frankie does the most obvious thing and leans in to kiss you. His lips soft on yours, just a chaste peck, but it leaves you breathless. When he pulls back, his eyes search your face, looking for any sign of apprehension, and when he sees the dreamy look in your eyes, he cups his big, soft, warm hands on either side of your cheeks and brings your face to his, kissing you again. His mouth opens and you follow suit, kissing hotly against each other. Frankie licks along your bottom lip and you open your mouth wider, accepting his tongue caressing yours. You pull him close to you, your arms resting gently on his shoulders and his hands thread your hair to hold the small bowl of your skull, his fingernails lightly scratching your scalp.

You both break away for air, panting slightly. Frankie’s nose rubs against yours, his thumbs now rubbing your cheeks, beaming at you with wet lips. “Wanna get out of here?”

You nod, your head supported in his hands. You realize that Zoe and Pope are on the dance floor. You dig into your bag and text Zoe that you’re off with Frankie; you see her face when she reads your phone and looks over to you, nodding her approval and giving you a thumbs up.

Frankie threads his fingers through yours and leads you out the bar, keeping you close to him. Your stomach is doing somersaults now and you can’t fucking believe that you’re going to take Frankie home. Frankie, your crush of two years since Sage went to the daycare. Frankie, the quiet, sweet man you see three times a week. The man who you’ve always wanted to genuinely make smile and laugh.

You can’t believe your fucking luck tonight.

“Let’s go to mine,” you say as you pull out your phone to order the Uber.

“No, let me get this,” Frankie says as he pulls his own phone out. You try to tell him it’s okay, that you’ll buy it since it’s your place, but Frankie just pulls you to him and kisses you quiet. “I’m gonna get it, like I’m gonna get you breakfast tomorrow,” he whispers against your mouth. You nod dumbly and tell Frankie your address.

Before you know it, you’re both in the Uber on the way home and desperately not trying to make out in the poor driver’s backseat. Frankie is holding your hand and his thumb is brushing the back of your hand; his touch is electric on your skin. You look over at Frankie and he has the biggest smile on his face while he’s looking out the window. When Frankie sees that you’re looking at him he brings your hand up to his lips and presses a kiss on your knuckles.

The ride home is mercifully short and Frankie is following you into your building, up to your apartment. His body is covering yours, his arms wrapped around you, his hands are gripping your hips while you fish out your keys. Unlocking the door, you both tumble into the apartment and Frankie whips you around to face him. He pulls you into another ferocious kiss.

You pull away from Frankie, grinning timidly. “Do… do you want anything to drink?”

Frankie laughs and shakes his head. “Nah,” he says lowly as he leans in again to kiss you. “I’m just in shock I’m here.”

You pull away from Frankie again, this time a frown on your face. “Do you not want to be here after all? Did I read this wrong or?”

Frankie realizes his miscommunication and shakes his head. “No, no.” he breathes out. He runs a hand along the back of his neck, looking bashful. “I just… fuck, I’ve had like the biggest crush on you.”

The room feels like all the air is sucked out of it. “A crush? On me?” You murmur.

He groans., his knees bending and looking up at the ceiling, “God, yes, I’ve had a crush on you forever. Since Sage came to the daycare.”

You laugh weakly, shaking your own head. “That’s crazy because I’ve had a crush on you too this whole time.”

Frankie bites his lower lip, looking at you. “No shit. I just never asked you out because you seemed so busy.”

“I guess I was,” you agree, “but I also just never wanted to cross a line. I mean, you work at my dog’s daycare.”

“It’s not a violation to date a client,” Frankie laughs and reaches out to you, bringing you closer to him. “You should hear how the owner met her wife.”

You both bark out in laughter and Frankie is cupping your head again, his big hand pushing your hair behind your ears. You look at Frankie’s lips and lean up to kiss Frankie again. He immediately deepens the kiss and hoists you up, his hands cupping your ass while your legs wrap around his waist. Frankie blindly follows your orders to your bedroom, where he gently drops you onto the bed. His body is covering yours again, sliding himself between your open legs, where you wrap your legs around his thighs. You’re kissing, your fingers thread through the curls at the nape of his neck. You knock off his hat and throw it aside, allowing your fingers to skim through his tufts of hair. You pull back to look up at him, without his hat, and you smile. “I’ve never seen you without your hat before,” you whisper.

Frankie laughs. “Now you’re seeing the real me,” he jokes.

You shake your head and your eyes are on his hair. His messy, curly, soft hair. “You look good without it,” you say. “Really fucking good.”

Frankie grins and kisses you again; teeth, lips, tongues working in cohesion as you slip a hand underneath his shirt, feeling his warm, smooth skin underneath your fingertips. Frankie lets a low whine when he feels your manicured fingernails scratch down his back, to the waistband of his jeans. He ruts his hips into yours and slides his own hand underneath your top, his hand slowly making it’s way to your heaving breasts.

“Is this okay?” Frankie asks as he pulls away, looking down at you and scanning your face for any discomfort or hesitation.

“Fuck yes it is,” you moan, and pull him down to kiss you again.

Frankie’s hand cups your breast, squeezing it gently while he kisses down the column of your throat, sucking at your pulse point gently and carefully enough to not leave a mark. You break the kiss just long enough to take your shirt off and throw it to the side. Frankie’s eyes are on your chest and thank god you wore a nice bra tonight. He kisses down your chest, to your sternum, and cups your tits in his hands, kneading them gently. He pulls a bra cup down to expose a nipple, the air and arousal hardening the bud.

“Fuck,” Frankie whispers as he wraps his lips around your bosom, gently suckling while his hand pulls down the other breast’s bra cup, fondling and lightly pinching.

You gasp and writhe under his touch. The way he’s touching you, it’s driving you absolutely insane. Your hands are threading through his hair again, tugging lightly at the roots when he let’s go of the breast in his mouth with a slight plop and devours the other breast. His hand slides down your front, expertly undoing your jean button with one hand. Frankie pulls himself to his knees and helps you undo your jeans, pulling them down and throwing them aside. You sit up to take your bra off, tossing the garment to join the jeans on the floor. You’re now in just your panties - black, lacy things you didn’t expect anyone to see - and you’re panting, feeling exposed under Frankie’s worshiping gaze.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Frankie breathes out and kisses you lazily.

He presses hot, wet kisses down your body that lead down to your panties, opening your legs to expose you to him. He lays on his belly and brings his face close to your core. Frankie can smell your arousal, a musky, heady scent that makes him groan. He nips at your thighs teasingly, smiling against your skin when he hears your breath hitching. Frankie kisses the crease between your thigh and pelvis, and noses his way to your slit. He glides his nose along your damp panties and places a little kiss on your clit.

“Can I…?” Frankie is looking at your blissed out face for guidance.

You nod yes enthusiastically. You see Frankie grin devilishly as he pulls down your panties and tosses them on the floor. He finally has you fully exposed. He gently runs his thumbs over your lips, slowing making their way through your soft, downy hair and spreads you open. Your cunt is out for him to see, to smell, to taste.

“So fucking pretty,” he sighs softly.

Frankie flattens his tongue and licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, gathering your slick on his tongue. Your cry is hoarse and you flop your head back into the pillows, your hold on his hair now tight. Frankie’s hands spread you further open, so he can see all of you, and he eats your folds like a man starved. His strong, Romanesque nose that you’ve always loved is now nestled on your clit, working in tandem with his mouth. He eats you like he’s kissing you, full and heavy and wet.

“Fuck, you taste so good too, baby,” Frankie mumbles as he kisses your folds, his voice muffled. “Best tasting pussy I ever had.”

You giggle and cover your face. “Frankie…”

He shuts you up by sucking your clit into his mouth, making you yell, and he slips two fingers into you to pump slowly, getting you ready for him. His mouth and fingers work in a blissful tandem; his fingers are thick, strong, and gentle. And when Frankie hooks his fingers upward and finds your spot, you grind your hips along his face, your pussy sliding along his face.

“Fuck, Frankie, I’m going close,” you whimper.

Frankie takes that as a sign to keep going, keep going until your hips still and you whine, holding his head close to your pulsing cunt. Frankie lies still as you grind down on his face, riding out your orgasm, and drinking up your come. You collapse weakly and Frankie slows his fingers’ pace and suckles your clit until you cry from overstimulation, pushing his head away weakly.

Kissing up your body to your lips, you kiss him deeply and taste yourself on him, your slick on his lips and chin and in his beard. “Oh my god, Frankie,” you pant as you part, looking into his soft eyes. “That was the best head I’ve ever had.”

Frankie laughs and kisses you again. You break the kiss to pull off his clothes quickly. When he pulls off his shirt, you see just how broad Frankie is. His belly soft with age. His chest a large expanse of tan, warm skin with a light smattering of dark chest hair. You see a gold cross chain that your fingers lightly touch.

“It’s an heirloom,” Frankie explains quietly. “It’s from my abuelito. Gave it to me when I entered the service because he wore it during Vietnam. Said it saved his life,” he looks down at the chain.

You lean in to kiss his chest and his gold chain. You kiss up to his lips and he kisses you hungrily, cupping your face as you undo his pants and zipper. Breaking away from the kiss, Frankie pulls down his jeans and underwear in one fall swoop. And when you finally see him bare, oh is it a sight to behold.

Sweet, gentle, shy Frankie is the biggest man you’ve ever been with. His cock is big and uncut, already weeping, and your mouth waters. You reach over to touch him, kissing him as you lazily jerk him off. Frankie whimpers into your mouth. “Can I?” You ask, looking down at his hard, thick cock in your hand.

Frankie shakes his head, kissing you again. “I’m gonna come too fast if you do, baby,” he breathes against your lips. “I need to be inside you, please.”

You lay back and reach into your bedside drawer for a condom, handing him the foil packet. Frankie sits on his heels, languidly jerking himself off. He rips the condom packet with his teeth, rolling the rubber down his length. You’re mesmerized by the actions. Condom on, Frankie lays back down on you, kissing your face softly.

“You still okay?” Frankie murmurs, his hand pushing your hair back, twinkling eyes scanning your face.

You nod. “I want this so bad, Frankie,” you sigh, kissing him passionately.

Frankie notches himself against you and pushes in slowly. You groan lowly into his mouth, feeling him stretch you. His leans his forehead against yours and stills, your breaths fluttering across your faces. You give him a little nod and he pushes in again, until the hilt where he bottoms out, and you both release a breath. Frankie kisses down to your ear and pulls out to push in again, slowly, gently. You hear his labored breathing and good girl, you feel so fucking good baby, she’s so tight for me whispered into your ear with each thrust. Your skin breaks out into goosebumps.

You wrap your legs around his waist and you let your hands skate across his back, your fingernails digging into his skin when he hits a particularly good spot. “You like that?” He asks in your ear; you nod frantically and Frankie stays in that spot, in that groove, and it makes you cry out. Frankie is gentle with his thrusts, his kisses, and you grip his hair, run your hands along the bare skin that drives you crazy.

Your belly was starting to tighten and your spine was starting to tingle. “Oh fuck, I’m close again,” you pant breathlessly.

Frankie sits up a bit to throw your legs on his shoulders, and he presses into you again, feeling impossibly deeper from this angle. You moan sharply and watch Frankie fuck into you, his chain dragging across your breasts with each thrust. He kisses your calf on his shoulder and leans down to kiss your mouth again.

Then, it hits you like a freight train: your eyes roll into the back of your head and your grip his shoulders tightly, your body writhing underneath his. Your cry out and dig your fingernails into his skin, your hips grinding against his. You fall back limply and Frankie lets go of your shoulders, and fucks into you harder and more sloppily. He moans deeply, his own orgasm hitting him hard. He spills into the condom with your tight, warm walls clutching and fluttering around him.

He collapses on you, kissing you weakly. You wrap your arms around him and pull him against you, his head nestled into your neck as you both catch your breaths.

“Fuck,” you breath out.

You both laugh and Frankie gives you a chaste, open mouth kiss as he pulls out of you. You point to the bathroom for him to dispose of the condom. Once he comes back, you make your way in to do your business. Flushing the toilet, you look up into the mirror when you see you look absolutely fucked out. Your mascara all over your face, your lips pinked and swollen, your hair knotty and messy, and you have little love bites blooming on your chest. You grin as you wash your hands and you slide back into bed where Frankie waits for you.

“Stay,” you say to him. “I don’t want you to go home.”

Frankie smiles and kisses your forehead. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Besides,” you say as you cuddle into his bare, sweaty chest, “Sage is gonna miss seeing you in the morning.”

“You’re right!” Frankie lights up. “Gotta see my other favorite girl too.”

You laugh and kiss Frankie’s chest. He sighs and wraps his arms around you, kissing your hair and listening to your breathing settle into sleep.

Frankie rolls over to grab his phone from his jeans. He types out a text Pope:

Dude, you’ll never believe this but I went home with Sage’s mom.

[pascalxp]

[thriftedtchotchkes]

how do you sleep?

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel's always there to comfort you with his words and a warm bed after a nightmare, but tonight, you need a little more

warnings: 18+ MDNI, jackson era, soft!joel, comfort, undefined relationship, getting together, mentions of nightmares & insomnia, smut, unprotected piv, slow/intimate sex, creampie

word count: 3.3k

“Whas’wrong?”

You didn't mean to end up here again. It's the third night this week you swiped Joel's key from under the doormat and found yourself standing in his bedroom doorway.

"Can't sleep," you reply, barely above a whisper. Exhaustion seeps into your voice, permeating your limbs the longer you remain standing.

He already knows why you're here. Ever since you, Joel, and Ellie arrived in Jackson and were offered homes of your own, rest evades you more than it ever did on the road. It's too quiet here, and your racing mind fills the silence with the horrors of a life lived in constant fear.

You know you're safe now. You know that, but it's not enough to convince your body or quell the ever-present tightness in your chest telling you to run, to hide. Your fears are more potent in the dark, and the shadows creeping from wall to wall have sharper edges. Teeth that threaten to tear you apart and rip away everything and everyone you've fought so hard to protect.

The walls and floorboards creak with life that shouldn't be present in an empty, two-story home—too big for a single person, and yet still yours—and quickly begin to sound like impending death.

Nowadays, more often than not, you seek out a different kind of shelter. The familiar, comforting embrace of the man who kept you warm and protected through harsh winters and from monsters prowling in the night. That's where you belong.

Crisp bedsheets rustle in the dark and then you hear Joel pat the mattress twice—an invitation to occupy the space beside him, the one he always leaves empty just in case.

"Well, c'mon then. Hurry up," he grumbles, still half-asleep. But he isn’t frustrated. He's tired, just like you, and he'll probably sleep a lot better knowing both of his girls are resting soundly under his roof.

You trudge over and waste no time burying your face in his bare chest, breathing in pine and cedar wood shavings before exhaling a heavy sigh of relief. Throwing a leg over his thighs, you mold into him, rubbing your cheek into coarse curls and marveling at the calm, steady rhythm beneath you.

It feels good to be home. You're not sure why you let Maria give you an entire house to yourself when everything you could ever want or need was right across the street. Every time you end up back here, you wonder. And every time you leave, you wish you'd stayed.

He wraps you up in his arms and tugs you into his side, murmuring your name with soft lips that tenderly caress your forehead. They're so warm, just like the rest of him, and you find yourself aching to feel them on yours. It's a line neither of you have ever crossed, but tonight's been rough.

For what felt like days, you were forced to watch as your worst nightmares came to bloody fruition. You were dragged through the most brutal outcomes of events you already survived and could do nothing more than pray you'd wake up soon. When you finally came to and checked the clock, it had only been an hour and a half since you'd passed out. The moon was still high in the sky, taunting you with the promise of more. More dread, endless brutality.

Joel can make all of that go away, if only for a few hours. He always does, but tonight...you don't want to talk about it tonight. You don't want to think about it, about anything at all. You just want him.

You'd feel selfish asking for more if there wasn't already something between you. Something nurtured and gradual that's been building for months, beginning on your travels across the country and coming to an unignorable head here in Jackson.

Back then, it was stolen glances while you bathed together in streams and fleeting touches in your shared sleeping bag under star-filled skies. It's more intimate these days. He holds your hand when you're anxious, and you kiss away the frown lines and frustrated wrinkles that mar his skin.

Every day, you skirt the line between platonic companionship and whatever's starting to simmer below the surface. You're scared to hope he feels it too, but the thought of remaining in this undefined middle ground scares you even more.

The furnace drifting in and out of consciousness next to you radiates with an addictive heat you've told yourself to ignore for a long time, but it's quickly becoming an impossible feat. Pressed into his side, you're trying and failing not to writhe against him. But he's starting to notice.

His hips jerk every time your core drags against his bare thigh, a slow, repetitive grind you really shouldn't continue, but feels so fucking good combined with the slick pooling between your legs. You should stop—really, you should—but his breathing's changing and hitching, catching in his throat every time the growing tent in his boxers meets the friction of your inner thigh.

Then, he gasps something cognizant and urgent, and you know you've been caught. His hand snakes down to your ass and traps you against his side with a grip so firm, plush skin spills between his fingers.

“Woah, hold on there," he breathes out heavily, and his gaze drops to yours curiously. His eyes are wide open and alert, shining with the faint reflection of moonlight streaming through an adjacent window. Bright and yet pitch black as his sleep-addled brain struggles to catch up with his body. "What's goin' on with you tonight?"

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, debating whether or not to ask for his help. His expression is gentle but otherwise unreadable, and there's a chance this could go very, very badly. Maybe you'd be better off apologizing, but you don't want to. You're not sorry for needing him.

And the longer he waits for an answer, the more his body convinces you that he wants the same things you do. His hand is still on your ass, kneading as he urges you to rock into him, but he doesn't seem to realize he's doing it. Then, his thigh flexes and a rush of wetness coats your already soaked underwear. His expression falters, and you know he can feel it.

His voice is tighter when he speaks again, but that tinge of concern is still there. He wants to make it all better, but he can't unless you tell him how. Your hand tenses where it lies on his chest, and he covers it with his own.

"What can I do? Just tell me how to help you—whatever it is, I'll do it," he murmurs, brushing his thumb reassuringly across your skin. You tilt your chin up and suddenly you're close enough to breathe his air. Closer than you've ever been and yet still not close enough.

"I need you to...," Fuck me. But it sounds too crude. A quick fuck isn't what you need right now. You need to be full of him, to hold him deep inside you and keep him there for as long as this night will allow. "...make me feel safe again."

"Tell me how," he repeats as you struggle to bite back a moan. He's working you against him intentionally now, encouraging you up and down his leg, and it's making your brain go a little haywire. "What do you need, baby?"

"Joel," you whine at the endearment, an intense heat building at the apex of your thighs. That's new. You want to hear him say it again, to devour every word as he buries himself inside you over and over. You will him to understand. "I need you."

He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, steeling himself before nosing into the hairs at your temple. The gesture is so tender and affectionate even as he bucks into your thigh, and it's painfully obvious how hard you're making him. He nods slowly and plants a soft kiss on your forehead, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than before.

"Okay, baby. I got you," he murmurs, his lips trailing down to your eyelids, then the apple of your cheek. "I'll make it all go away, alright? M'gonna take care of you."

And you believe him. He rolls you onto your back and you gasp as his entire weight presses you into the mattress. It's more than just comforting. You feel protected. He's shielding you from this horrible, broken world, somehow managing to prove that there's still goodness to be found. And it's on top of you, broad and strong, and wanting you just as badly as you want him.

Big hands cup your cheeks and his lips meet yours, so much different than the familiar press against your forehead or the top of your head. You're in unknown territory, but he guides you carefully and moves slowly, taking the time to explore and savor. The taste of spearmint begins to overwhelm your senses as the kiss deepens, and you lick into his mouth impatiently, already craving more.

But after years of quiet observation, Joel knows better than anyone how to temper you. Ducking down to bury his face in your neck, he kisses along the underside of your jaw, regaining control of the pace with a sharp, halting suck. And while he refuses to let your urgency rush him, he still allows your hands to roam his skin and tug at his boxers, letting you take what you want—like his only goal is to make sure this lasts long enough for him to fulfill his promise.

A disgruntled groan bubbles in your throat, and you feel him chuckle. "Y'know, patience is supposed to be a virtue," he mumbles, amused, his beard scratchy and grounding against your skin. You huff in response.

Tonight doesn't feel like a night for virtues. Not when things are finally changing in your favor. After so much time, so much running, you actually have somewhere to go—and stay. You're not running away anymore. You're moving towards something that feels real, and dependable, and safe, and you're doing it together. And now that you're so close you can taste it, you're done waiting.

"You're really gonna start caring about virtues now?" you ask skeptically, slipping your hands past the waistband of his boxers to grab his ass.

He hesitates, then huffs out a quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

And with that, you both know the time for talking is over. Something shifts and you're on the same page, ready to take as much as the other is willing to give.

Joel begins to drag your shirt up to reveal more, but suddenly feeling stifled, you take over and remove it completely. The look on his face makes it more than worth it. It's not the first time he's seen you naked, but as his eyes rake over your bare curves, it feels like it could be. Reverently, he returns his lips to yours, kissing you deeply before charting a path lower.

His mouth feels hot as he laves and nips across your collarbone, and he shimmies further down the bed until he's just barely ghosting the swell of your breasts. You gasp, burying your fingers in his hair as he sucks a bruise below your nipple and soothes the sting with his tongue. Licking a wide stripe past the darkening mark, he captures the bud between his teeth, another hand sliding up your stomach to cup your other breast while he alternates between swirling and sucking.

Your entire body feels like it's on fire. The ache between your thighs worsens the longer he continues, but instead of squeezing them together for relief, you wrap your legs around his waist and tug him onto you. By now, you're so wet, there's no way you're not soaking right through your underwear and into his boxers, and you hope he can feel it. If your increasing volume isn't enough of an indication that you need him inside you, then maybe this will be.

He lets out a pained groan into your chest, and you clench in satisfaction. He immediately grinds down, thrusting into you like he's forgotten about the layers of clothing still separating you. You don't bother to remind him.

Bucking him off, you quickly wrench down your underwear then reach for his, yanking them off while he sheds his t-shirt. Your fingers close around his cock before his shirt hits the floor and he startles before melting into your grip, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting around a cross between a sigh and the neediest whine you've ever heard.

You feel that telltale whoosh between your legs again, and after pumping him a few times, you guide him toward your entrance. In the back of your mind, you know you're taking a risk without a condom. You should be safer, more responsible. But it's Joel. It's always been Joel.

His eyes shoot open once he realizes where you're leading him, but you only bite your lip and nod, your expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. An unspoken agreement passes between you, a quiet understanding cultivated through years of friendship and now something more. Then, he presses inside and your mind goes blissfully blank.

No more horrors, no more fear. Just Joel keeping his promise and doing exactly what you trusted him to do. He encompasses you entirely, pressing the length of his body flush against yours as he works himself into you. The stretch was nothing you ever could've anticipated, but it grounds you in the present moment. It's everything you told yourself not to hope for when you showed up on his doorstep tonight.

His movements are slow but powerful, and he rests his forehead on yours, eyes alert and acutely aware of every change in expression. The intensity of his gaze and the slick sound of him burying himself to the hilt should make you self-conscious—it's all you can see and hear, but that's the point, isn't it? To get lost in the way he drags so perfectly against your walls and grinds his hips into yours on every thrust, slow and steady.

He's attentive, cataloging whenever he makes you moan a little louder or your eyes roll, and repeats it again and again until you're writhing underneath him. Your nails rake down his back and scratch at his scalp, and he jerks forward whenever you're a little too rough, hitting so deep, it feels like he's grazing your cervix. But the longer he continues to give you everything you want, the more his body trembles with the effort of holding himself back.

You know Joel, and you can tell when he's resisting an urge. His biceps tense where he's propped on his forearms, bracketing your head, and there's so little space between you, you can feel his abs flexing every time he plunges back inside you. He needs more and you want to give it to him.

Lifting your head, you bridge the tiny gap to meet his lips. "Joel, c'mon. You can fuck me harder than that, I'm not gonna break," you mumble between open-mouthed kisses. That catches him off guard.

He accidentally lets himself go for a thrust or two, and you're cut off by a moan, your walls squeezing him so hard, it's painful. Somehow, you manage to recover just long enough to gasp out the rest. "It's okay if you need something from me, too. Just take it. I trust you."

For an agonizing moment, Joel pauses to observe you, waiting for something in your eyes to contradict the permission you just gave him. But when he doesn't find it, he shakily exhales the breath he'd been holding and his head drops to your shoulder. The groan that follows rumbles so deeply in his chest, it makes your stomach drop. Then, without warning, his hands are gripping your thighs and he's rutting into you like a caged animal finally set free.

There he is. The man who never hesitated to gun down anyone who threatened the safety of his loved ones and did whatever it took to bring his girls home.

Recognition washes over you and fills you with a familiar feeling of security. It's something only Joel has ever been able to give you. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face into his hair, hoping to return even a fraction of that feeling.

As he gives into his body, he starts to ramble, his words muffled and lost to your delicate skin. But you don't need to hear him to know what he's saying. With every thrust, the bed frame rattles and gets the message across loud and clear. Your heels dig into his back, encouraging him forward, begging him to keep going, and he obliges, quickly reduced to helpless grunts and curses.

The room gets increasingly hotter and more humid, and the cool air flowing through the window isn't nearly enough to provide relief, but neither of you seems to care. You're a little in love with the way your bodies slip together, sweat and slick intermingling seamlessly.

Everything is so wet, and it feels incredible—your skin against his, your walls pulsing around his cock. He's molding into you, so close that you can't do much more than swivel your hips into his, and it's sending you hurtling toward the edge faster than you can fully process. The coarse hair at the base of his cock rubs your clit just right, and when he adjusts the angle to fuck you deeper than before, you hit your peak.

You dissolve into a whimpering mess beneath him, desperately riding out your orgasm as he groans and abruptly bites down on your shoulder. Releasing your legs to grab your waist, he forces himself impossibly further inside you and grinds into your spasming walls until he's coming with you. He gasps his way through it, stilling while he lets you milk him dry, then collapses on top of you and gathers you in his arms.

For a while, you both struggle to catch your breath. The mattress is bare save for the fitted sheet, your clothes, pillows, and blankets having been kicked or tossed onto the floor. It feels nice like this—to savor the winter air cooling your bodies and to just be held. Without letting you go, Joel lifts his head to kiss the teeth marks he left on your shoulder apologetically and then shifts higher to press his lips against the underside of your jaw.

"You alright?" he asks gently, his voice a little gruffer than usual from the exertion.

"Mhm," you hum, nosing into his temple. "More than." He sighs and almost sounds relieved.

The thought makes your heart ache. If he's worried he crossed a line, well. He did. You both did, but it was a long time coming and you don't regret a thing. You squeeze him a little tighter as if to tell him, and he allows himself to melt into you briefly. Then, he draws back to cup your cheek and guide your lips to his.

He kisses you slowly, taking the time to appreciate the sensation of your mouth against his without any urgency. "Feel better?" he murmurs after reluctantly parting from you. You keep him close.

"I don't think we have to worry about any more nightmares tonight," you reply with a small smile. He returns it, eyes crinkling fondly, then rolls you onto your sides to settle in for a good night's sleep.

As you start to drift off, you hear him chuckle and mutter something under his breath that you don't quite catch. But it sounds a lot like, "Might be time for you to finally move in."

thanks for reading!

[genetics4life]

If your actions contributed to the mass exodus of Pedro boy writers in the past 48 hours: I hope your botox migrates, you wake up with a sore neck every morning for the next 10 years, and you get audited on your taxes.

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

pairing: joel miller x ofc!june | written in reader format, no body descriptions but does have a personality

genre: dark cottagecore, horror, angst, explicit smut, minors dni

Summary: Runners. Stalkers. Clickers. Shamblers. Bloaters.

Domestics.

All infected. One unlike the other.

You expect the infection to eat you from the inside out, turning you into something horrid. But instead, you find yourself with leaf-shaped ears and antlers that belong to a deer. While you live out the rest of your days trying to adjust to your new features and survive, you meet Joel, a survivor just like you but with a more grim approach to life.

Both of you adopt the forest as your home. One wants the other gone, meanwhile the other will do anything to not be left alone.

A few things to keep in mind; after the fallout with Tommy instead of heading to Boston Joel heads to the woods to escape it all, and the 20-year time jump doesn't happen. Which means, for now, no Tess, no Ellie. Joel is 32-33 here (since in the prologue he's around that age) and reader is in her mid-twenties

a/n: warnings will be given before every chapter and the oneshot (which will be both listed below) I've been sitting on this for so long and so excited to finally share it on the 15th.

I quickly want to shout a huge thank you to @pedrito-friskito who listened to me rant, brainstorm for months and edited this whole thing. I love you brain twin, I have no idea what I would do without you ❤️❤️❤️

chapters marked with ** indicates smut

spotify playlist || cross-posted to AO3

Exile Full Story (13k): This is the one-shot version of the whole thing. Feel free to read this or read it chapter by chapter below! Enjoy ♡

Prologue(September,2013)

Episode One: Eight Months Later (May,2014)

Episode Two: Two Months Later (July, 2014)

Episode Three: One Week Later (July, 2014)**

Episode Four: Three Months Later (October, 2014)

Episode Five: Two Weeks Later (October, 2014)

Episode Six: Two Months Later (December, 2014)**

Episode Seven: Next Morning (December, 2014)**

Epilogue(March, 2015)

[chronically-ghosted]

sam and diane, eat your heart out

rating: 18+

pairing: marcus pike x f!reader

word count: 3374

summary: after spending six months with FBI Agent Marcus Pike on a case almost-kissing, almost-flirting - almost - almost - almost - you decide to do something about that Unresolved Sexual Tension.

tags/warnings: thigh riding, marcus being a menace during a makeout session, marcus being a good agent first and an idiot second, i love marcus pike with my whole being (not a warning, just thought you should know), light cursing, reader is a journalist but no y/n or physical descriptions

a/n:  from @trulybetty 's request from my 100 followers celebration: "Going with psychography and this is hard… Let's see, I pick prompt no. 9 and Pedro boy of choice is Marcus Pike as he's one you don't have your master list yet! → “i’m so sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit."I'll leave it to dealers' choice for smut vs. no smut on how it takes you!"

🤍Masterlist

“So, this is it? This proves the buyer knowingly purchased the artifacts illegally from the Belgian government.” 

His mouth twitches. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know any court of law that wouldn’t uphold this as evidence.” 

“And then used the money to bankroll the opposite party? These tapes, Marcus – I don’t know how you got them, but –,”

“Wouldn’t have gotten them without those bank statements,” he smiles at you, fingers pressing down those specific documents on his desk. “I don’t even wanna know how you got into that personal server, but –,”

“I’ll keep my secrets if you’re going to keep yours.” 

“Fair enough,” he chuckles and the sound sends a cascade of warmth down the back of your neck. You turn your head away to hide your cheeks like some schoolgirl with a crush. Well, about half of that is right. A crush on the FBI agent you’ve been working with on the side to not only bring an end to one man’s hunt for cultural artifacts that do not belong to him – how stupid could you be? This is not the way to getting your first Pulitzer!

Besides, this is only going to end badly – for you. Because whether or not you were convinced that Agent Marcus Pike may in fact be interested in you, depended on the day, the weather, and if you were susceptible to crying and eating chocolate bar by bar. Your combined case against this wanna-be museum pilferer was more airtight than your little book of tells: “Marcus noticed my perfume today”, “Marcus didn’t mention my haircut” , “Marcus complimented my outfit today.” You plucked off hopes and disappointments like petals from the most pathetic daisy and when you found yourself staring at an empty stalk, you were no closer to finding an answer you were happy with. 

Because for every reason, every indication, every hint that no, Marcus annoyingly respected you only for your brains and journalistic integrity . . . he’d look at you like he’s looking at you right now and every semblance of dignity would go flying out the window faster than you can say defenestration. 

Marcus drops your eyes, mouth parted as if surprised by his blatant staring, and he brushes the lynch pin to your case with his fingers.

“This is, um, this is really good work. Your editors are gonna love it.”

You lean your hip against the edge of his desk, crossing your arms, elbowing your way back into his attention. Your thigh teases the space between his. His head down, you watch his tongue wet his bottom lip the longer he stares at your hip. 

“They’d love it more if the agent in charge went on record about the whole thing.” 

Like you burned him, he retreats, stepping back towards the corkboard that’s been hanging in his office for six months. He tugs at his tie and clears his throat.

“Mhmm, yeah, maybe for a follow-up piece.” Swallowing, he pulls at the knot of his tie, and slips it over his head once the hole is big enough, quickly stuffing it in his pocket. He looks at the board like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

You can’t stop the irate scoff. The hurt, the embarrassment, it burns you. It’s such a stupid crush and he’s making you look like an idiot for it, desperate for scraps when you deserved a whole fucking meal. Your self-confidence had been hard won, built up under years of duress and shame, and a need for a change in your life. If you aren’t happy with something, fix it, your father used to say. So you did and you weren’t about to let Marcus goddamn Pike make you feel small again.

“You know what, fuck this.” In two strides, you move away from his desk and snatch up your shoulder bag. You know you’re making a scene, your cheeks warm, nose flared, and this isn’t the best way to end the last six months, or even continue a potentially invaluable insider source that could benefit your career for years to come. But you can’t help it. You hate how Marcus makes you feel. “I’m such a fucking idiot for thinking you’d have the balls to reciprocate so, you know what, that one’s on me. Keep the tapes, Marcus, I have copies. I’m going home.”

He frantically sputters out your name as he intercepts you between the door to his office. All the blinds are shut, this case of the highest confidentiality, and at least there’s the small miracle that his coworkers can’t see you act like a jilted fourteen year old. Your hand squeezes the strap around your shoulder when Marcus reaches for you. 

“I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?”  

You grind your teeth together, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m talking about us, Marcus. This thing between us that’s been going on for months. The thing that you refuse to acknowledge. I’m so sick of this ‘will-they-won’t-they’ shit. I’m a grown woman, Marcus, and if you’re not interested then just come out and say it. Just stop . . . messing with me.”

The hand outstretched to you curls in, fingers, fist, retreating. His mouth twitches again, his eyes fundamentally unreadable. He glances over your shoulder at the board, and then when he looks back, his gaze is . . . different. Like he swapped his usual soft, friendly brown eyes with a pretense that carries a little more heat to it. The spilling of too black powder in a dangerous, unstable place, where careless matches are liable to fly. 

Marcus shifts his weight, crosses his arms with the full strength of his back yanking on his blazer, and bites just below his lip on his left side, somehow making that bowed mouth even more pouty. 

“No, I mean . . . why did you think I’d never act on it?” 

Now it’s your turn to take a small step back, even though the low pitch to his voice is exactly what you’ve been all but begging for. The sound of it twists your insides, tugging arousal low in your belly. You swallow, suddenly blinding padding around for that righteous anger. 

“It’s been six months, Marcus. Three since you almost kissed me during the stakeout. Two since I saw you staring at my bra after the rainstorm. A-and last month . . . last month, when you invited me over for dinner, I thought . . . I-I thought . . .”

You thought dinner was going to end in something sweeter than chocolate pie for dessert, when a woman called him, furious that he hadn’t been answering his calls. Her screaming was audible and the sheer look of panic on his face was enough to confirm every terrible thing you thought you were so terribly correct about. 

“I told you about my ex-wife when we first met. I wasn’t hiding her. You weren’t the other woman.” 

“Yeah, but people usually go their separate ways after a so-called nasty divorce.” 

His eyebrow jumps at the unmasked condescension in your voice. You hold the strap across your chest like a lifeline. 

Marcus’s eyes stray to the corkboard again as he works his jaw, split between being rather irritated and . . . something else. 

That something else slams full force into your chest when he meets your gaze: heartbreak.

“Did you ever consider I tried to stop anything before it started, because I didn't want some asshole defense attorney to have any reason to blow holes in our case?” He shakes his head, this time overwhelming you entirely as he oversteps at least three professional boundaries by herding you back against a filing cabinet with just the sway of his body. The metal clangs as you crash against it, shoulders around your ears. “A reason like if the lead investigator and his CI were fucking?”

The messenger bag around your hips is the only thing keeping him from pressing up on you entirely. You are intimately aware of that when he tilts his head at you, eyes mournful and explorative as they draw a path over your cheeks, your nose, your eyebrows. Down the curve of your jaw and your neck. 

You do the only thing you can think of and laugh at him: “A CI? Please, I think I was a little more integral than that.” 

Marcus hums as he gently brushes the arch of your cheek with the pad of his finger. 

“All the more reason to keep everything squeaky clean.” 

You finally understand why he’s been looking at the board over and over, as if it’s going to suddenly catch flames. You suppose it's only fair that he’s worried – does a blasphemer not worry about his own state of grace on holy ground? 

He’s knee-bucklingly close when you work up enough courage to look him in the eye and say what’s been looping around your mind like an unhitched railway car.

“But you said it yourself, the case is over, right?” There’s a corner of your mind that is keening with embarrassment at how breathless you sound, so you throw a shoe at her and drop your eyes to Marcus’s increasingly close lips. They’re wet when he runs his tongue over them. 

“Yes, I did say that.” Fireworks explode in your brain when he tucks his middle finger under the strap of your messenger bag up by your collarbone, and then proceeds to slide his hand down the strap, knuckles very intentionally rubbing between the valley of your breasts. You wish you had worn a push-up bra or nothing at all. His hand shakes as it stops just above your belly button. 

On a slow inhale, his palm changes directions, turning over to your stomach, heat blooming from where he touches you over your skin, to slide with a solid grip on your hip. A weight. The shifting of the scales. 

“Marcus–,” it sounds like begging and he’s hardly even touched you so you have to follow it up with something. You drop your head back against the metal, trying to even your breathing. “Marcus, w-we got the evidence. The case is closed, we d-don’t work together any more. We - we can–,”

“I want to,” he murmurs and you swear the heat from his breath across your collarbone tightens your nipples in your shirt. “God, I fucking want to. But this case can’t be jeopardized. The bureau has been after this guy for years and if we fuck it up on a technicality –,” 

“We don’t have to tell anyone,” you blurt out. The back of your head pinned to the metal locker behind you, you stare him down from the end of your nose, breathing hard and heavy. You squeeze your eyes shut before opening them to his gun-powder gaze. “We don’t even have to do this more than once, but . . . fuck, I’ve gotta get you out of my system, Marcus. I can’t think straight around you anymore.” 

Making a noise like someone popped him across the chest with their elbow, he shuffles closer, the bag between you digging painfully into your lower stomach. Both hands find their way to your hips. He squeezes you through your jeans, your panties a truly forgone mess at this point. You had men tease you before about how wet you got, like it was something shameful or embarrassing – giving so much of yourself away so quickly – but nearly pinned beneath him, you are quite sure Marcus would never have that inclination. Your own hands have latched onto his shoulders of their own accord. 

“We don’t have to tell,” you hiccup when his thumb barely brushes the bottom of your bra. “I won’t tell, Marcus.” He tilts his head, the rough hairs of his beard brushing against your temple and you shudder, so eager to be touched by him on your skin and not through your clothes. “Please. Please.” 

He groans again, eyes fluttering, head shaking. “Fuck, baby, don’t beg me like that–,”

His body presses you flat against the locker when he eagerly collides his mouth with yours. His broad hands cup your cheeks, holding you exactly where he wants you, your fingers digging around his wrists to confirm to him there’s literally nowhere else you’d rather be. 

Marcus Pike executed everything in his life with dogged determinism. From catching criminals, to shining his shoes, Marcus was meticulous and detail-oriented. It made him a great agent – and one hell of a kisser. 

His tongue rides along the bottom of your lip, then the top, not seeking entrance, but cataloging if the places on your mouth taste differently. He nips your plush lip and finds the sound you make is not exactly how he wants it. So he licks your mouth open, as forcefully as he politely shows a warrant before kicking open a suspect’s door. He finds that you like it when he’s a bit rough with his tongue, biting more at your upper lip to make you keen at that frequency he’s been craving. He does it again and you moan louder, fingers tightening around the curls at the back of his neck. He’s not satisfied with that sound alone, so he pushes even closer to you, seeking your heat with his thigh as if he could feel you pulse for him with just his mouth on you. 

But this goddamn bag –

“Get this–,” he scrambles over your hands as you both incorrectly fight with the strap and the weight of the bag, “what is even in this?”

You chuckle as he manages to yank it over your head without pulling out your hair. “My little pheromones to drive hot FBI agents berserk. Why? Is it working?” 

His moan is set between his teeth, sucking on both his own desperation and frustration at your teasing. Barrier gone, he shoves his knee between your thighs and slides it until it nestles against your crotch. It pushes the seam of your jeans against your clit and you rip your mouth away from his, gasping at the overly hot pleasure that roars up your middle. 

“Fuck, Marcus,” you keen and his mouth splits open, eyelids heavy, as he watches you writhe on this thigh. 

“You’re so warm, but are you wet? I can’t feel you.” His nose and mouth tucking into your neck, his wide palms tug and push your hips in a steady rhythm that has you fisting his jacket. “Couldn’t have worn a skirt?” 

“I didn’-t know – you’d want to – do this,” you breathe through this rapidly swelling pleasure, your clit throbbing. He presses up with his thigh just barely and you moan like a fucking pornstar, his cock rock solid and hot against your hip. 

“Can-can you do this?” He asks breathlessly, his own hips rolling in time with yours. “Can you come just on my thigh?” 

You bite your lip and nod, eyes shut and head back against the metal. “Y-yeah, I think I’m – God, yes, I am – I am so close.” 

“What do you need – to get you there?” He dips his head back to that spot on your neck that made your skin break out in goosebumps and he nips at your pulse point before soothing it with his tongue. You jerk at the sensation, your own pleasure ratcheting up to a soaring new height, the damp stripe of your panties almost soothing to your aching clit. You’re so sticky everywhere. You gasp, your hands curling into his shirt, shoulder digging into his jaw, neck arched to the side, as if your body is concerned how hard this orgasm is going to hit when he sucks a distinctive bruise into the hollow of your throat.

“Oh, God, Marcus –,” 

“Tell me, what do you need?” he slurs in your ear. 

You feel so empty, so wet and hollow, you want him to strip your pants down now and fill you as fast as you can. But you tremble on the razors edge – his cock anywhere near you is going to ruin you for the rest of the night – you just need to break through this one and then you’ll –

“Your fingers, Mar-cus, just put – them –,”

He huffs, grunting as he understands, and one of the steadying hands on your hips lurches to the front of your jeans. His knuckles dig into the skin of your stomach as he flicks open the button of your jeans, a low-heavy-drag whine as he finally feels the heat of your pussy, ready to suck him up inside you. He yanks down the zipper, cups you and that’s almost enough. It’s nearly enough and you gasp, your core fluttering, nails tearing into his shirt. 

“Yeah, you need more?” Marcus hums, his teeth scraping your jaw as he pins you to the wall with his full body weight. “Can’t let anything be easy, can you?”

All sense and shame dragged out of you with every swipe of your clit against his thigh, you shake your head and let out a loud whimper. 

He grunts something low and fast, heated and possessive, his hand shifting, knuckle peeling back your sticky underwear, fingers rubbing up against your puffy lips, and finally –

You toss your head back, a hot freeze locking your body up from your toes to your forehead, when he slides two fingers right up your cunt and curls them forward. A second later, heat crackles from your cunt up to your chest and you inhale, stars in your eyes and toes barely scraping the ground. 

As you sink back down into your own body, your brain plugging back in, you realize he’s whispering to you, muttering, his lips moving fast over your skin as he gently brushes your cheek with his own. 

“So good, baby, everything I thought you were going to be, you let me touch you, you make such pretty sounds, so good,” 

The high continues to drag you back down, down until you’re shaking in his arms, a lethargic weight pulling you into his chest. He cups your head into the curve of his neck, his own heart pounding into the vein of his neck. 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re messing with me anymore,” you chuckle into his skin and you feel him smile above you. “Okay, a little messing. A messing when asked.” 

“Good. I like messing when asked.” He kisses your cheek, lips lingering as he breathes out his nose. “But, uh, I know you said you weren’t going to tell anyone, but you weren’t exactly quiet about it.” 

You warm again, but this time with a bashful grin. 

“Yeah, sorry. I guess there are advantages to being a workaholic and staying in the office until ten at night.” 

He shakes his head, gently easing his knee from between your legs, careful to hold you until you are steady on your own feet. 

“Don’t need to apologize for that, pretty girl. In fact,” he picks up your infamous shoulder bag and loops it over his neck. The strap catches the fluff of his hair and it stands straight up. You didn’t think you had the energy, but your heart goes wild at the sight. “In fact, when I take you home, I’d like you to be even louder.”

Apparently you had a lot more stamina than you thought because your toes curl and you can practically hear your pussy throb. Your eyes flicker to his crotch.

“You don’t want . . . here?”

He pulls you into his arms, and kisses your forehead. “I do. I want very much. But the first time I’m inside you with anything but my fingers, it’s not going to be in my office. Won’t be able to concentrate.” He takes a look around what had been the epicenter of your investigation for months. “Actually, I might have to repaper the whole thing now.” 

You chuckle, leaning up under his arm where he’s damp and warm. “I think that might tip off someone to our little technicality.” 

He matches your smirk with an eyebrow raise. “Fair. Guess it’ll just have to linger here.”

You kiss his throat as he leads you out of the abandoned building, arm tight around you. Where he does take you home, where he does come inside you with something other than his fingers, and where you scream his name . . . yes, even louder. 

[bonkhrnyjail]

hey gang, i did want to make a little announcement on here instead of just deleting everything with no explanation, so here goes:

i've spent the last couple of months heavily debating whether or not i should continue to write/post sweet plum. before pedro, the last time i was in a fandom space was back in 2011-2015 with 1d. i was a kid, and at the time it was commonplace to write fic about celebrities. i started writing sweet plum as an outlet for the absolute incomprehensible ravenousness i developed for pedro after watching the last of us and spiraling into the type of all-consuming obsession i haven't experienced since middle school. i started writing it in april 2023, started posting it to ao3 at the suggestion of my friends in june of 2023, and started posting it here as well at the request of a mutual who wanted to read the story. i joined pedrotwt in december 2023, where i pretty quickly learned that writing fic about pedro is very, very frowned upon.

at first i felt pretty defensive about it. i thought back to my old fandom days and how this switch in mindset felt like the complete opposite of what was encouraged in those days. i felt like i had a right to create what i wanted to, and knowing that i had a small but loyal following on ao3 made me feel more justified about continuing to write and post the story. i think a small part of me knew there was some validity to the concern, but the part of me that had worked so hard on the story and had developed such an intense connection to the character kept me in denial.

a few months ago i decided to take a break from sweet plum and try my hand at writing joel miller. i became pretty fixated on what i was writing, and didn't even open a sweet plum document for almost two months. when i decided i should start chapter nine, i found myself feeling uncomfortable and uneasy writing about pedro himself. i think taking some time away from the story really helped me gain some perspective, and made me realize that it is quite invasive to write fic about real people, especially someone who i love and admire so much. i wrote about him as if i knew him, and though i doubt he'd ever see the story, i can't imagine what running across something like that would feel like. if it were me, i'd probably feel pretty damn violated.

so with all that being said, i have decided to take the story down. i am considering a possible rewrite with dieter taking the place of pedro, but i am still unsure. i want to apologize to anyone who may have been upset by my writing and express that i have learned from my mistakes and will only be writing about characters from the pedroverse from this point onwards. i also want to apologize to those who were following the series, i understand the disappointment this may cause, especially considering the lack of body diverse fics out there. i am going to keep writing, and i will write more for us plus-size folks out there. i promise i'm not leaving y'all high and dry.

thank you guys. xoxo.

[avastrasposts]

Bona Dea - a Marcus Acacius story

Complete brain rot, this story has been in my head since last summer, just needed his name and his status. I'm yeeting this out there tonight even though I said I'd post it tomorrow. I'm too excited, I want to share!

8.6k - porn with a smidgen of plot, mentions of slavery and prostitution if someone wants to avoid that. Some Latin (explanations under the cut)

Enjoy!

Thermae - bath house

Caldarium - the hot pool in the bath house

Servi - slave or servant

Leno - pimp

Lupanarium - brothel

Domina - lady

Dominus - lord

Amita - aunt

Stola - a female dress

Meretrix - a high class prostitute

Concubinus - concubine

Carrisime - dear, beloved, a term of endearment

magnus - greatest

Puella - young woman

Futuo - Fuck

The town had no name, at least not in his mind. Somewhere to the north, where his army was camped for the next few days, a respite for the soldiers before the last march back to Rome. This close to the capital of the empire, there was no need for them to dig in, but he made them do it anyway. Erect the palisade, dig the ditches, Marcus Acacius was proud of the show of Roman military discipline they put on for the peasants in this backwards corner of the empire’s countryside. 

But being this close to Rome meant he and the highest ranking officers could have the luxury of staying in one of the town’s villas. It was nothing compared to the one he resided at in Rome, but for a few nights, it would do. And the local thermae proved adequate, the hot water flowing freely in the caldarium, filling the pool and relaxing his aching muscles. They, he and his officers, had enjoyed a few hours relaxing, taking the opportunity to get properly clean after many weeks' march. Only one last stretch, and then they would all be home. For a while at least, until the emperors decided on a new war, a new part of the empire to conquer and subjugate. 

“I’ll see you later,” he gave a wave to his closest allies, as they exited the bath without him. Acacius was determined to make the most of the hot water and leaned back, stretching out his long legs, flexing his tired muscles. It would be a few more long weeks on horseback before he could do this again. But the next time, it would be at home, and he couldn’t wait to get to it. 

With a groan he sat up and twisted his body, loosening the tight joints of his back before he slowly made his way out of the hot pool and into the cooler parts of the thermae. When he stepped out onto the street again, he felt refreshed, muscles loose and his body clean. He took a long, deep breath. 

“Gallio, go back to the villa, see to it that all is in order for tomorrow's feast,” he said, dismissing his slave without a backwards glance. His servi bowed and hurried off, while Acacius started walking in the opposite direction. He’d seen the tell tale signs of a high class brothel while they rode into town, and he had every intention of finding it and paying for a warm cunt to sink himself into, a good end to the day.  

The sun was sinking behind the town’s wall and the warm December day was starting to cool as he made his way through the narrow streets, following the phallic signs on the walls. The heavy wool of his cloak was welcome now, and he wrapped it around himself. The streets had been crowded before, now they were almost empty, and he found it odd that everyone would step inside so early in the evening. But the door of the brothel was still open and a warm glow came from within as he stepped through the door. 

“Leno!” he called out to the pimp who would run any brothel of this standard, and a man appeared from behind a doorway and regarded him with wide eyes. 

“General, what are you doing here? I have no girls tonight!” the man said, spotting his rank with just a swift glance at his attire. “And I sent home all the males and I was just about to close the doors.” 

Acacius frowned at the man, “Why are you closing up? And where are the girls?” 

“Bona Dea, general,” the leno said, his face apologetic, “All the women of the town are celebrating her tonight.” 

“You gave all the whores the night off just for Bona Dea?” Acacius asked. He knew the festival well of course, it was celebrated all across the peninsula, but the rites and rituals were secret to men, so he only knew that the women of his family would attend the temple and leave the men at home. “Do you not expect any male customers tonight?” 

“General, I apologise, I didn’t give them the night off, they took it, nothing can stop the women of this town from celebrating Bona Dea. And beg your pardon, general, but you should hurry back to your quarters. No man should walk the street after dark on Bona Dea. The women have free rein to do as they wish with any man they find out of doors on this night.” 

“What do you mean, leno? Free rein?” 

Acacius regarded the nervous looking pimp, he was shuffling from foot to foot as he twisted his hands, glancing nervously at the increasingly darker street. 

“Just that, general, free rein. Any man they find, they can do what they want with, rob him, mutilate him, fuck him, or make him fuck someone else, or something. I’ve heard of a man who was made to fuck a goat while the women stood around and laughed, drinking wine, getting drunk and pissing themselves. And no one can do or say anything about it. What happens during Bona Dea, they can’t be punished for, it’s the law.” 

“No law I’ve ever heard of,” Acacius scoffed, “and I’d like to see them try anything with a Roman general.” 

“With all due respect, general, you’re only carrying your pugio, and by law, you can’t harm them, only do as they command. It’s the law of Bona Dea,” the leno glanced at the door again but Acacius just shook his head and turned to leave. 

“They’re only women, I think I can handle myself.” 

“Against a handful, yes. But they roam in packs, twenty, thirty, I’ve heard them pull on the door here and cackle like witches. They can take down even a large man like yourself and then you*ll be at their mercy,” the leno was all but ushering Acacius out onto the street now as he started closing the door. 

“I may enjoy that, my cock was expecting a whore tonight, maybe I’ll have to find one of your runaway girls and make her have her way with me,” Acacius grinned at the nervous looking leno, who just gave him a quick bow, before the door to the brothel closed. 

“Bona Dea….” Acacius chuckled, “a night when women can do as they please? What kind of backwards country hovel is this place?”

He wrapped the cloak around himself again and set out towards the villa, maybe he would find some woman on the way, but he certainly wasn’t about to traipse around this town in search of one. Let them have their festival, he would settle for one of the slave girls at the villa. 

Night had truly fallen now, and the narrow streets were dark, very little light found its way down to where he tried to navigate the uneven surface. The lamp holders were unlit, even the men usually responsible for that seemed to be shying away from their duties on this night. With a curse Accacius tripped and nearly fell as he rounded a corner. The scabbard of his pugio clattered against the rough stones as he caught the edge of the building just in time. He pulled himself up and wiped his hands, stepping closer to the side of the street, putting his hand on the wall for guidance. 

“Futuo,” he hissed, fumbling his way forward in the dark, the only blessing being that this town seemed to be too small for the street gangs that would’ve plagued any street this dark in Rome. 

He came to a sudden stop as a door swung open a little bit further down the street, light spilling out and illuminating the uneven paving. 

“Hey there, keep the door open!” he called to whomever had provided the light, “It’s pitch black out here and I’ve got no torch.” Hurrying his steps now that he could see more of where he was going, he approached the open door. A shadow moved just inside, the shape of a person, and he thought he heard the giggle of a girl. Thinking nothing of it, he stepped into the rectangle of light and was blinded by the shine of a bright oil lamp. Unseen arms wound around his own and he suddenly felt himself pulled, yanked, in through the door, as female laughter erupted around him. Soft hands grabbed his body as he blinked to regain his vision, but before he could see, someone slipped a cloth over his eyes and the world was plunged into darkness again, a tight knot being tied at the back of his head. 

He chuckled, Bona Dea indeed, and decided to play along, feeling female hands pulling him, guiding him, into the house. 

“We found one!” a young woman called in excitement as he felt the air change, and he was led into a room. “A man foolish enough to be out on the streets!” 

The room erupted into delighted, tipsy, laughter. The smell of sweet wine hung heavy in the air and the alcoholic breath of the women nearest him lingered in his nose. 

“Tie him up, don’t let him see us,” came a command from what sounded like an older woman, “and let’s decide what to do with him.” 

Acacius felt himself pushed into the room and his arms were forced behind his back. This was not something he was willing to accept and he shook his broad form, easily discarding whomever was trying to restrain him. 

“Hold!” came the voice of the older woman again, and the woman trying to tie his hands went still behind him. 

“General, you know the rules of this night, you are ours until the sun comes up, you must obey our every order and may not hinder or harm us in any way. That is the law of Bona Dea.” 

Acacius felt equal measure anger and lust rise inside him. He was not a man used to being ordered around, tied up, not in control. But another, more base instinct, was fighting for space inside him, his cock hardening at the idea of being at these women’s mercy if they chose to use him. Not being in control for once, seeing what women would do if he let them use him as he often used the whores at the lupanarium. As long as they didn’t make him fuck a goat, he could see this as enjoyable evening. 

“Apologise, domina,” Acacius said, bowing his head towards the source of the voice, “I will follow the law of Bona Dea.” 

“If that is the case, we will not need to restrain you, general. Leave his hands untied.” 

The last was said to the room and behind him, Acacius heard the woman who had tried to bind his hands together, step back. 

“Bring him to the centre, let us see what kind of specimen the goddess has brought us.” 

Delighted cheers broke out at this, all around him. The room seemed to hold at least ten or so women, and they were clearly excited by the prospect of having a man under their control for the night. 

The woman at his back took hold of his arm and guided him forward, presumably to the spot where he could be seen by all the women. He could hear tittering, giggling whispers as he was left to stand, unseeing, surrounded by them all. 

“Remove his clothes, but be careful. We do not wish to send our general home tomorrow morning with his attire in shambles.” 

A shiver of trepidation, he refused to believe it was fear or nerves, shot through his body, at the words of the unknown woman. The soft shuffling of bare feet on a mosaic floor could be heard as at least two women approached him. Soon deft hands were removing first his cloak and then his belt. Someone knelt and untied his sandals, making him lift his feet as they slipped off. The skin on his abdomen pebbled as his tunic was removed, exposed to the air of the room, even though it was warm. 

The knowledge of unseen eyes on him, as the last of his vestures were removed, was an unsettling feeling. He squared his broad shoulders and straightened his back. If they wanted to see him naked, let them see all of his hardened soldier’s body, he had nothing to hide. What scars and disfigurements he had, he carried with pride as they showed the world what he had done for Rome. 

You stood at the top of the circle, in front of the Roman general who was now stripped of all his clothes, the blindfold the only piece of cloth on him. The younger girls were pleased with what they saw, appreciative hums and gasps were heard from around the room and you could see their excited faces. 

“He’s a fine one, good catch, Julia!” a younger woman exclaimed and she was joined by the voices of others agreeing. 

You could only give them right, he was a fine specimen. A general in the mould of the likes of the great Caesar, kept fit by his army life, living the same life as his soldiers. Not going soft and weak with age like those who turned to politics and intrigue. The man in front was standing tall, his long arms hanging relaxed by his sides, only a slight twitch in his fingers betraying something of his nerves. The golden skin was decorated by scars, old injuries, but gleamed under the light of the oil lamps. By the looks of it, and by the scent of the thermae, he’d been at the bath house before stumbling down the dark street outside your house. 

“What shall we do with him?” you asked, your voice lower, holding a promise and making the giggling of the other women die down. You took a few steps forward in the now quiet room, standing in front of him, taking in his clean scent and the way his still damp hair curled around his ears. You had to look up to properly regard what you could see of his face, he was a tall man, a proud Roman nose, a strong jaw, a handsome face even though you couldn’t see his eyes. 

“How shall we use him? Hmmm?”  

Bringing your hand up and gently touching his chin, the soft scruff of his beard tickled the tips of your fingers. The man didn’t flinch when you touched him, and it made you smile. He had been prepared for your touch, expecting you to explore his body. With slow movements you traced his jaw, down his thick neck, his wide shoulders and down over his chest. Glancing down, you saw his cock hardening, already rising up from between his thighs. 

“Oh, he likes that!” Julia exclaimed behind you, and the room erupted in giggles as the women closed the circle and shuffled closer to see. 

“How would you like to be used, general?” you mused, unable to keep the smile out of your voice at his obvious excitement, and in response, you saw the corner of his lip quirk up. 

“I am yours for the night, domina,” he replied, bowing his head to you again. 

Biting back a smile, you glanced at Julia who was standing at your shoulder, her eyes shining with elation. 

“Shall we see how much he likes it?” you asked her and she nodded, a giggle bubbling up through her. 

“Touch him, amita, make him hard for us.” 

The soft hand that had been exploring his chest slipped down and caressed his belly. He could feel fingernails trailing through the hairs on his stomach, sending a shiver of pleasure down to his cock. It filled with blood and he swallowed back a groan as the woman’s fingers traced the outline of it, an easy touch designed to torment him. 

“Let us hear your pleasure, general,” the woman said, her sensuous voice close to his ear now, the warmth of her body radiating over his skin, “I want to hear what sounds you make when you fuck your favourite meretrix.” 

Her filthy words made him groan again, just as her hand closed around his cock, holding it firm in her warm grip. 

“I like hearing your voice, general. I wonder if I can make you beg for release before this night is over? How hard can we make you before we allow you to spill your seed?” 

The words were matched with a slow stroke of his shaft, holding him firmly, twisting as it reached the tip. Her thumb smeared a drop of liquid over his sensitive head and he gritted his teeth, jaw clenching. 

He felt her move, her hand coming up to grip his jaw, firmly, but not with any pain. 

“Don’t hold back, if you hold back, we’ll make you suffer longer. Let us hear you,” the woman said, loud enough for the room to hear, and he heard the other women agree, telling him to be loud, to let them know how much he enjoyed it. 

He gave a short nod, and she gave his cock a firm stroke before letting go. 

“Cornelia, bring me the olive oil, let’s make this easier for him.” 

Another woman moved in the room and he heard the stopper of an amphora being pulled out. A few seconds passed and then her hand returned to his cock, slick and warmer than before, coated in oil. He didn’t hold back his loud groan when she covered him with the liquid. Firm, slow strokes filling his cock with blood, making it pulse and ache in that familiar, pleasurable way. 

Tilting his head back, he panted, cursing under his breath. Whoever this was, she knew how to stroke a man, a slight twist of her wrist as she came to the tip, pulling back his foreskin as she slid her hand down again. 

“Domina….” he groaned, “domina…”

His breathless moan was met by delighted cheers and he felt his neck heat up, self consciousness washed over him and he dropped his head down onto his chest. 

“Now, now, girls,” the woman said, her hand steadily stroking him, keeping him hard and full, “we want him to give us as much pleasure as possible tonight, let’s appreciate the service he’s giving us and make sure he enjoys himself too.” 

You stepped back from him, just a small step, and let go of his cock. It was a glorious thing, and you even doubted the younger women in the room were experienced enough to appreciate how well endowed he was. He’d filled up rapidly, and now it stood straight out from his tatch of dark curls, thick and weeping, hard as silk covered steel. By comparison, your husband’s member was a pitiful sight, even when erect. 

You took a moment to admire him where he stood, his arms still hanging by his sides, his hands now balled into fists. A red flush had risen on his chest and neck, the beating of his heart was thrumming under his skin, and as you watched, the tip of his tongue came out and licked his lips, a gasp escaping him. 

“Maybe we should give you some small treat too, seeing as you’re giving us your handsome body to play with,” you mused, putting your hand on his firm shoulder. His skin was warm to the touch, and you let your hand slide down along his arm, gently squeezing the hard muscles. You couldn’t resist touching him, he was like a god come to life, maybe even Mars in disguise. 

Taking his hand in yours, you brought it to your own shoulder, using his hand to push the shoulder strap of your stola to the side. The garment was loose, the same simple cloth you all wore on this night, all signs of your social status removed as you celebrated Bona Dea. But it also meant his hand met your skin as he pushed the fabric over your shoulder. The rough fingers were warm and he seemed to hesitate when he felt the stola slip to the side. With a swift movement, you undid the clasp on the other shoulder and let the whole thing fall to the floor, the buckle clattering as it hit the mosaic. You saw him shift his head, hearing the sound and interpreting it correctly. You took hold of his hand again, guiding it to your breast. A smile broke out on your face as you watched his reaction to finding your budding nipple under his palm. His tongue came out again, a quick swipe over his lips, as he inhaled. Letting him feel his way around, you watched him weigh your breast in his hand, thumb gliding over your nipple, making you briefly close your eyes. 

“Show us how you make your meretrix wet enough for your cock, make me ready for you, concubinus,” you hummed, wondering how this powerful general would react to being addressed as one of the pretty men who were kept by some wealthy ladies. His hand stilled on your breast, holding it firm, and you could swear he was searching for your eyes through the darkness of his blindfold. He licked his lips again, and bent his head. The heat of his mouth closed around your nipple as his tongue lapped over it. A whimper came from you, seeing this man bend to your will, doing as you asked. 

“Does it feel good, amita?” Julia asked in a breathless voice behind you, her tone was laced with need, you could hear the arousal coursing through her veins as she watched the general suck at your breast. 

“He’s certainly talented with his mouth,” you replied, the laughter in your voice replaced by a moan when he tugged gently at your nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure to your core. The man hummed in response, moving his mouth to your other breast as his hand fell to your hip. Caressing it with firm motions, he slipped it down over your soft belly, cupping your cunt with his hand. The breath caught in your throat as he pushed a thick finger between your folds, making you jerk your hips into his hand as he easily pushed into the wet heat that had gathered at the apex of your thighs. 

“Domina….” he muttered against your breast, “you are well and truly wet enough for my cock already. Can I give it to you?” 

He heard her swallow at his words, her hand coming up and slipping into the hair at the back of his head, the slight sting more pleasurable then he would’ve thought. With a gentle tug she pulled him off her breast, he let her hard pebble slip from his mouth and reluctantly pulled his hands from her cunt when she stepped back from him. 

“Let us all be undressed,” she said to the women in the room, “lay him on the floor and make use of this hard cock that the goddess has blessed us with.” 

“But he can’t come!” one of the women said, her voice a drunken giggle, “We need that cock hard for all of us!”

“You can barely stand, Cassia, too much wine in such a small girl,” another woman called out, and was met by loud laughter and he could hear Cassia laugh with them. 

“More wine while we watch!” she called, “Who shall ride him first?” 

Acacius felt two pairs of hands pull him down, guiding him gently onto soft bedding. As he tipped his head back, someone adjusted his blindfold, making sure he couldn’t see anything but darkness. It was a strange feeling, flat on his back, his cock hard and weeping, hearing the unknown women move around him as their stolas fell to the floor around him. 

“Julia, you caught him, you should have the first ride,” a woman said and the rest joined in, cheering on Julia who was giggling as she knelt beside him. He could feel her hands on his abdomen when she straddled his legs. 

“He’s so big!” she exclaimed and his hips jerked up as her hand closed around his already aching cock, “Much bigger than Appius!”

“Remember, he can’t come,” the older woman chuckled close by, she seemed to be kneeling behind his head, “How should we punish him if he does?” 

There was a murmur among the women as they tossed ideas over his head, someone suggested he’d be made to fuck a goat as soon as he was hard again and he thought he might never get hard if that was the prospect. 

“No, poor goat,” the older woman laughed, “What has it done to deserve that?” 

Acacius silently let a relieved sigh slip out, someone suggested he’d be covered in garum, another thought he should be made to run a gauntlet through the room, that he thought he’d easily manage. 

“Why not let everyone know he was foolish enough to venture out on Bona Dea?” Julia said from her position straddling his thighs. “Take his clothes and let him make his way back to his quarters with this glorious body on display for the whole town? We can send a slave to the encampment with his clothes later on.”

The room erupted in cheers and it was agreed to be the punishment. Acacius gritted his teeth, he could easily imagine the looks of his soldiers, the ribbing he’d get from his officers, if that was to happen. He would have to use every trick in the book to keep himself from coming. Already he felt the familiar tingling in his crotch as the woman called Julia shifted above him. Her hand was firmly wrapped around his cock and when the head met the heat of her cunt, he groaned. Slowly, whimpering at the size of him, she sank down, rocking her hips to take more. 

“Gods, he is so thick,” she panted, her hands flat on his belly as she carefully lifted her hips, letting him slip out before she sank down again. 

Acacius bit down on his lips and hissed out a long breath, “Puella, can I touch you, I want to hold onto your hips, let me fuck you better than your Appius.” 

“You can touch me everywhere, concubinus,” she moaned in response, taking one of his hands in her own and firmly placing it on her breast. He let the other find her hip, gripping on to the soft flesh, he bucked his hips up into her. Her answering cry of pleasure made him bite his tongue, staving off the pressure building in his balls. Squeezing her tits, rolling the hard nipples under his fingers, he continued to fuck up into her, making her bounce on him, he could feel the soft slap of her ass every time she dropped back down. Soon she was moaning loudly, crying out for him and he let his hand slip from her breast, finding the little pearl at the top of her cunt that gave women so much pleasure. With deft fingers he caressed it, his cock twitching as she responded to his touch, whimpering above him. 

“Gods, I’m…” she gasped, her voice giving out as the walls of her cunt gripped his cock, and every muscle in her body froze. She sobbed as she trembled above him, her hand batting away his fingers from her cunt, and he softened the rolls of his hips, fucking her through the waves of her orgasm. 

With a breathless giggle she finally stilled on him, “Sisters, help me up, my legs have no strength,” she laughed and he felt the weight of her lifted from his hips. 

“My turn!” someone called from beside him and the room erupted into laughter. 

“Give him a moment to calm down,” the older woman said with a smile, still close to his head, and he felt her hand on his shoulder as her voice came close to his ear.

“How is your stamina, general?” she asked in a soft voice, the warmth of her breath against his ear even more tortuous than the feeling of Julia’s cunt on his cock. He was hoping she’d fuck him before the night was over, the very thought of how wet she’d been, made him clench his jaw. 

“Still strong enough for these girls, domina, I will save my load for your wet cunt,” he whispered in reply. The tightening of her grip on his shoulder made him smile, he couldn’t see her, but he knew his words had made her press her thighs together at the thought of taking his cock. 

“More wine!” someone called and cups were raised, some wine being spilled onto the floor with sighs and giggles. 

“I might have to offer you my cunt in the end,” his domina, as he was starting to think of her as, whispered back to him, “Most of these girls are too drunk to be of any use.”

“Alba, take your turn,” Julia’s voice called, “And come join me to recover afterwards.” 

The woman named Alba laughed and he felt her legs swing over his hips. She wasted no time closing her hand around his cock, spreading Julia’s arousal even more thoroughly over him. 

“I wonder if he tastes as good as he looks?” she asked and as her mouth closed around the head of him, he groaned loudly, gripping the bedding underneath him and cursed. He could feel his domina’s hands in his hair, caressing his temples, stroking back his damp curls. 

“She’s a tease, that one,” she laughed quietly in his ear, placing a delicate kiss on his forehead. 

He couldn’t responde, only agreeing with a grunt, as Alba’s mouth swallowed him whole, sinking all of him into her throat before she pulled off with a deep breath. Her hand was stroking him up and down in fast motion and he felt helpless against the rising heat in his abdomen, a strangled cry coming from him as he bit his bottom lip hard. 

“Slow down, Alba, you’ll ruin the fun for yourself if you make him come too fast,” his domina said and Alba laughed. 

“I’d better get my fill of him then,” she replied and Acacius felt her adjust herself above him as his cock yet again slipped into a wet cunt. He groaned as she squeezed him, lifting up and coming down over him with a roll of her hips, riding him hard and fast. From across the room he heard some of the women give lazy cheers, clinking cups as they egged their friend on. 

“Ride him until he begs for release, Alba,” one woman called, her voice slurred by the wine they all seemed to be downing fast. 

“I’ll ride him until he makes my body shake,” Alba called back, panting loudly, moaning as he grabbed her hips and slammed his cock hard into her. He was determined to make her come quick, hard, so that he didn’t have to fight against his own aching cock. It was ready to burst, his balls tight between his legs as the unknown woman used him for her pleasure. 

“T-touch me,” she gasped at him, and he slipped his hand around her ample hips, finding the sweet pearl quickly. As his fingers rubbed across it, she cried out, her nails digging into his chest as she drove him in and out of her slick cunt, her walls beginning to convulse around his cock. 

Her speech was incoherent, just mumbled pleas and gasps, her breathing heavy until she cried out. Her thighs gripped his hips tight, slamming down on him and grinding her cunt into his soaked crotch. She whimpered as the orgasm washed over her, Acacius bit his lip, almost drawing blood, as he forced his mind to think of anything but the woman using him for her pleasure. When she collapsed on top of him, the hair on her head tickling his nose, he wrapped his arms around her back and gently caressed damp skin, her heart thumping against his chest. 

In the background he heard a few giggles and tired cheers, but no one rushed up to take Alba’s place. His cock ached deep inside her and he almost wished he’d come, despite the punishment he’d receive.

The other woman, still sitting by his head, shifted behind him, and he heard her stand up. 

“Come, girl, get on your feet, let the poor man breathe,” she said in a soft voice, he could hear her smile. The weight of Alba lifted from his chest and she seemed to stumble to her feet as the woman led her away. He was left on the bedding, his cock still hard and aching, the air of the room quickly cooling it. Reaching up, he grabbed the base tightly, staving off the worst of his impending release, drawing a deep lungful of air to steady himself. 

You led Alba over to where the rest of the young women had collapsed into piles, drunk on sweet wine and the excitement of the night. None of them were used to the wine of Bona Dea and would have no further enjoyment of the general currently splayed on the bedding across the room. Julia gave you a lazy smile as she made room for Alba next to her, both girls spent and sated. 

With a smile at them, you crossed the mosaic floor again, watching as the man gripped the base of his weeping cock and grimaced. Sinking down on your heels next to him, you gently put your hand on his arm. 

“Come, general, this night isn’t over yet.” 

He sat up and you helped him to his feet, taking his hand and leading him out of the room and further into the building. The darkness of the house fell around the both of you, it was late in the night, but you weren’t tired yet. The striking general, stripped of all his attributes, padded on bare feet behind you, his hand in yours, following blindly and trusting you without question. 

You led him to a room softly lit by oil lamps, and left him standing in the middle while you closed the door. Stepping up behind him you gently untied the blindfold, letting it fall to the floor, and as you moved around him, you saw him blink against the light and then find your face. 

“Domina…?” he asked and you smiled as you saw his deep brown eyes in the golden light. 

“There is no law against the men foolish enough to wander into our celebrations seeing the women they are being tormented by,” you said, answering his unspoken question, “What happens on this night stays between the man and the women.” 

He nodded once and you stepped closer, your bodies pressed together, the hard length of him between you, slick against your flesh. His hands were calloused and rough as they gently grabbed at your hips of their own volition, caressing your skin, warming you. There was no hesitation as you reached up and cupped his cheeks in your hands and moved his soft looking lips to your own. He came willingly, a low rumble in his chest as your tongue met his. For a man who had been achingly hard for the past hour, he moved slowly, measured in the way he tasted you, nipped at your bottom lip and touched your body. 

“Touch me again, make me as wet as your meretrix, general,” you whispered against his lips and you felt the corners of his lips pull up in a smile as his hands pushed you backwards. 

“I want to bury my face between your legs, domina. That’s how I get them wet enough for my cock,” he muttered, watching your face with dark eyes, as you continued to step back for him. 

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, the thought of him giving you pleasure that way made your body tremble and he noticed, a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs. 

“I’ve only ever heard tell of some men doing that to women,” you said, the cool metal frame of the bed against your legs, “my husband never did it to me.” 

“I’m sorry, domina, but your husband is a fool. It’s the best way to give pleasure to a woman, to prepare her for a cock like this, and make her enjoyment of the act as great as mine.” 

His warm hands slid down over your hips as he spoke, and now he grabbed them, his strong arms flexing as he picked you up and laid you down on the bed. Settling himself between your thighs, he made you open your legs wide for his broad shoulders. He hooked one arm under your thigh, pushing you open even more, and his eyes made you shiver, as he looked at you with a wicked grin. 

“Take a sturdy hold of the bedding, domina, and let me hear your voice.” 

You pushed yourself up on your elbows and were just about to talk back to him, to ask what skills he thought he possessed. But your question was lost to a moan as he lowered his head and ran the tip of his proud nose along the seam of your swollen slit, following with the flat of his tongue. 

Your head tipped back as you groaned into the room, his tongue finding the sensitive bead hidden among your folds and sending a violent stream of pleasure through your body. Never had a man touched it the way his tongue did, lapping at it, circling with slow steady strokes, making it vibrate as he hummed against your flesh, his own pleasure clearly rising as he feasted between your legs. He seemed to be teaching himself how to draw every debased groan and moan from your throat, coming back to repeat the ones that made you pant and dig your fingers hard into the bedding. 

“Domina…” he mumbled against your cunt, “put your hands in my hair, let me feel how good I’m making you feel.” 

You met his eyes as he lifted his face slightly, his beard and jaw shining with your slick, and it made your insides cramp around nothing. “If this is your first time, let me make it one to remember when you go back to your husband.” 

You nodded, dumbly, moving your hands to his hair, the long curls winding around your fingers as he dipped his head again. He pushed against your leg, spreading you for him, as he drove his tongue as deep inside as he could, the glistening tip of his nose circling your sensitive pearl, making you gasp with every pass. 

The warmth of his hand moved over your leg, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, and you felt him shift on the bed. His tongue was still lapping greedily at your folds, but now it was joined by two of his thick fingers, teasing at your opening. As he closed his mouth around the apex of your thighs, suckling on that bead, he pushed his fingers inside you. 

“Gods….” you cried, your body arching up under him as it filled you, stretching you out. Between your legs you felt his tongue increase its speed, heat rising as he moved his fingers in and out, copying the motion of a man’s cock but curling, dragging, his thick fingers over places inside you that you’d never knew existed. Pleasure all but exploded in your body as you groaned for more. 

“Dominus…please…I’m…” 

The fingers on his free hand dug into your flesh, holding you down as he moved up onto his knees, pushing you into the bedding with his body. You saw him work his jaw, feasting on your cunt as he drove your pleasure higher, his fingers pushing deep inside, curling and stroking, driving you towards an edge that you were almost afraid to fall over. 

“Dominus,” you wailed, locking eyes with him as he looked up from between your legs, his mouth still licking every drop you fed him. His dark eyes, wild and almost mad with lust, bore into you, and with one more thrust of his fingers, he pushed you over the edge. You could feel his eyes on you as your whole body seized up, ecstasy coursing through every fibre, your throat raw as you sobbed and groaned. His fingers were relentless, stroking you, working your cunt into submission, prolonging every wave of pleasure that radiated from where his mouth sucked at your folds. 

With tired hands you pushed him away when it became too much, your body was shaking, your breathing ragged, and he gently let go of your body, his fingers slipping out. 

“Carissime,” he growled, crawling up over your body, “let me fuck you, let me spill my seed deep inside this tight cunt, and claim you as mine.” 

His skin was damp and hot as he covered you with himself, sinking down on his forearms and placing wet kisses along the side of your neck. The roll of his hips against you made him groan between each kiss, his cock was flushed red and weeping, denied release for so long. His words sent a fresh jolt of arousal through your mind even though your heart was still hammering from what he’d already pulled from you. 

“Carissime,” he repeated, sucking hard on your neck, sure to leave a mark, “Let me fuck you, or suck my cock, just give me release, let me spill myself over your soft tits, I need your body.” 

His pleas wrapped themselves around your head, your limbs grew hot, and the heat between your legs returned. 

“Fuck me,” you whined, grabbing at his shoulders, pulling him down over you as your hips rolled up against his hard length. 

“Tell me how, domina, order me, please Bona Dea. You only have one night to take what you want from me.” 

His breath was scorching against your skin as he moved down and wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking hard at it, nipping, giving you both pain and pleasure that made you whimper and push him closer to your chest. 

“Fuck me from behind, use me like a meretrix,” you said, it came out more like begging, a desperate plea, “My husband never wants to fuck me like that, and never hard, but I crave it, I want to feel your thick cock for days to remember this night.” 

Acacius muttered as he pushed himself up, leaving your breast tender and shining with his spit. 

“He truly is a fool of a man. To have this tight, wet cunt in his bed every night and not fuck it like it deserves? Were you in my household I’d make sure you’d never go unsatisfied again, keep you in my bed day and night.”  

He’d risen to his full length, standing by the side of the bed, and again you took in the glorious form of this man that Bona Dea had blessed you with. His skin had a sheen of sweat, his curls in disarray, and that cock, hard and flushed, weeping from the tip, ready to sink into your cunt. It made your mouth water and the general noticed. 

“Come here, carissime, on all four and turn that sweet ass to me,” he slapped your ass cheek and grabbed your hips, pulling you back towards him. “I can’t tell you how much I look forward to fucking you as hard and rough as you wish. My cock has been waiting all night on being sunk deep into a cunt as sweet as yours.” 

It made you whimper, the way he talked to you, and on instinct, you curved your back, opening yourself up to him. He growled and squeezed your ass again, spreading you open for him to see where his cock would slide in. The blunt head dragged through your folds as Acacius coated his cock with the juices leaking from your puffy folds. It made him hiss, and with one last shred of self control, he grabbed your hips, and slowly sunk into the wet heat, feeling your walls stretch for him, clenching tightly as you moaned. 

“Gods, carissime,” he groaned, his fingers so tight they were sure to leave marks on your skin, “you have the tightest little cunt I’ve ever felt, your husband is a fool, I might have to order him to divorce you, so that you can come to my villa.” 

With a low grumble, he pulled out almost all the way before he pushed in again, harder this time, and it made you keen under him, your core contracting to hold his cock tight. 

Acanius leaned over your back, his hot skin on yours, and he grabbed your hair, winding his fingers into the previously so well maintained hairstyle. Now the curls spilled through his fingers as he pulled your head back. 

“Mi meretrix,” he hissed, “are you ready? I won’t hold back, I can’t.” 

You could only moan a breathless Yes under the weight of his body, your core contracting and pulsing around the thick length of his cock buried deep inside. His voice was strained and taught, he had no self control left. The hand in your hair tightened its grip, the other took a steady hold of your hip and he pulled out. 

When he slammed back in, you cried out, pleasure shot through your body as the impact caught every sensitive spot inside your slick cunt, but he gave you no respite. He set a brutal pace, grunting and panting behind you like a bull, holding you in place as he slammed his cock into your heat over and over, praising your cunt, your tight heat, your body, your willingness to let him use you like this. 

You could only take it, it was like no fucking you’d ever done, he filled you up, not just your cunt, but your whole body, your mind and every sense left tingling at the onslaught. All that filled your mind was how full you were, how his cock felt as it stretched you open, splitting you down the middle, making you cry out in pleasure and need. The man behind you was relentless, his sweat dripped down on your back, scorching hot drops on your own overheated skin. With a growl like an animal, he wrenched you up, flush against his chest as his arm banded across your breast. The rough pads of his fingers immediately found your aching pebble between your legs and circled it, drawing tight patterns that made you wail and cramp. He changed his angle, fucking up into you with the same unforgiving speed and power, and pulled your head back on to his shoulder, his mouth finding your ear, warm breath and gravelled words spilling from him. 

“Carissime, come for me, choke my cock with that tight little cunt of yours, I’ll dream of you on my march back to Rome. Give me the sweetest memory to think of as I fuck my hand in the night.” 

His cock was spearing you, pushing hard and deep inside, while his fingers found the very core of your pleasure. 

“C-come for me, now, I can’t…I can’t hold myself any more,” he panted, his rhythm stuttering, you could feel his cock twitch inside, he was falling over the same edge as you, his body tensing up, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your back as he groaned loudly in your ear. 

“Futuo!” he cried out, and your cunt closed around his cock, your body taught as a bow string under his strong arms as you sobbed into his neck, turning your head to feel more of him as your body convulsed and trembled, the muscles in your legs giving in until it was only his arms around your body that held you up. 

Acacius groaned and cursed as he pumped into you, hot ropes of cum shooting out and filling up the tight cunt that gripped him so hard. His rhythm was faltering, he could hardly move, his eyes were blurry, he held you up as his own legs gave in. With a stumbling step, he pulled you both down onto the bed, falling on your side with his cock still deeply buried in you. He pressed his face into your neck, breathing hard, the build up of the last hour finally being released. His hips jerked, pumping the last of himself into you, and then he stilled. You could feel his arms tight around your chest, his breath against your skin, even his heart beat could be heard in the now quiet room. 

The muscles in your body felt like lead, warm lead flowing out over the bed. How you’d ever move again, you weren’t sure. Your eyes were impossible to open, the general’s body a heavy weight over half of you, he didn’t seem too keen on moving either, his breathing growing slow and steady. You both stayed still in the silence and the afterglow, not wishing to break the spell of Bona Dea. 

A few hours must’ve passed before he stirred again, the light outside the small window had changed. He lifted his head and looked around the room in confusion for a moment before he remembered where he was. The woman was still underneath him, half covered by his body. He could feel his soft cock still laying between her legs, he hadn’t even pulled out before he fell asleep. With curious eyes he regarded her now in sleep, a woman of his own age, beautiful with the features of someone of noble birth. Gently he trailed a finger across her soft cheek, carefully moving his weight from her. But his movement caused her to stir, blinking awake as he looked at her. 

“General,” she mumbled, sleep still clinging to her features, as she rolled over onto her side to face him. He held himself up over her, cupping her cheek with his hand, slowly caressing every line. 

“Morning approaches, I must go back to my men and explain my absence,” he said, “Domina, you have given me a night I will never forget.” 

“As have you, general,” she smiled in reply, “My cunt is still sticky and I believe I will feel this ache for days.” 

He chuckled at that, swiftly moving his hand down to cup her sex instead. 

“I wish I could stay and give you more nights,” he said, slipping a finger gently between her folds to feel his own seed still leaking out. She gasped as he brushed across her sensitive bud, letting his fingers caress it softly before he pulled away. 

Regretfully he shook his head, “But I’m expected in Rome and my army must march on.” 

“Come back next year, if you can,” she said, “Bona Dea will always welcome you into this house.” 

“If our emperor doesn’t send me away on another campaign, I will do my utmost to come back, carrisime.” 

The endearment fell from his lips with a soft smile and she pulled him down towards him, her lips finding his, tongues meeting again. She was warm, irresistible under his hands, he groaned and felt his cock twitch, somehow growing hard again. 

“Carrisime,” he whispered against her mouth, “I must go, but come find me if you’re in Rome.” 

“What is your name, optimus?” she smiled at him. 

“Marcus Acacius, domina. Come find me, let me taste that sweet cunt again.” 

“I will, Marcus, maybe I will leave my husband at home and come find my magnus concubinus.” 

Part Two

Tagging the lovely crowd from the preview post!

@angiewatson @i-own-loki @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @lady-bess @nerdieforpedro @legendary-pink-dot @musings-of-a-rose @for-a-longlongtime @oberynslady @chaoticfestninja @joelssapologist @mduluozz @jessthebaker @hellofeyradarling @pascalislove @flyingthroughheaven @criticalarchitecture @brittmb115 @dammit-hoechlin @li-anne @luly0607 @snow3096-blog @rainbowcat164 @suddendownpour @sherala007 @groovy-hippie-chick @grippysockedtoebeans @bonafideslacker @tupelomiss @rhiannon-girl @verge-of-tears-again @truffles-cat @jay-zzle @rav3n-pascal22 @chronically-ghosted @allaboutthebeskar @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @casa-boiardi

[bliss-and-blasphemy-deactivated]

𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝙼𝚎 𝙰 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Marcus Acacius x F!reader | WC : 2.1k | Proof read : NO

Summary : The night before a battle, General Acacius has something to tell the blacksmith's daughter.

Warnings: SMUT, LOSS OF VIRGINITY, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), masturbation F and M, implied age gap, scars, breeding kink

A/n : I wrote this in like an hour so...enjoy my horny Roman general smut with a touch of lovely dovey bc ovulation, Also I'm very dyslexic lol

The needs of any general are important, and yet your father handles the most critical element of all: crafting the armor and swords meant for battle. Among all your father's customers, General Acacius was your favorite. Alluring and tempting, he was a force of nature, and he knew it. He almost never lost a fight. If your father knew about your infatuation, he might just muster the strength to overpower the general himself.

But that didn't stop the glances. You dreamed and prayed to the goddess Venus that he would take you as his wife or even a whore.

You helped your father polish the swords and armor for the men. This week, another battle of the gladiators loomed on the horizon. It was late, the night sky high above as you rubbed polish along a chest plate. The sound of an approaching horse made you stand tall. It was a single horse, a white steed adorned with armor you knew all too well. It galloped up to where you were, at the part of the blacksmith's forge that was outside. The firelight illuminated his face as he spoke.

"Evening, fair one," General Acacius said, his voice as smooth and commanding as ever. He dismounted, his gaze never leaving you. "Is your father about?"

You shook your head, your heart pounding in your chest. "He has retired for the night, General."

Acacius stepped closer, the flickering flames casting shadows on his chiseled features. "Then it is fortunate that I find you here. I have something important to discuss."

You swallowed hard, the anticipation building within you. "What is it, General?"

He looked down, his expression softening. "Tomorrow, I march into battle. A battle that carries great risk. And I cannot go without first telling you what is in my heart."

Your breath caught in your throat. "General, I—"

He raised a hand, silencing you gently. "No titles now, please. Call me Marcus."

"Marcus," you whispered, the name feeling strange and intimate on your lips.

He stepped even closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint scent of leather and steel. "For too long, I have admired you from afar. Your beauty, your spirit, your kindness. You have captured my heart, and I can no longer keep it hidden."

You felt your cheeks flush, a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming emotion flooding through you. "Marcus, I... I never thought..."

"I know," he interrupted softly. "And I do not ask for an answer now. I only ask that you know the truth. Should I fall in battle tomorrow, I want you to know that I love you. With all that I am, I love you."

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached out to touch his hand. "Marcus, please come back to me."

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly. "I will fight with all my strength, for you give me reason to survive. But if fate decrees otherwise, remember my words and hold them close."

As he turned to leave, you called out to him, your voice trembling. "Marcus, I love you too."

He paused, looking back at you with a fierce determination in his eyes. "Then I shall return. For nothing, not even the gods themselves, can keep me from you."

Marcus closed the distance between you, his eyes darkening with an intensity that made your heart race. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek before pulling you into a deep, passionate kiss. His lips were firm and demanding, yet tender as if savoring every moment. You melted into his embrace, the world around you fading into nothingness.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were ablaze with desire. "Come with me," he whispered, his voice husky and commanding. "We do not have much time."

Without waiting for a response, he took your hand and led you away from the forge, his grip strong and unwavering. You followed him through the shadows, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow on the path ahead. The air was thick with anticipation and the promise of what was to come.

He guided you to the far side of the property, where the cattle were kept. The soft sounds of the animals settling for the night filled the air, creating a backdrop of calm amid the storm of your emotions. Marcus led you into a small, secluded barn, the scent of hay and earth surrounding you.

Inside, the dim light revealed a space both intimate and hidden from prying eyes. Marcus turned to you, his expression a mix of determination and vulnerability. "I have waited too long for this moment," he said, his voice low and fervent. "I need you, here and now."

You nodded, your own desire mirroring his. "Then take me, Marcus. I am yours."

He pulled you into a passionate kiss, his lips firm and demanding. His hands slipped under the shoulders of your gown, letting the fabric dip. You gasped, the cool night air grazing your exposed skin. He looked at you intently, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Have you been taken?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

"I'm no stranger to my own touch," you admitted, feeling small and vulnerable under his gaze, "but to a man?" You shook your head, your heart pounding.

A flicker of something dark and primal flashed in his eyes. He pulled your dress down the rest of the way, letting it fall into the hay scattered across the barn floor. You instinctively moved to cover yourself, but he was quicker. His hands were on your sides, warm and possessive. He kissed you once more, his hands moving upwards, palming your breasts as he began to kiss your neck. You gasped, planting your hands against his armor.

"Marcus," you breathed.

He stopped kissing you and gently patted your shoulder, a silent command to lie down in the hay. The loud clang of his armor hitting the ground sent a jolt of excitement through you. He stripped off his underclothes, revealing himself to you. Immediately, you jumped to your knees, meeting him on the ground. You looked at his body in shock and awe, the scars scattered across his muscular frame telling stories of battles fought and won.

Worry etched your brow as you reached out to trace the outline of his muscles and scars, getting lost in the feeling of his skin under your fingertips. He lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"They're healed," he murmured, his voice tender. "I feel no pain."

 He caressed your cheek with his thumb before pulling you in for another kiss, cradling your head as he laid you back down. “Touch yourself,” he commanded softly, his eyes dark and hungry.

Your eyes widened at his request, but the slight smile on his lips and the warmth in his eyes gave you the courage to comply. You brought one hand to your clit, using slow circles to work yourself up, while the other hand roamed your body, seeking out the places that felt the best. You closed your eyes, small moans escaping your lips.

You frowned slightly, still concerned, but he caressed your cheek with his thumb before pulling you in for another kiss. He cradled your head as he laid you back down. "Touch yourself," he whispered, his voice a seductive command.

Your eyes widened at the suggestion. "Go on," he almost chuckled at the slight shyness you showed.

With trembling hands, you took one to your clit, using slow circles to work yourself up. Your other hand grasped your breast before roaming your body, seeking out whatever felt good in the moment. You closed your eyes, letting small moans escape your lips. You brought your hand that had been circling your clit to your mouth, opening your eyes to see what Marcus was doing.

He watched you with a hunger that made your pulse quicken. As you started sucking on two of your fingers, he stroked his length at the same speed, thick and overwhelming. Precum lined his cock, glistening in the dim light. You let your fingers out of your mouth with a pop, and he growled a low, primal sound. You spread your legs further, looking him dead in the eyes as you inserted two fingers into your wet cunt, thrusting them slowly while maintaining eye contact. Soft moans spilled from your lips, your back arching.

Marcus cracked, stopping your hand with a firm grip. You whined at the sudden stop of pleasure, but he pulled your hand from your cunt and sucked at the slick-covered fingers, savoring every bit. He released your hand with a pop, then spit into his own before rubbing it onto his cock. He leaned down, kissing your neck to distract you from any discomfort.

He rubbed his dick along your folds before pushing into you slowly. The action made you claw at his back and let out a yelp. You'd managed to put three fingers in your cunt at one point, but nothing compared to the size and mass of Marcus Acacius.

"Shh, shh, the pain will end soon," he whispered, kissing your forehead. He began to thrust into you slowly, being careful not to cause more pain. Eventually, the discomfort faded, replaced by a growing pleasure. You began to moan, and Marcus groaned, planting a hand on your hip while the other wandered up and down your body.

He bit his lip, a bead of sweat forming along his forehead, his curls sticking to his skin. His strokes became more forceful, and you started to moan louder, feeling yourself nearing the edge.

"M-more, General," you gasped for air before continuing, "more."

He growled in response, speeding up. His free hand moved to rub your clit, his thrusts harder and faster. The hay scratched at your skin, but you didn't care. Your hands gripped his forearms as you felt your pussy start to clench down on his cock. Your orgasm crashed over you with a loud moan, and Marcus continued thrusting, fucking you through your climax with sloppy, erratic movements.

With a deep moan, he spilled his hot seed inside you, filling you completely. He kissed you passionately before pulling out and collapsing beside you in the hay. You lay there together, bodies entwined, the afterglow of your shared pleasure enveloping you. The cool night air mixed with the warmth of your bodies, creating a cocoon of intimacy that made the world outside seem distant and unimportant.

Marcus turned to you, his breath still heavy, his eyes softening as they met yours. "I will return," he said, his voice a blend of steel and tenderness. "I will win this battle, and when I do, I will make you my bride."

You felt a surge of emotions, hope, and love intertwining with the remnants of your passion. "Marcus, you must be careful," you whispered, your fingers tracing the lines of his strong jaw. "I couldn't bear to lose you."

He took your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, before bringing it to rest over his heart. "With you in my thoughts, I am invincible," he declared. "Every sword I raise, every enemy I face, it will be for you. The gods themselves could not keep me from your side."

You gazed into his eyes, feeling the weight of his promise settle deep within your soul. "And I will be here, waiting for you," you vowed, your voice trembling with emotion. "My heart, my body, they are yours."

He smiled a rare and beautiful thing that made your heart skip a beat. "Then it is settled," he said, his tone resolute. "I will fight with all my might, knowing that my bride awaits me."

He shifted, rising from the hay with the grace and power of the warrior he was. You watched as he dressed, every movement deliberate and filled with purpose. The sight of his scars, his muscles, the very essence of his strength, only made you more certain of the love you felt for him.

Once fully dressed, he turned back to you, offering a hand to help you rise. You took it, feeling the roughness of his skin, the strength of his grip. He pulled you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both a promise and a farewell.

"I will return to you," he whispered against your lips, his breath warm and reassuring.

"And I will be waiting," you replied, your voice filled with a mixture of longing and certainty.

With one final, lingering kiss, he stepped away, mounting his white steed with the same grace and power that had always captivated you. As he rode off into the night, you watched him go, your heart swelling with pride and love.

The barn seemed empty without him, the silence heavy with the weight of his absence. But as you gathered your gown and dressed, you felt a new sense of purpose. You would prepare for his return, ready to welcome him back as your victor and your husband.

[pascalispedrito]

NO THOUGHTS,,, JUST GENERAL ACACIUS

[made-in-may-deactivated20250605]

too sweet (joel miller x f!reader)

summary: in your fight for survival against a world intent on killing you, you stumble across the humble abode of one joel miller.

warnings: age gap (28/56), post-outbreak, canon divergence (no ellie), canon typical violence, angst, some fluff, smut, cursing, blood, injuries, mentions of dead parents & child, weapons, smidge of voyeurism, inexperienced reader, alcohol (joel & reader are not intoxicated and everything is consensual), unprotected piv, v light choking, 18+ mdni.

notes: so, @perotovar posted a gifset and this idea came to me in a vision. erin, you are a rockstar and i can’t thank you enough for the incredible visuals you provide with your stunning gif work. we love you so much <3 tysm for making these for my header 🥹

a huge thank you to my beta, @macfrog 🫶🏻 max: the time & effort you’ve spent on this for me.. i love you. so much, forever. ty for always being so generous w your brain. so much love goes to @swiftispunk @frannyzooey @joelscruff for their support with my very first real smut 🫡

“Take the gun out. Two fingers only. Put it outta reach.”

Oh, he’s serious.

“So you’ve decided not to kill me?”

“I still might,” he grunts, dark eyes flashing with a quiet rage

You place the pistol on the sagging wooden table, pushing it with a force that sends it spinning towards him. He pockets it, swallowing thickly.

“Now, you wanna try this again?”

You attempt to speak, but your tongue is stuck. Everything moves in slow motion, blood rushes in your ears, and the world turns black.

///

Smoke.

You can see it: thick and dark against the pearl white sky, snow frozen on your eyelashes. You haven’t felt your toes for a few days now; your fingers numb this morning.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

It can also mean a myriad of other things: raiders, murderers, the worst humanity has left to offer. Yet, the blood stains the ice beneath you as you drag your feet, and you know you’ll take your chances.

You don’t have any other choice.

The wound in your stomach is deep, the result of a skirmish with a raider who thought he’d try his luck with your hard-earned dinner catch. He came off worse than you: dead, in fact, but you’re pretty sure you’ll be joining him soon enough if you can’t stop the bleeding.

Your father’s voice echoes in your head, the peeling wallpaper and damp ceilings of the rotting apartment in which he took his last rattling breaths.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You were eight when the Cordyceps outbreak unfolded. He tried to hide you, left you in your bedroom as he took a shotgun to your mother, the woman you once knew already infected, robbed from the both of you.

You’ve never forgotten the sound, though. The snarls ripping from her throat as she lunged, the thud of her body against the floor. Him scooping you up in his arms, tearing through the end of the world to get you to safety.

The QZ was safe, for twenty years. Bleak, depressing, devoid of any joy; but free from fungus and all the destruction it left in its path. You grew up quickly, earning your rations sweeping streets and shovelling shit. Your father worked himself even harder, going without so you could have more.

He trained you for this: taught you how to handle a gun, to break an arm, to hold your breath and purify water you can drink without poisoning yourself. He sharpened you, honed your skills, all whilst his body was failing him. He gripped your hand the day he died, told you he was sorry, for all of it.

And he left you alone.

You crawled under the wire fencing that night, and you’ve been on the move ever since. Six months of chewing rabbit and washing yourself in streams, hiding in trees and gutting clickers from the inside out. All in aid of searching for that idea of more, the one your father told you must be out here somewhere.

You won’t let it all be for nothing.

And yet, the blood soaks your fingertips as you apply pressure to the wound. The tip of your nose remains numb, and flurries of snow cling to you stubbornly, turning to deadly mush inside your shoes, the hood of your jacket, freezing your spine and shortening your breaths.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

///

Picking the lock of the cabin is easy.

Another skill drummed into you, and one you’re savagely glad for. You can’t feel your digits, of course, but you watch them work of their own accord, the catch springing free.

Sure enough, flames are crackling in the grate of a stone fireplace. The place makes you think of a ski lodge you’d visited when you were young: a thick rug across the floor, a table with cutlery strewn across it, a wooden balcony hung with drying linen.

“Nice,” you whistle lowly, crouched and ready to greet the inhabitants. Your precious pistol is cocked in your hand; a poignant gift from your father. You take a step forward; a droplet of blood splashing against the floorboards.

Your ears are pricked, listening for a pair of lungs, the creak of a boot — any indication that you’re not alone. You’re fighting every natural instinct you have to rush to the warmth, heart beating out of your chest.

Nothing moves. Nobody comes.

You drop your shoulders, breathe in and out, sliding your weapon into the back of your jeans. Later, you’ll picture your father’s face if he’d seen what was to come. The way he would’ve reprimanded you for letting your guard down so easily.

Goddamn gun’s no use in your pocket, sweetheart.

Then, a real voice comes from behind you, still out in the snow. It’s harsh, deep, and unforgiving.

“Hands up, turn and face me.”

You raise your palms, turn slowly on the spot. Your brain works fast: calculating your odds, trying to figure out how — if — you can get the drop on your attacker.

He doesn’t shoot, though. He just stands there, hunting rifle aimed at your head, icy drifts swirling round the both of you. Your feet teeter on the edge of what you now guess to be his home.

He’s a lot older than you, for sure.

Dark hair streaked with grey, thick moustache and slivered scruff adorning his reddened cheeks. His eyes look almost black; set beneath a strong brow with a curving nose, full lips drawn into a scowl. Tall and foreboding, but you note that you’re not scared.

You’ve been trained for this.

He makes a gesture, shaking his head, indicating you move backwards. The man corners you once you’re inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“Don’t even think about tryin’ to shoot,” he mutters, and you shrug, feigning innocence.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

He chuckles, the noise rumbling through his chest as he tuts in disbelief. You’re envious of his thick overcoat, the layers he has on beneath it. He’s well-built: broad shoulders and the curve of a belly pushing at his flannel shirt.

That’s good. ‘Least you picked somewhere you might be able to eat a hot meal before he puts a bullet between your eyes.

You’re dizzy from the blood loss by now, the puncture in your stomach draining the fight from you. You lower your arms to your sides, and his eyebrow raises.

“Don’t remember sayin’ you could do that.”

It’s your turn to laugh then, despite your predicament, the fact death could whisper in your ear at any given moment. You’re stubborn as hell and you know it, and you have a feeling he is too.

“Take the gun out. Two fingers only. Put it outta reach.”

///

You wake up, seemingly, on a cloud — soft sheets and thick pillows, a contrast to the pallet you slept on in the QZ, the forest floor where you’ve been unceremoniously laying your head.

You feel disorientated, a searing pain across your forehead. Your eyes focus: it’s dark outside besides the sliver of moonlight, a total white-out with flakes still falling.

“What.. The fuck?”

You still have your sweater, torn apart and caked in rusted blood. But, beneath it, bandages wrap round your midriff. Panic swims in your chest, bile rising in your throat. You squirm, grasping at the sheets.

Where the fuck are you?

“Easy, easy.”

You stop thrashing. It’s him: face in the shadows of the candle that burns beside him, slouched in a chair at the foot of the bed. Watching, waiting.

“What did you do to me?!” you demand, failing to keep the tremble from your voice.

“I stitched you back up, that’s what I did.”

Swallowing, you gingerly pick at the bandages and gauze, flesh underneath pulled gruesomely tight.

The bastard saved your life. You don’t know why, or how he even had the supplies to, but he did.

“Think I managed to stop the bleedin’,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, I’m still here, so I guess you’re right,” you groan, pushing to sit up against the pillows.

“Try not to move so fast. You, uh, hit your head when you fell. Don’t want you passin’ out on me again.” He stands, gripping the bedpost, fingers curled round the wood. Your fingers find a lump on your forehead, a scab stretched over it, and you wince.

So much for being fucking capable.

“You didn’t need to do any of this,” you gesture around you weakly, rubbing at your temples. A glass of water sits on the dresser beside you, a shirt and a pair of jeans folded at the end of the bed.

“I know that. Not exactly sure you’d have done it for me, either,” he shrugs.

He’s not wrong. You crossed the threshold of his home, ready to murder any and every occupant if you had to. Instead, you collapsed pathetically, and woke up in the owner’s bed.

“Saw you a mile off, kiddo. Tracked you all the way here, to my place.”

You scoff, regretting it when it aggrevates the fresh threads in your belly. “I don’t fucking think so.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and he sits near your feet, glancing toward the window. You recoil slightly, still unsure of him and the sheer size of his body: wide chest, big hands, solid arms you can see tight against his flannel.

“What, you thought I’d just let you walk right in? You think I’m some kinda fool?”

“So why didn’t you just shoot me back then?” you spit, not enjoying the condescension in his tone.

“Well,” he mutters, looking at your blood-soaked clothes, “in truth, wasn’t sure I’d have to.”

You feel exhausted, even after a few minutes of confrontation. The tiredness settles itself deep into your bones: all you want to do is close your eyes, luxuriate in the simple pleasure of a warm bed.

“Look, I’ll leave you to get some rest,” he murmurs, heading for the door, and you’re nodding, eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

You’re not even sure why.

“Then what?”

He stops, moonlight seeping through the blinds, illuminating the curve of his nose.

“I’ll bring you some soup. When you’re ready, of course,” he tells you, like it’s the most normal statement in the world. The tears sting, and you let them wash over you as the door shuts quietly.

Soup, in a strange man’s bed. The abnormality of your situation is overwhelming, but even if you wanted to escape, high-tail it out the window like your father taught you, you won’t.

You’d be dead within a few days: a hole in your stomach, concussion fogging your brain, fingers and toes saved from the brink of frostbite.

No, you’ll stay. Make the most of your would-be murderer’s hospitality whilst you can.

You don’t even know his name.

///

“Rabbit? Again?”

“You got a problem with that?”

His fork stabs at the meat on his plate, knife slicing it cleanly. You chew and swallow rhythmically, unsure of why you’re complaining. It’s not like you had ever dined out on fine steak and fries, but you don’t want him to know that.

Joel.

Fifty-six, Texas native, one dead daughter and a missing brother.

Three months have passed, and you’ve grown accustomed to the quiet, robust companionship on offer. His rushed surgery may have saved your life, but you developed an infection soon after, no thanks to the raider’s rusty knife that had plunged into your stomach.

Joel found it somewhere in his heart to keep you alive: sponging you down when fever burnt through you, swaddling you in blankets when your teeth chattered through the night. You floated in and out of consciousness as he pumped penicillin into you - the vials of which you have no idea how he came across.

Still. You were indebted to him, now. Twice.

You discovered Joel hadn’t been here for long before your arrival: nine months, in fact. Setting up a home to sustain himself during a harsh winter, the previous occupants dying of old age. He wanted a base, somewhere to rest and recoup, before continuing on to find his brother, some settlement in Jackson he’s heard whispers of.

Or so he tells you. You choose to believe him, anyway.

You pulled your weight around the cabin as soon as you were able to, heading out on supply runs to the nearby ghost towns when you finally felt strong enough, compiling a mismatched wardrobe and a library for yourself. Joel hasn’t asked you to leave, and you find yourself, inexplicably, wanting to stay.

Warm showers mean scrubbed fingernails and clean hair. Three meals a day mean relaxed shoulders and a full belly. You’ve shed the skin of the girl you were in the QZ, the girl who survived six months alone in the a world that tried so hard to kill her.

You still see her, in the cracked mirror above the fireplace. You know she’ll never truly leave, but you think you like it that way.

It’s quiet, out here. Peaceful, in a way you’ve never known life to be. The snow is still lingering, but Joel tells you gruffly that spring isn’t far away: new life unfolding, all blossoming trees and baby birds. You can’t wait to see it.

If — when — Joel decides to move on, you think you’ll stay. No infected this far north, he tells you. Raiders don’t bother, either. You’d manage, but something in your heart tells you you’d miss him, even with his tightly-drawn brows, monosyllabic answers and permanent scowl.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You hope your father, wherever he is, can see you’ve found it.

///

Joel’s gloves land on the table beside you, leather slapping against oak.

“Thought we could share some of this tonight.”

You look up from the new pile of books he’s found for you: Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, family recipes and guides to grow vegetables. He’s holding an old glass bottle, amber liquid sloshing inside it, label hanging on by a thread.

“Share... With me?”

He lowers himself into the chair beside you with a groan, bones creaking, overcoat discarded. “You see anyone else here?”

Your eyes roll, used to his remarks. “Nobody likes a smart ass, Joel.”

“You ain’t packed your bags just yet,” he counters, and you snap shut the novel you’d been perusing, dust climbing into the air.

“What is it, anyway?”

“This,” he smirks proudly, “is whiskey. Tastes best neat.”

You take the bottle from him, nose wrinkling at the cobwebbed decoration. “You sure it’s still any good? It’s just, you know, I’m kinda unwilling to risk my life again.”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, eyebrows raised. “See how it’s unopened? Could be a hundred years old, and would taste just as good as the day it was made.”

“A hundred years old, huh? Means you’ve got about twenty years on it, in that case.”

Joel chews his lip, eyes narrowing at the barb. The push and pull between you both is so familiar now: biting remarks that surely would make others wince.

Not that it matters. No other witnesses exist besides faded smiles in cobwebbed photo frames, and they can’t judge you now.

Sometimes, there’s a twisted, perverse thrill to be had from seeing just how far you can push him.

“‘m takin’ a shower,” Joel mutters, swiping the bottle from your hands. The glass clinks against the chipped china sink, and you watch him rooting around in the cupboards beneath. His shoulders flex as they move beneath his shirt, and you find yourself dwelling once more on how fucking broad he is.

The thought slips away as he stands, two tumblers joining the bottle on the sideboard. Wondering again just why he wants to share it with you, you watch Joel stalk off down the hallway, the sound of the shower humming rhythmically moments later.

You collect your books, decades-old newspaper cuttings acting as place markers. You linger over a novel at the bottom of the pile; a smutty romance you keep well hidden from your makeshift roommate. You save it for after sundown; feeling the blood burn low in your belly when you’re curled in your sheets, poring over line after line of heaving chests, panting moans and torrents of passion.

You’re not sure what Joel would make of that particular title.

You pass the bathroom as you retreat with your stash of new titles, steam seeping out of the crack between the floor and wood. You’re momentarily struck by a startling visual of Joel beneath the stream of warm water, sluicing down the column of his throat, rippling off his collarbones, soaking the dark hair nestled on his sternum.

You flop onto the bed, books clattering to the floor. Stretched out on your back, you stare at the ceiling, longing for a distraction — a way to end the frustration you’re feeling, once and for all.

Where the fuck is this all coming from? Why now?

The lock to the bathroom door clicks in its hinges; you know if you turn your head just a little, you’d be able to see him. So you wait, and you watch him leave, totally oblivious to your staring.

///

For once, you don’t complain about rabbit for dinner.

Tongue seemingly stuck to the roof of your mouth, all your thoughts are occupied by the man sitting across from you. Try as you might, you can’t forget what you’ve just seen: that broad chest, dark hair threaded with silver peppered across his smooth skin, growing thicker over his soft tummy.

The thin, white towel round his narrow hips, only partway concealing a bulge of a certain size.

Come on, you tell yourself. It’s Joel. Just Joel.

Twenty-eight years your senior. Not your biggest fan.

All the self-preservation you’ve built upon, clawing your way out of a place determined to suck the life from you, surviving raiders and murders and a hole in your stomach. You’re not about to forget yourself over a glimpse of skin.

Joel collects the plates when you’re finished eating, clearing his throat loudly. “You alright to get the fire goin’ if I clear up?”

You nod, grateful for a distraction.

Soon enough, flames are crackling in the grate, socked feet folded beneath you. You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood; iron washing over your tongue as Joel takes his place beside you on the couch, whiskey in hand.

“Some people would mix water in with this, but I want your first time to be a good one.”

You know he doesn’t mean anything by the words he’s chosen. He wouldn’t have even thought about it.

Still. It’s not lost on you.

Joel fills your glass first, before tipping his head toward you, swallowing his down whole. You follow his lead, spluttering as the liquid burns your throat.

“Jesus, girl. What did ya do that for?”

He smacks lightly between your shoulder blades, helping you clear your airways. His fingers linger a little, resting at the nape of your neck, and you involuntarily shudder at the contact.

“Can’t be shown up by you, can I?” you jest croakily, regaining a modicum of composure. There’s a warm feeling spreading from your chest; you’re not sure if it’s the drink, or the sensation of his hands on you. Finally.

You nurse the next tumbler, sipping it slowly, learning to enjoy it. You don’t think you’ve ever spent this much time with Joel — unless you’re out hunting together; you shooting, him dressing, or arguing over who’s next to take the linen to the river for cleaning, or the rare few times you’ve watched a VHS with one another, mostly in silence.

“‘s Burt Reynolds. Someone told me I look a little like him,” Joel points at the screen: an extremely handsome moustachioed man swanning around in too-tight denim jeans and a cowboy hat. You snort, almost choking on your beef jerky. “Was that person your mother?”

The television remains silent tonight, though.

It’s just you and Joel, the fire hissing and spitting, and impossible darkness outside. You relax into the couch, warm to your bones. He cricks his neck, groaning in satisfaction. His hands are covered in scars, forearms much the same. You wonder how they got there; how this stoic, brooding man beside you came to be.

“Joel?”

He lifts his head, huge fingers swirling his tumbler in the low amber light. “Hm?”

“Tell me about Texas.”

///

After an hour, the fire has almost died out, the two of you talking too much to notice. Well, Joel’s talking. You’re listening intently, watching his grin grow wide and eyes shine as he tells you stories of his brother and daughter.

“We’d walked for an hour to get these ice cream cones Sarah insisted on havin’. We get back to our street, ‘n Tommy’s showin’ off for one of the new neighbours. Ends up trippin’ over a hosepipe, damn cone went all over him. God, me and Sarah didn’t stop laughin’,” he chuckles, chin resting on his glass.

You can feel it, see it: the raucous, bubbling giggles, dribbling pink splotches of strawberry ice-cream, burning hot sidewalk and the squeak of rubber sneakers.

It fills you with joy and sadness in equal measure. Your own fuzzy memories of life before were never too far away.

“Were you, uh, ever married? To Sarah’s mom?”

He exhales, carding a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Sure was. For about a year.”

You note the way his shoulders slouch, expression unreadable. You almost wish you hadn’t even asked. Still, the liquor makes you bold, so you press a little further.

“Was she your high school sweetheart?”

Joel scoffs. “Now, what would you know about high school sweethearts?”

You move to pour another mouthful into each glass, shrugging. “Hey, I had a boyfriend once — for a few months, at least. Back in the QZ.”

“I ain’t surprised, pretty thing like you. Even if you are a pain in my ass,” he sighs, two thick fingers wrapped round his tumbler.

You’re blinking slowly, registering the fact that Joel just called you pretty. There’s no denying your attraction to him now. The pulsing sensation below your navel is proof enough.

“Okay, so, who’d you lose your virginity to?”

You’re not sure where this line of questioning has come from; all you know is that you’re enjoying yourself.

Joel’s face screws up in disbelief, but he tips the remaining liquid down his throat regardless, glass slamming against the worn wooden coffee table.

“Melissa Horton, summer of 1986. Back seat of my Chevy.”

A giggle bubbles in your chest. It’s just so Joel.

He leans back into the couch, turning to face you. “Let me guess: you lost yours to this boy back home?”

Teeth in your lip, you nod, suddenly shy. “I was eighteen, for fucks sake. Everyone around me was having sex — something to do, I guess, when you’re not shovelling shit in the sewers. A way to feel alive, you know?”

Joel nods, eyes still on you. You look away, face reflected in the blank television screen.

“But there’s been nobody since?”

You shake your head. “Nope. A whole damn decade. What about you, Mr. Big Romantic? Any more hookups in the backseat?”

“Watch it,” he mutters. “I, uh, had someone. Back in Boston.”

You stay quiet, giving him space to continue if he wants to. You’re curious; watching him pick at the loose threads on the couch, moustache quivering.

“Her name was Tess. She and I.. We were together for a long time.”

You nod at his words; some things in this world don’t need explaining. Loss comes in so many different, horrifying forms. Relationships are temporary, connections are fleeting, and nothing lasts forever.

Something you’re trying to remind yourself of right now.

“What was she like?” you ask tentatively.

“She was.. She was somethin’. Brave. Nobody fucked with her.”

You laugh, raising your glass in a toast. “Sounds like I would’ve liked her.”

“I think so too. Wasn’t half as annoyin’ as you are, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t see you kicking me out.”

“Guess I kinda like the company. Even if you are a brat sometimes, baby,” he chuckles, warm and low, gaze noticeably trailing over your body.

Hot hooks of desire claw at your skin, burning inside you like you just sunk the whole bottle of liquor. You feel yourself shifting under the intensity of Joel’s stare.

Baby. That’s new, and you like it.

You let yourself wonder what would happen if you reached out to touch him: slide your fingers in his hair, your lips over his. If you climbed into his lap, tasted the whiskey you’ve shared off of his tongue, instead of from the glass?

Would he let you? Would he respond, in kind?

Would Joel Miller fuck you, if you asked him to?

“Joel, I —“

Then, his face disappears in opaque darkness.

///

The slow, distant hum of the generator is no more: all electricity gone from the cabin, rendering the lamps useless and shrouding you in gloom.

His voice comes from beside you, harsh and agitated. “What the fuck?”

You don’t move, listening as he ambles over to the matches kept above the fireplace, the dying embers below providing little light. He strikes one, and his features are illuminated, contorted with frustration.

“It was your turn to get gas for the generator,” he barks, and his gruffness throws you back in time; back to that first day, his rifle aimed at your head for trespassing into his space.

“Yeah, last week! Check the chore sheet — pretty sure you’ll see your name there instead,” you hiss, Joel moving to light the candles spread out across the room, in case of emergencies.

“Well — you didn’t think to fuckin’ remind me?!”

You get to your feet, incensed by his words. “Since when did that become my job? Don’t get shitty with me because you forgot, asshole.”

The last hour melts away like the flurries of snow across the plains in the weak spring sunshine. Tenderness replaced with fury, soft confessions forgotten, vitriol in the place of poorly-disguised lust.

Because that’s the way it should be, between you and Joel. That’s the way it works.

Right?

You stay rooted to the spot. He shrugs his coat on, muttering to himself under his breath. The fragile candlelight flickers, spidery shadows thrown over the walls.

“‘m gonna go check it. Grab the flashlights under the sink, would ya?”

You say nothing as the door closes, breeze blowing through the cabin as it does so. You peek through the shutters; moonlight sprawling across the mountain peaks, Joel bent in half as he inspects the generator.

Won’t do any good for his back, you muse.

Seeking out the flashlights as per request, you use one to check the chore sheet pinned to the faded cork board. Nothing more than a scrap of paper, jobs childishly divided under the headings of yours and his names.

“That fucker.”

Sure enough, his name is there. Just like you knew it would be.

“You talkin’ about me?”

You squeak in surprise, and he has you pinned, just like the day you arrived here. No rifle or life-threatening wound this time, but the scowl on his face is just the same. It almost makes you laugh, if you weren’t so pissed at him.

“You see anyone else here?”

You parrot Joel’s earlier words right back at him, watching his jaw tick in annoyance. He closes the space between you, your back against the kitchen cabinets.

“Just like I said,” he mutters, something about his tone turning your insides to liquid, a wetness pooling in your underwear. “Y’can be a real fuckin’ brat.”

A beat of silence follows.

A shared look of longing.

A mutual moment of insanity.

Joel tugs you towards him, your lips finding his in the dim light. Fingers scratching against the scruff along his jaw, you moan wantonly into his mouth. His hands slide against your bare skin beneath your shirt, palms so rough, and you break into goosebumps as a result.

You’re not sure if this is borne of building anger, pent-up frustration or both. All you do know is you’re putty in his hands, already so responsive to him as he continues to kiss you so deeply, your head bent back to accommodate his frame above you.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this: these hands that have held you hostage once — then saved your life — are now exploring the most intimate parts of you.

“We’re really doin’ this, huh?” he murmurs, cradling your jaw. Your own fingers drift over his jeans, skating across the hardening length at the apex of his thighs. His thumb lingers on your lips; you take it into your mouth by way of an answer, watching his pupils dilate as you swirl your tongue around it.

You don’t want to beg. You’d never make Joel do something he didn’t want to do — not that the stubborn bastard would let you. You release him with a wet pop, eyes wide and imploring.

“We really are.”

Your voice is quiet, unrecognisable; thick in your throat with unbridled need for him. It’s all the permission he needs.

Joel kisses you again, pushes you gently downwards till you’re laying flat on the dining table. His tongue is still in your mouth until you break apart breathlessly, helping him tug your shirt over your head.

You’re braless beneath it, his huge, warm hands cupping your tits, rough thumbs catching on the peaks, a growl in his chest as he does so. Joel just stares at you, at your chest, eyes blown black in the muted lighting.

“Christ,” he mutters darkly. “So goddamn perfect.”

His words spur you on; back arching off the wood as he bends to smear messy kisses against your throat, leaving sticky trails across your chest and the scar he repaired on your belly as he travels lower.

His fingers wedge between your jeans and the curve of your stomach, pulling you upright. Teeth capturing your bottom lip, Joel works the button open, and you’re shuffling desperately to try and rid yourself of any remaining clothing.

“What is it, baby girl? You want me to taste her?”

“Fuck, Joel. Please — I’ve never —“

“I know, baby. I know,” he soothes, thick fingers sliding the denim over your ankles, hooking into the band of your panties, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor.

He’s taking his time, revering in the sight of you — but you need Joel’s mouth.

You need his tongue.

Soon enough, you’re laid out naked before him, still stood there with his heavy overcoat and boots on. Joel shrugs it off, moving to hold your legs apart, spreading you open for him.

“Look at that. Know you’re gonna taste so sweet for me, baby.”

He bites into your inner thighs, your fingers threaded through his hair. You’ve never heard yourself make these sounds before — not even when you’ve touched yourself in the dead of night, struggling to remember the feeling of coming undone like this.

Joel licks a broad stripe over your centre, and you’re already convulsing, trembling as he continues to lavish you with his tongue. You watch his curved nose nestled right where you need the pressure, and before long, stars are bursting behind your eyelids as you spasm against his mouth.

“Good girl.”

His voice rouses you from your euphoria, and Joel pulls you to the edge of the table, into his arms. You taste yourself on him as he kisses you; blood simmering hot in your veins. “You okay?” he asks, lips against your forehead.

“Need more.”

Joel studies you for a moment, checking in, then tugs at his own clothing, buttons and boots bouncing melodically off the stone floor. His chest is as broad as you remember, wiry dark hair peppered over his soft tummy, trailing down to —

Fuck.

He’s huge. Stiff and leaking, flat against the curls beneath his navel.

Joel notices your hesitancy, hand under your chin to reassure you. “Hey, hey. Look at me. We don’t need to do this, not if you don’t want to.”

You swallow, take him in your hand. He hisses as you squeeze him, all soft velvet and hard steel. Your voice is barely a whisper, apprehension bubbling in your throat. “It’s just — like I said, it’s been a while.”

His lips press against your temple, your thumb running across the tip of him. You bring it to your mouth, relishing the salty tang across your tastebuds.

“S’okay, baby girl. We’ll go slow, I promise,” he groans, keeping you upright with a hand on your lower back. You nod in consent: Joel wouldn’t hurt you.

You want him. You want this.

He slides inside you inch by inch, letting you feel the delicious stretch and burn, fingernails deep into his shoulder, face in his neck. Good as his word, he takes his time, peppering kisses against your shoulder blade.

His chest rises and falls in tandem with yours, both of you sharing in the euphoria. “I want you to watch, baby. Watch yourself takin’ me. See that you can do it.”

So, you do.

Joel whispers in your ear, teeth nipping your earlobe, tongue soothing it over. You’re doin’ so good baby, look so pretty spread open f’me.

You feel yourself growing slicker and sweatier at his words until, finally; he’s fully sheathed inside you.

You’re so full. He’s taken over your senses; plugging you, filling you to the brim. You don’t know where you end and Joel begins. He’s everything you’ve ever known and will do, forever.

“Move, Joel. Please.”

He’s crowding over you, fucking into you on the table he almost shot you over. It’s a heady realisation: you urge him on, and his thrusts deepen, and you’re already cresting the wave, riding the blissful sensation of him inside you.

“Baby, ‘m not gonna last long, squeezin’ me so good—“

Joel’s breathing is ragged, knives and plates falling to the floor as his pace increases. You feel him everywhere, fucking you in a way you’ve never experienced before. You’re so close, and you know he is too. “Here, Joel,” you pant, hand on your tummy, and he nods, sweat sheening across his forehead.

“Want one more from you first, darlin’. Know you can give it to me.”

His hand closes round your throat, claiming you as his own. You bite and scratch and sob in his arms, falling over the edge as your legs shake around him. You can hear Joel, vaguely, calling you his good girl, telling you he’s coming, painting your tummy with it.

Foreheads pressed together, your skin is aflame. You’re sticky with him, drenched in sweat, and sated beyond belief.

He kisses you, tenderly this time. In a way that feels more strangely intimate than anything that’s already passed between you both.

Breathing fresh air into your lungs, you press your lips to the tip of his nose. “Now what?”

He tilts you both back upright with a groan, a soft hunger in his eyes you’ve never seen before.

“I’m thinkin’ we do that all over again.”

///

Dawn bleeds through the drapes, fresh blue sky tinged with rose petal pink. Joel’s sleeping arm is banded round your middle, resting above the jagged scar he’d slid a needle through all those months before.

His breath is warm in your ear; back pressed to his chest, the same place you’d both collapsed from exhaustion a mere few hours ago. Joel fucked you twice more, here in his bed, sucking at your pulse points and moaning your name like a mantra.

You untangle yourself from him gently: dressing in one of his discarded shirts, desperately needing to pee and drink something other than whiskey. Downstairs, all remains as you left it. The half-drunk bottle, two tumblers, and hastily extinguished candles.

You stand by the window, gulping thirstily from the glass you’ve poured. The blossoms are burgeoning on the trees, birds collecting what they need for their nests. Joel was right; spring is looming, and you’re glad for it.

It’s truly a sight to behold — you don’t remember it much from your childhood. You suppose life moved too fast to stop and watch it changing right in front of you. It’s a privilege to see it now.

The bottom stair creaks over your shoulder, and soon enough, you’re engulfed in a bear-like embrace. Joel’s palms rest against your tummy, and he kisses your cheek in greeting.

“Hey, you,” you murmur shyly, turning in his arms. Dark eyes still cloudy with sleep, he raises his eyebrows at your choice of clothing, and you smack him lightly on the chest.

“‘Least you could do was let me borrow it.”

“Guess you’re right,” Joel concedes, hands finding your ass beneath the hem. You hiss a little when his fingers dig in to your skin; you’re still so sensitive from his ministrations the night before.

“Shit, ‘m sorry. Y’just — last night was really somethin’.”

Eyes rolling, you kiss him chastely, a contented hum reverberating through his bare chest as you allow yourself to be wrapped into it.

He turned you inside out last night; your toes curling, skin soaked with sweat, his name on your lips as you came. You weren’t sure what to expect of him today: whether he’d tell you it was a mistake, it shouldn’t have happened, or — worse — ask you leave.

You knew, though. As soon as you were falling asleep, the way Joel quietly asked you to stay there in his bed with him. Something had changed, had shifted so irrevocably you weren’t sure he’d ever just be simply the man who saved your life again.

He’d snagged a tiny piece of your heart, a fortress you were insistent on making impenetrable. It frightens and excites you in equal measure.

“We better head out soon, get some fuel. Get that generator up and runnin’ again,” he murmurs, squeezing your sides softly.

You blink up at him incredulously, eyebrows raised.

“We? Need I remind you of that damned list one more time?”

You’re laughing as you say it, pushing away from his chest. His hair is rumpled, crescent-moon shaped scars from your nails along his upper arms, a bruise sucked into the column of his throat.

“I’m thinkin’ we scrap the list. Place belongs to us both now, anyway. Ain’t that right?”

His eyes are wide, searching yours, thumbs stroking across your skin. You already feel your body responding to him; a sensation you cannot deny.

You wouldn’t even want to try.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “That sounds about right.”

///

divider by @saradika-graphics & gifs by @perotovar 🤍

[mouthymandalorian]

bright lights - part v [dieter bravo x neurodivergent!f!reader]

chapter summary: Dieter takes you out for the first time. It doesn't go well. ratings/warnings: E [age gap (reader is 32, Dieter is 47), dual/alternating POV, boss/employee relationship, Pix is described as plus size, see the masterlist for info on our girl, Dieter has commitment and intimacy issues, alcohol use, a shitty ex-boyfriend makes an appearance, former m/m relationship, references to Dieter's past drug abuse, Pix has some mommy issues, Ada Pearl returns, Dieter gets very close to an anxiety attack, angst, explicit and frank discussion of reader being autistic and the discomfort that sometimes accompanies this, smut, pornography, oral sex, fingering, the two switchiest switches that ever switched] wc: ~9.9k (listen, I know) a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! OKAY lmao so this is a big boy and this is after I cut it down like a lot. A lot. It's taken forever, I know, so if you're still here and still interested I love you and I appreciate you. As usual, I'm stressed and I'm yeeting this into the ether. Special thanks to @mothandpidgeon for her beta skills and her constant encouragement. We just don't know where Pix and Dieter would be without her.<3

masterlist | series masterlist | dieter bravo masterlist | previous | next

You’ve gotten too used to waking up next to Dieter, all wrapped in his cushy down comforter as the automatic blinds rise with the sun. You always mean to go back to your own bed, but how can you when Dieter’s curled himself around your body? 

And you haven’t slept this well in years.

He’s snoring lightly in your ear, tickling all the little hairs on your face with each breath. You let yourself lay there for a little longer because you need to plan your morning—not because your greatest desire is to slip this moment into a loosely sealed envelope and peek inside whenever you need to remember the feel of his skin on yours. If you wake him up, he’ll paw at you, and you can’t think of anything but his big hands when he does that, much less plan anything.

You’re starting to understand why Christina needed help. If you weren’t completely enamored with him, this would probably be a nightmare job.

Your friends, all of whom live far away and are very nosy and want to know why you’ve been so absent from the group chat, assume that it’s a nightmare job because he’s taking up all your time. And he is, but you’re fine with it. 

It probably doesn’t help that since the whole Twitter debacle, you’ve kept as low of a profile online as you can. Even with a new bodyguard he’d hired all on his own, you don’t really want to draw attention to yourself, especially with how ridiculously busy this week is.  

Dieter had been called back in to reshoot a couple of scenes from a movie he’d worked on early last summer. Apparently, the chemistry between himself and his co-star during what was supposed to be a very steamy love scene just wasn’t working for test audiences. It’s only a couple of days, but it meant completely rearranging his schedule for the week. Thankfully, wardrobe and hair stylists don’t work on a nine to five schedule. 

You’ve been on plenty of film sets in your time in Los Angeles and your failed attempt at working in the industry, but you’ve never been on set with him, in an even more lowly position than you’d been in before. You need to prepare yourself. 

Your watch reads 6:58 am. In two minutes, an alarm will sound and Dieter will make a noise between a groan and whine while pulling you even further into his chest, and you’ll have to remind him that he has to wake up because he needs to eat something before he starts his new workout regime for some upcoming role. A boxer, maybe?

You’ve lost track at this point. 

He’ll be very unhappy about it because he’s certainly already forgotten, but at least that dusty gym will be getting some use.  

Before the alarm goes off, though, you have to decide something very important: should you shower right now or wait until after breakfast?

Shower time is usually when you brush your teeth, so it would make sense to wait till after coffee, because coffee is gross with the toothpaste aftertaste in your mouth. And normally you would just until after coffee, but for some reason your teeth feel almost fuzzy, which might mean your breath is worse than usual, and what if Dieter wants to kiss you? 

You’re definitely not ready to make out with fuzzy-tooth-breath, no matter how many times you’ve kissed him in the morning before.

You could brush them before and after, but that’s just inefficient.

Just as you’re coming to a decision—showering and brushing your teeth when he’s busy and just avoiding kissing him until after—the alarm screams in your ear and Dieter stirs beside you. It’s like watching a dog waking up to a treat under its nose. His eyes pop open, something greedy and excited washing over his half-asleep features before you can move an inch.

“Morning,” you murmur, trying to slip from under the covers before he can catch you, but Dieter is shockingly fast when he wants something. 

He lets out a soft grunt and wraps his arm around your torso, pressing his lips to yours as he pulls you flush against his bare chest. He prods his tongue into your mouth with a long, needy sigh, wrecking all that careful planning. 

He barely hears your mumbled protest. “What, baby?”

“I said I have morning breath,” you whine.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he grins, dismissing your concerns. “I like it. Tastes good. You got morning pussy, too?”

“Dieter, what the fuck does that even mean?”

He just shrugs, his hand creeping down the waistband of your panties, his own morning wood digging into your hip.

“We do not have time for this today, mister.” You kiss him anyway because you are weak and he is beautiful.

“You sure?” he pouts, pulling your legs around his waist. “You sure I can’t eat your pussy for a minute? I’m starving.”

“Positive, pretty boy,” you say, tapping your finger against the tip of his nose. He sighs in that overly dramatic way of his.

“Fine,” he grunts, untangling himself from you and stumbling to the bathroom. “But we should have French toast.”

“You have to have eggs,” you call as he slams the door behind him. “You gotta workout.”

He lets out a long, frustrated groan from the other side. It swings open as you’re putting on your clothes from the day before—you have got to get your shit together—and he glares at you, as though you were the one who’d signed on to play a boxer with gigantic arms. 

“That’s today?” he asks.

“Yep. You knew that,” you sigh, folding your arms and flopping back down on the bed. Dieter settles himself in front of you, towering over you with a scowl.

“No!” He barks, pawing at your hips from between your legs.  “I didn’t know that.”

“Okay, well, I told you that.”

“That doesn’t mean I knew,” he argues. You laugh—at least he’s honest. “I’m gonna die. I’m supposed to do the whole simulated fucking thing later, too. Shit.”

“Well, start stretching, Bravo,” you giggle, sitting up to meet him. “And don’t be such a baby. You want me to make your eggs?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, following you down the stairs. 

After a few minutes of pouting, he sneaks up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist as you make him breakfast, and you pretend all your carefully placed walls aren’t crumbling into dust. 

Ada gave you a standing invitation for coffee when she’s in town. She’s one of the most fascinating people you’ve ever met in your life. Even after her acting career didn’t pan out, she’d managed to do more before the age of thirty than you’d even planned on doing for the rest of your life. 

Maybe money can buy some happiness.

After Dieter’s trainer sequesters the two of them in the gym, you make your way to her back patio and knock on the French doors. 

“Come in,” she calls, not looking up from her most recent painting. You can’t tell what it is yet, but there’s a lot of yellow. “Darling, I’ve told you, you can just come in. No need to knock.”

She has told you that, and you’ve told her that’s a crazy thing to do, and so now the two of you just have this conversation every time you come over. It’s nice, actually; like a weird handshake. 

“Mm,” you say. “Coffee?”

Ada’s still in her nightgown, hair pushed out of her face with a scarf. She waves, too absorbed in her work to really answer, but you get it. That just means you’re on your own, but please bring her some, too. And you do, but not before you notice the wooden player piano in the downstairs bathroom. 

That’s new. 

“Ada?” You ask. “There’s a piano in the bathroom.”

“There is!” She says, taking the cup from you. “I got it at auction.”

“But why is it in the bathroom?” You ask. It’s directly under the window, clashing terribly with the 1950s-style green tile and silver fixtures. 

“Well, I don’t play the piano, darling, and I bought it to look at, so I figured it would be more interesting there than anywhere else.”

“I guess so,” you say because what else are you supposed to say? “What are you painting?”

“The view of the plains on Mount Kilimanjaro,” she says. “It was breathtaking.”

Of course she’d climbed a dormant volcano. 

“What haven’t you done, Ada?” You laugh.

“Plenty. I’ve plenty more left to do.”

“You make me wonder what I’m doing with my life,” you sigh, sipping your coffee.

“You’re living it, I presume,” she says, dipping her brush in the slippery acrylic. “You already have so many stories about that boy.”

It’s hard to bite back the scoff at her calling a forty-seven-year-old man a boy. That must make you an infant. You tell her that. 

“Well,” she says wistfully. “You are. You’ve so much more time left. Now, tell me, how’s that script coming?”

You groan. You should’ve never told her anything about your failed attempt at a screenplay. She’d been almost too encouraging about it ever since.

“Not at all. You know I’m too busy with work,” you say. 

“Babysitting,” she mutters.

You look back at Dieter’s house, remembering the soft kisses he’d left on your neck and how good he is to you. Not that you can really tell her that. 

Or maybe you could. Despite her rather open disdain for him, you don’t think she’d judge you too much for it. 

“He’s not so bad,” you say, watching the sunroom grow brighter and brighter. “I guess I should get back. I get to go on set with him today.”

“Are you holding up all right?” she asks, finally looking away from the painting. “Not wearing yourself down?”

“Not yet,” you say, gathering the cups to take to the kitchen. 

“You leave those,” she says, standing and cupping your hands with hers. “But I mean it. Don’t burn yourself out over a job. Or a man.”

“I—yeah. Yes, you’re right,” you say. “I won’t. Thank you.”

She squeezes your fingers and shoos you along, and you feel more comforted by her in thirty seconds than you’ve been by your own mother in thirty years. 

For the most part, you don’t come into Dieter’s room without him, unless he asks you. You’re still trying to maintain some semblance of boundaries, of not intruding on his life too much, just in case.

Just in case what, exactly, you don’t know. Just in case he changes his mind. Just in case casual is all you ever get from him. Just in case he breaks your heart. It’s just good to have a backup plan, in your experience. 

It’s not like he cares; he’s told you as much, but you already live on the same property as he does, and you spend all your time in his house, and you don’t want him to feel like you’ve just moved yourself in. Nothing serious is what he said, and you want him to know you understand.

It feels serious sometimes, though.

Why do men do this?

You’d left your iPad in there, though, and you can’t function without it at this point. He’s in the gym with the door closed, his muffled complaints and grunts while the trainer patiently walks him through all of it filtering through the closed door, and if you go ask permission, he’ll find any reason to stop what he’s doing.

The door is open, so you don’t feel quite so intrusive, and spot your iPad on the coffee table.

Weird.

You don’t remember moving it.

It’s also unlocked. That’s really, really weird.

In the split second after the realization that this is not, in fact, your iPad and before you can set it back down, muscle memory takes over and you swipe up.

Porn.

Jesus.

Of course it’s porn. That man is truly insatiable.

You’ve never thought too much about his porn habits—you know he enjoys it and you know he’s even subscribed to several websites, as you’d read with wide eyes one Wednesday evening while going over his bank account.

You’ve also never really wanted to snoop—there’s always that nagging fear in the back of your mind that the people he watches won’t look like you. But you’re only human, and he’s not in here, and you know he’d look if he were in your position.

So you peek.

Just a quick glance while you’re setting it down on the coffee table, reminding yourself to tell Dieter to put a goddamn lock on his electronics.

It’s not what you expect. The website is soft pink and white, and the title of the video reads Jacob & Marissa’s 10th Anniversary in delicate cursive font. The woman in the video looks like you, dimpled curves and thick thighs. She’s in a little black lace lingerie set with sheer thigh highs.

You hit play.

The man-her husband, you assume—has his face buried in her cunt, the lacy panties pulled to the side as he licks and sucks and massages her calves. There’s something much more intimate about this—quiet moans, soft sighs, whispers of “I know that feels good, baby,” against her pussy. He knows exactly what her body wants and how to give it to her.

“Jacob,” she whimpers. “Jacob, Jacob, Jacob—”

She comes with a long, soft whine not meant for a camera as she shakes and writhes. He grunts into her, encouraging her release, his own hand snaking down to his cock and pumping as she just. Keeps. Going.

Blood rushes to your cheeks as he rises to meet her lips and murmur “I love you, I love you,” over and over again.

It just doesn’t seem like Dieter’s kind of thing.

Too vanilla, maybe?

Too much intimacy. Too loving.

The door down the hall bangs open, and Dieter’s grouchy voice comes floating down the hall.

“I’m not doing anything else,” he grouses. You set the iPad down carefully and scurry to the nightstand you remember setting yours on.

It’s there, and you breathe a sigh of relief at not getting caught being nosy as he stomps in. His scowl turns into a big bright smile when he sees you, eyes lighting up as he makes a beeline to you and buries his face in your neck.

“Hi, baby,” he says.

He’s stinky.

“You smell,” you say, and he giggles.

“Mmhmm,” he says. “I’ll go shower. Wanna come?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

All you can think about is getting on your knees for him.

Dieter can’t get his sweaty gym clothes off fast enough as you lean forward to turn on the shower. You’re not shy about stripping, either. Water sprays the stone tile—locally sourced, according to the leasing agent—and you turn around with a cheeky grin on your face.

He looks you up and down, mouth watering at every soft curve and dip. Your ass is so tempting—he can’t wait to get his tongue inside of that little hole.

“C’mon.” You step in, nipples hard from the cool air.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he groans. You’re slick and naked against him, and he’s trying his best not to rub against you like an animal. “Gonna get me all clean?” 

“Say please.”

“Please, baby,” he breathes. Your hand’s snaking down his torso, stuttering to a halt just above his already aching cock. You make him crazy. Body, brain, dick, all of it. 

“Sit down.” You point to the little built-in bench he only ever uses when he’s so hungover he can’t stand up.

“Wh—”

“Gonna wash your hair. Sit.”

Oh—you really meant to wash him.

He thinks back, trying to remember the last time someone did this—if anyone had ever done this. Usually “get in the shower with me” means “let’s fool around in here until the water gets cold.”

“All right,” he says, uncertainty wiggling in his belly. It feels like he’s walking into a trap.

You turn with his shampoo in hand. “You okay?”

Dieter resists a long sigh. Could you be less observant for a moment?

“Just a little sore from working out,” he pouts.

He’s actually a lot sore, but you don’t need to know how incredibly out of shape he is.

He stiffens as you work the shampoo into a lather, but relaxes quickly as you massage his scalp, resting his forehead against your belly and giving in. “Good boy,” you murmur. “Feel good?”

“Mm,” he grunts. He’s having a hard time not pulling you onto his lap, but the bench isn’t wide enough for you to straddle him, so he behaves himself for now. Instead he runs his hands over your skin, squeezing your ass and thighs and making you giggle.

He melts even more when you soap his body up, sending shivers up and down his spine as you wash his back and torso. You kneel to get his legs, all the way down to his feet, and neither of you says a word. The only sound is the water beating down. He can’t stop looking at you.

Dieter’s almost embarrassed at his erection now, throbbing and red and lewd like he can’t control himself long enough to let you take care of him. When you’re finished, though, you flash that sweet little smile that no one else gets to see as you lean down to kiss his thighs.

Alternating back and forth, up, up, up, until you reach his cock. You soap it up, too, washing it and his balls delicately, peeling back his foreskin and scrubbing his head, too. He’s throbbing in your polite hands. He leans his head against the shower wall and breathes, trying to keep it together for you.

He feels you rinse him off with the detachable head, and he readies himself, shaking at this vulnerability aching deep in his chest. It’s his turn to wash you now, and he needs to not be in tears when he does it.

You’re between his legs again, though, quicker than he can move, your lips inches from his throbbing cock.

You look up through your lashes, rubbing your hands up and down his thighs.

“Please?” You ask.

Oh, fuck. He should be a gentleman, he should say no, baby, that’s okay, let me get you first. But you are on your knees, begging to suck his cock, and he’s never claimed to be a gentleman.

“Yeah, baby. Suck on it,” he murmurs.

You waste no time swallowing as much of it as you can, your hand wrapped around the base as he groans loudly. He can’t speak, he’s too busy trying not to come immediately. Your mouth is hot and wet, eager little tongue drawing sloppy circles around his head.

You’re making him crazy.

He watches you through heavy lids, all the things he wants to do to you flashing before his eyes. All the things he wants you to do to him. Your arm slides between your legs and you whine, cupping your pussy and grinding your clit into your palm.

“Desperate little thing,” he hisses. “Grinding against your hand while you suck my cock? Yeah? You like sucking cock that much? Or just mine?”

He’s taking a risk, talking to you like this. You might hate it, but you’ll tell him if you do.

You just whine around him, the vibrations from your throat almost sending him over the edge.

“Better be careful,” he says, pushing his luck. “You’ll come before me. And then what, baby?”

You pull off of him with a pop, squeezing the base of him with mischief in your eyes. “Then I’d just make myself come again, I guess,” you tease. “Could just stop here. Could just leave you all unsatisfied.”

You play so dirty.

“No,” he whines. “I wanna—please let me come, too. Mouth feels so fucking good, baby, perfect little mouth.”

“Mm. Then behave,” your murmur, diving back down so suddenly he thrusts his hips up. You don’t seem to mind, if the long moan that comes from you is anything to go by.

“I will, I’ll behave, yes ma’am,” he says, thrusting slightly into your mouth and squeezing his eyes shut. “Not gonna last long. Fuck, sorry, I’m not gonna last—”

His words just spur you on, head bobbing up and down like you cannot get enough of his cock. He tries to warn you again before he comes, but you don’t seem to care. He bursts inside of you, trying like hell to keep his hips still, whining your name over and over. You suck him down, every last drop, soothing him as he comes back down.

“Good boy,” you murmur. “Good boy. Did so good, baby.”

He revels in the praise, rolling around in it as his heart rate returns to normal. “Thank you,” he says, holding your face in his hands after he helps you up.

He needs to do something, needs to repay you, make you feel good, too, but you rebuff him very gently as he tries to push you toward the bedroom.

“You don’t need to thank me,” you giggle. “I did that because I wanted to. Not so you’d owe me.”

His mouth parts, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s not sure what to do with that.

“You can kiss me. And then you have to go get ready,” you say, and there’s that, at least. You’ve wrapped yourself in a robe of his, and the very last thing he wants to do is get ready. He wants to be in bed with you all day. Can’t he just do that?

Fuck.

“Next time,” you promise.

Next time.

Dieter doesn’t ask you to stay on set.

There are too many people on set, and he can’t shield you from anyone that mistakes you for a production assistant and treats you accordingly.

“You can stay in my dressing room,” he says. He insists. “I’ll let you know when I need you.”

“You don’t have to give me special treatment, Dee,” you protest, but he knows you like it. He can see the ghost of a smirk on your lips as you tell him not to worry about you. “I’ve worked on movie sets before, you know. Got talked down to and everything.”

“I know that.”

You pinch his cheek. “You’re sweet, you know.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Despite your polite protests, you disappear into his dressing room and stay there, showing up only when he summons you. He wonders if anyone notices the way you look at him, all bashful when he stands a little too close. Other than that, you’re the picture of professionalism.

The only time he sees you really falter is when they call for a closed set. He squeezes your arm, one thumb rubbing up and down in what he hopes is some kind of reassurance. It’s been a week since Kristopher told him to be honest and tell you what he really wants, but he’s barely had time to breathe. By the end of the day all he wants is to listen to you talk.

It’s less complicated for now, at least.

Dieter’s worked with Nova Skye twice now. Once for an indie movie and once fifteen years ago for the pilot episode of a police procedural that didn’t get picked up, thank God. She starred in more than one early 2000s teen comedies as characters that were ugly until the glasses came off.

“It was the dark hair,” she’d told him once. “If I’d been blonde I would’ve just been pretty, glasses or no glasses.”

You’re shy around her. Easily flustered, smiling at your feet. He has a sneaking suspicion you think she’s pretty, too.

Dieter tries not to entertain any kind of inappropriate thoughts about the two of you, especially while Nova’s straddling him in front of ten other people, including an intimacy coordinator that looks ready to chew him out if given half a chance.

But now he’s gone and fucked himself over.

All he can see when he squeezes his eyes shut is her head between your legs.

They fly open when he feels himself harden—that soft cup is doing fuck all. The director yells to cut; to stay where they are while she watches it back.

Nova grins down at him. “You okay?” She asks.

“Sorry,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut again.

“You’re not the first scene partner who’s gotten a boner underneath me,” she shrugs. “And it’s not like you’re being a perv with your girlfriend down the hall.”

His heart jumps in his chest.

“She’s not—”

“She’s not? Does she know that?” Nova asks conversationally, stretching her arms above her head.

He could tell her it’s none of her business, but what’s the point?

“It’s just a casual thing,” he sighs, breathing deep and willing his dick to behave.

“So you’re just screwing around with your assistant?”

“What? No! It’s not like that. It’s just not official.”

Nova nods absentmindedly, gazing around the set.

“Can’t believe they’re making us do reshoots this time of year,” she complains. “I’ve barely recovered from Christmas.”

“Yeah,” he says, just happy she’s moved to a different topic. “Sucks.”

“You two have plans tomorrow night?” She asks. For a moment, Dieter entertains a very wild, very hot vision of him pleasuring you both until you’re in tears, which brings his erection back in full force.

Shit.

“No. I mean, I don’t think so,” he says, clearing his throat and hoping she doesn’t notice. “Why?”

“I’m having a get together. Was gonna cancel it when I had to come in for this, but I couldn’t get my deposit back on catering.”

“Cheap ass,” he teases, but she just rolls her eyes.

“You in or not?”

He’d avoided these kinds of things for a while now, mostly to keep away from hard drugs and, more importantly, the people who could sell him hard drugs. Not that it was particularly difficult to get anything he might want—he could probably get cocaine from a production assistant if he asked around enough—but there were certain people who always had anything he could possibly want on hand, and he’d slept with a lot of them. 

Too many of them.

He’d let a lot of them treat him like shit, too. 

The last thing he wants is to run into anyone who could pull him back into that spiral. But he has you now, doesn’t he? He can ask you to go. 

It’d be good for both of you. And he could—what do the kids call it? Soft launch? If you wanted that. 

“What kind of get together?” He asks. 

“Dinner and cocktails, then whatever.”

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. It doesn’t sound like a bad time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be there.”

“All right, you two!” the director calls. “Let’s get back to it. From behind this time—the shot, Bravo,” he adds, as though Dieter was going to say something inappropriate.

He certainly isn’t now.

He finds you in his dressing room a few minutes after he shoots you a text that they’re done, intent on asking you on the closest thing to a date so far. But there you are, back turned, bent over as you rifle through your bag. Your ass in the air erases any other thoughts.

It would be a surprise to some, he thinks, how long it’s been since he really couldn’t keep his hands off of someone. And the last time he wanted someone like this was a different feeling altogether. He knows this is different because he’d be happy just sliding his hands up and down your belly, squeezing your breasts and touching you for hours and hours, neglecting his cock until it’s a rigid, aching mess.

Even after your generous gift in the shower this morning, he just wants to give.

“Ready?” You ask, stuffing the last of your belongings in your bag. “I think you have a therapy appointment in like twenty minutes so we better get you out of here. I can’t believe you didn’t wanna cancel, you always cut it so close, Dieter, I don’t know how you’re not freaking out all the time.”

“Me either,” he says. Kristopher’ll get paid either way, so Dieter’s not too worried about making it to his appointment. He’s more interested in getting his hands on you. You tense a little as he wraps his arms around your waist, relaxing when he presses his lips to your neck and sucks lightly, drawing the most beautiful moan from your lips.

“Dee,” you sigh, but you make no moves to push him away.

“Been such a sweet girl for me today,” he murmurs, pushing past that door you’d opened when you’d gotten on your knees for him and begged to suck his cock. He likes letting you boss him around as much as anything else, but you melt right into his hands when he takes control, too. Your breathing picks up, shaky as he nibbles your earlobe. “You deserve something nice, don’t you?”

One very interesting thing about you, in Dieter’s opinion, is the way your body responds to his touch, soft putty the moment he puts his hands on you. He wouldn’t mind taking time—that’s one of his favorite parts, getting someone all worked up—but it takes nothing.

He’s not used to it, but he likes it. It makes him feel powerful, like you’ve just been waiting patiently for him to give you relief all this time.

“Let me touch you,” he whispers, as if his hands aren’t already roaming your body. You nod fervently, head tossed back onto his shoulder as he reaches into your pants, toying with your damp panties. “How long have you been all wet for me, baby?”

“Uh, all—all—”

You’re squirming against him and he’s light-headed with some primal need to fuck as many fingers as he can into you. “All day?” he teases, and you let out a louder moan.

“Shhh,” he says, sliding his free hand over your mouth. “Quiet for me. Those pretty noises are all mine, aren’t they?”

You nod, wide-eyed, mouth falling open against his palm as he finds your stiff clit. It’s torturous how fucking wet you are. All his patience is being tested as he slides two fingers inside of you and you whimper.

“Dee,” you whine, muffled behind his hand, and that’s testing it, too.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. “Let’s see if I can make you come all over my fuckin’ hand.”

Your eyes roll up, clenching suddenly. He watches your face, feels the way your body shakes—already? Oh, you must have been suffering, you poor, sweet little thing.

“Look at that,” he marvels as he holds you up on trembling legs. He does make you come all over his hand, slick coating him to his wrist while he holds you up like a ragdoll. “That’s it. Perfect. Fucking perfect.”

You look at him with glassy eyes and a sweet smile when you come back down. “Hi,” you whisper, all shy again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I think that’s a personal fucking record,” he says, maneuvering the both of you to a plush armchair and spreading you out on his lap. He presses his fingers back into you because he’s not done yet, dammit, and every time he brushes them over your g-spot, you let out that sweet little whimper again. “This feel good?”

He knows it does; he just wants to hear you say it.

“Yeah,” you sigh, biting your lip like you’d wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

“What?” He asks, still stroking you. He can feel your body tensing up again, but he doesn’t know if you realize it yet.

“Just…it’s comforting? It’s stupid,” you giggle. It’s making him fucking hard, how bashful you are.

“Not stupid,” he says. “That’s not an unusual thing, you know? Sexual pleasure as a comfort thing. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I…yeah, I guess there’s not. I just never know what someone might think about it.”

“You thought I’d judge you? Me?” He’s still touching you, his thumb moving up to rub your clit.

“I-ah—I don’t know—people are so—fuck—so weird sometimes. It helps when I’m—oh, God—stressed out.”

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs. He should not be so cavalier in this dressing room, probably, but he’s learning something new and secret and your eyes keep rolling into the back of your head. “So you play with yourself a lot when you’re stressed out?”

“Jesus, Dieter—”

“Answer me,” he says, rubbing faster. “I’m just curious.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay, yeah, I—I—touch myself more when I’m stressed. It helps-ah, fuck, fuck, Dieter, I’m—”

“I know,” he says. “Come on, baby, let me feel it again. Gonna feel so good. Melt all that stress away.”

He’s gonna come his own fucking pants if he’s not careful. You come harder this time, squeezing him and panting, all sweaty with effort as you whimper his name over and over. This time he does pull his fingers from you, heart aching at the little whine you let out.

He kisses your lips, then presses his slick-coated fingers into your mouth, and you suck them right in. “You’re so fucking dirty,” he smiles. “I like that a lot.”

He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a pop.

“I know,” you say, kissing him again before you try to stand up. He resists the urge to hold you against him; to absorb you fully into his skin and keep you with him everywhere.

What would happen, if he told you that?

“You’re definitely late now,” you say, back to business. “Should we reschedule?”

Something about “reschedule” jogs his memory.

“Fuck! Uh, sure, but I wanted to ask you something. Got distracted.”

“Clearly,” you grin, leaning against the vanity he’d used to prop you up. It’s taking everything in him not to fuck you right there. “What’s up?”

He’s so nervous now. Why’s he so damn nervous?

“Well, see, Nova’s having a party tomorrow night and—”

“I don’t think you have anything on your schedule,” you say, half-listening as you pull your iPad out. He grabs your wrist to stop you.

“No, I meant—do you want to come with me? She invited us both. It’s like a dinner party type thing.”

You furrow your brow. “Are there other assistants going or…”

“No,” he says. “You’d be, like, my date.”

It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, asking you on a date after he’d had his fingers inside of you, but it does. He can see the wheels turning as you shift from one foot to another.

“Is that…do you want that?” you ask.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” he laughs.

You give him some inscrutable look, taking a deep breath as you think, like you’re deciding the fate of the universe.

“Okay,” you say. “That sounds good.”

“Amazing. Great! Starts at eight.” You scrunch your nose up at the time, peeking again at his calendar like you can’t help yourself. 

“Okay, you’re good for that. But I should reschedule Kristopher.”

“Mmhmm. You’re not feeling stressed about the party are you?” he teases. “Because I know—”

“Let’s go, Bravo.” You throw your bag over your shoulder, and he follows you with a grin stretched wide across his face.

Dieter has never been really good at dinner parties. He prefers the freedom to move on from a dull conversation. At a table he’s at the mercy of whoever decides to sit near him.

Thank God you came with him.

The only thing he’d change about this seating arrangement would be to put you across the table from him, and that’s only because he’d be less obvious looking at you.

You’re always beautiful, but you’d dug out some little cocktail dress and heels that accentuates all your curves. It’s nice to see you all dressed up, all confident and flirtatious.

He introduces you as his friend, and he pretends not to notice the hitch in your breath when he does. It’s not the time to discuss any of it, so he just squeezes your hand and interlocks his fingers with yours.

Dieter leans over and plants a soft kiss on your cheek. “You look pretty,” he says, and you kick him under the table.

“Shut up,” you murmur back, but he knows what you mean.

“No,” he says.

You seem to enjoy yourself, talking animatedly to a woman Dieter recognizes from one of those fantasy shows on HBO. He can’t remember her namE.

Most of the people here are Nova’s co-stars from The Experiment, of which Dieter has not seen a single episode. You have, though. “It’s fine,” you’d said, and then launched into a long-winded explanation as to why you didn’t mind its more fantastical elements, but you did mind the scientific inaccuracies when it came to real science.

You have a million opinions about everything, and he wants to know each and every one.

Nova brings out her phone for her Instagram, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom before he can protest.

“Do you want me to wait for her to come back?” Nova asks.

“No,” he sighs. “She’s…you know.”

Nova nods. “It’s hard sometimes.”

That’s an understatement, he thinks.

There are more drinks after dinner, but Dieter frowns at the food pushed around on your plate. 

You come back from the bathroom and let him pull you into his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist and a kiss pressed to your lips. You giggle against his mouth, and he loves that sound. He fucking loves that sound.

“I’m gonna go make the rounds, yeah? You okay, or do you wanna come?”

You look around the room, your expression faltering for a split second. “I can entertain myself. You go have fun.”

It’s mostly about networking, if he’s honest. If you meet Brad Pitt at someone’s party (which he had) and Brad owns the company producing the movie you really, really want to be in (which Brad did), then Brad can tell the casting director to keep you in mind for the lead (which he had). And that’s how Dieter ended up working with Meryl Streep.

He has to work a little harder than everyone else, too, after making himself a reputation of being so difficult.

What he really misses is partying like this for no reason at all. No work, no birthday, no event or whatever. Just to do it. There’s something very human about gathering to enjoy each other’s company. It’s a shame he can’t do it on a regular basis without ruining the lives of everyone around him.

Maybe that’s why he’d jumped at Nova’s invitation. She’s not a woman who tolerates too much bullshit, and definitely wouldn’t be cool with some of the stuff he used to let happen at his place.

Dieter intends to keep you in his line of sight, even if you told him not to worry about it. 

He can’t stop looking at you, though. He has to admit, deep down, he’s a little disappointed you didn’t offer to join him. You’re pretty and sweet, and you’d make him look good. He grimaces. You’d hate that.

“Entertaining yourself” appears to mean sitting in a corner with a drink in your hand and people watching with a blank expression. You cannot possibly be enjoying yourself.

He checks in every now and then, and you wave him off with a smile, assuring him you’re having a good time, but you look so bored.

Was it a bad idea, bringing you here? Do you hate this part of him?

He hates this part of him sometimes.  

“Your girl’s quiet,” Nova observes, and he winces. It only makes his spiraling thoughts worsen because he doesn’t know how to answer that. Why had you come with him?

“She’s just…yeah, she’s shy,” he says, trying to dislodge this heavy discomfort in his chest.

It’s not as if you’re acting any differently than you normally do.

Shit. He thought you’d act differently. Don’t you know how important all this is? Even when it’s just this little private party, there are still impressions to make.

Dieter throws back a shot of something bitter and makes his way toward you, determined to see you having a good time.

“Hi,” you say brightly. “How’s the socializing?”

“Why don’t you come find out?” he asks, tugging on your hand.

“Oh, uh—sure. Okay.” The uncertainty in your voice is the last thing he wants to hear.

Just say yes, he thinks.

“Do you just want to go?” he asks abruptly, even though he doesn’t want you to go at all.

“What? No! No, I’m totally good—”

“You sure? Because you look like you’re having a really bad time,” he says.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” you say, shaking your head. “I was just talking to—um, I think his name is Evan? He was nice. And I was just having this drink the bartender made, see, it’s purple? I really like it. It has lavender sprigs.”

You sip it delicately and hold up the glass, like it’s incontrovertible evidence.

“Could you at least act like you’re having fun, then?”

It just comes out.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Hurt flashes in your eyes, replaced quickly with that hard, unflinching glare you reserve for when he’s being unreasonable.

He expects you to yell at him, but you don’t. You press your lips into a thin line and turn, setting the little lavender drink down as you disappear down a hallway.

Before he can concern himself with what anyone else might think, he follows you at a brisk pace until he finds you closing the door to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

You should’ve eaten more. You should’ve eaten before you got here, really, but thinking about explaining to Dieter why you need to eat before a dinner party was nauseating. And so was everything served tonight, it turned out.

You’d taken one look at that beautiful plate of food and known that if you tried to eat more than a few bites you’d have been gagging and embarrassing your date, and that was the very last thing you’d wanted to do. So you’d just pushed the food around and hoped for the best, and then you’d embarrassed him, anyway.

Probably even more after stomping off to the bathroom.

This was a bad idea. Maybe you should’ve just let him come alone, or with someone else who’s better at this stuff. You really thought you’d been more animated than you normally are, even if the idea of talking to someone you don’t know well mortified you.

This isn’t fair.

You sniffle, dabbing your eyes with tissues to keep your mascara in place. You’d talk to that guy—Evan, that one—and sipped your drink and even swayed some to the music and tried to smile as much as you could. You’d tried to act normal.

It’s never really enough.

But that’s your fault, you remind yourself. You’d let yourself get way too comfortable with Dieter and had, you think, assumed he’d forgive any social awkwardness. Because he likes you.

Sometimes.

Not right now, you guess.

You can’t decide if you’re angry or sad or disappointed, but you should probably just collect yourself in here and go as quietly as you can. And then maybe you can talk to him tomorrow, when you’re not so pissed off.

Or maybe you just ignore him forever.

Could you at least act like you’re having fun, then?

How exactly are you supposed to act? He hadn’t given you any instructions. You’d been having a good time.

You really, really had.  

There’s a knock on the door. “Just a—”

“Pix, baby, open up,” Dieter calls.

Oh, fuck him.  

“Go away, Dieter. I’m peeing.”

“No you’re not,” he argues. “You wouldn’t talk to me if you were.”

You almost laugh. Of all the things for him to notice.

Dieter has a habit of talking to you through bathroom doors, no matter how often you threaten to quit when he does it.

You fling the door open, nostrils flared. “How do you know that?”

“You won’t talk to me if you’re actually peeing, and you pee loud, too,” he says, pushing his way in. He knows way too much about your bathroom habits.

“I pee loud—”

“Listen,” he starts, but you don’t really want to listen. If he’s gonna come in here before you’re ready to talk civilly, then he’ll have to listen to what you have to say first.  

“I was having fun,” you snap. “I was having fun, and you didn’t believe me because I wasn’t doing it the way you wanted me to.”

He doesn’t answer you, just clenches his jaw and nods.

“Right?” You ask. “I was being too much of a weird girl in the corner, and you wanted me to be…I don’t know, Nova fucking Skye. I didn’t realize coming to this party came with terms and conditions, and that’s on me, I guess.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s exactly it. Just say it.”

The least he can do is tell the truth.

He gives an uncomfortable nod of his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Fine. Yes, okay? I thought you’d act differently.”

If you thought the admission would make it hurt less, you were wrong. It’s better than being lied to, though. At least he respects you enough to tell the truth.

You draw your shoulders back and put your hands on your hips—something about this superhero pose makes you feel sturdy and less likely to fall apart. He’s inching toward you, but you’re not interested in his comfort right now. “Thank you for being honest. Can you please go away now?”

He stops, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Just…don’t leave without telling me, okay? Please?”

“Who said I was leaving?” You ask, miffed that he’d figured out your plan.

“Because you run,” he murmurs. “Just let me know if you do.”

You slide your tongue across your teeth and exhale as you consider his request.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Now get out.”

Leaving you alone is physically painful. He wants to stay and explain himself. He wants to make sure you’re okay; he wants to talk about this; he wants to kiss away all those little tears sparkling in your eyes. He wants, he wants, he wants.

You want space.

He doesn’t understand it, but Kristopher has reminded him over and over that he doesn’t necessarily need to understand boundaries—he just has to respect them, even when there’s a spoiled toddler kicking and screaming to get his way.

Especially then.  

But he really wants to make sure you know you aren’t the weird girl in the corner. He wasn’t trying to make you perform. He just wanted to make sure you were having a good time.

Right?

The more he stews on it, though, the more he worries you’re right. He’d wanted you to act differently—how is that not performing?

How is this all not just one big performance?

Dieter chews his lip and digs out the vape that you’ll chew him out over for bringing. Or you would’ve—you’ve never been this upset with him, not even after that whole thing with your friend. Even then, you were just…sad.

Have you ever really gotten mad at him?

“Dieter Bravo!”

That deep, smarmy baritone is the last voice he wants to hear. Behind him he finds a man he hasn’t laid eyes on in at least two years, and he’d meant to keep it that way. He hadn’t been at dinner—he certainly hadn’t expected Talon to just show up.

And it’s not like he can even blame the hostess—Nova can’t know every single one of Dieter’s post-divorce spiral mistakes. Talon is one of those people that makes Dieter avoid these things in the first place.

Talon is still as tall and broad as he’s ever been, blonde and green-eyed, his smile somehow even toothier than before and unnaturally white for the amount of heroin he’d watched him shoot into his veins.

“Talon,” Dieter says, glaring over the top of his glasses. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now, but Talon never gave a shit about anyone else’s personal comfort. He just saunters into Dieter’s space and infects the air with too much cologne. “What do you want?”

Dieter almost regrets saying it out loud. He doesn’t really want to escalate anything, not with you here and not with dozens of other people in the same room, but he’s already on edge.

Talon frowns. “That’s not very nice. I’m just being cordial, you know. We haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“Almost like there’s a reason for that.” Dieter puffs a cloud of vapor in Talon’s face. Aloof, nonchalant, he doesn’t give a shit about the man in front of him. His heart is not pounding in his ribcage, his neck is not burning red hot, his brain is not screaming for him to run, run, run.

This man is too fucking close.

Talon doesn’t take the hint. Dieter freezes as the other man’s hand falls to his waist and squeezes, and bile rises to the back of his throat. He wants to be angry, wants to lash out, wants to scream so loud it hurts his throat.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

“I got some good shit, baby,” Talon murmurs. “Come on.”

Some wretched creature buried deep in Dieter’s subconscious crawls from its cave and sniffs the air.

What kind of good shit? Do we have to go far?

His breathing quickens, and Talon’s eyes turn cruel with satisfaction. He presses his hand to Dieter’s face and smiles. Dieter doesn’t want any of this, he just can’t make his fucking feet move.

In his peripheral, your pretty high heels come into view, and his heart crashes through the marble floors to the earth below. You’re going to think he came out here just to find someone else while you were in the next room, already angry with him.

He knows what it looks like, he knows his own reputation—this is all happening too fast. He’s going to lose you and everything he was too afraid of having, his chest is caving in, lungs closing up, you’re going to leave him here and he’s going to give in to whatever Talon has because he’s too weak—

“Are you okay, Dee?”

Your voice rings out like a bell, clear and loud and breaking through this fog. He jerks his face from Talon’s hand and backs into a bookshelf, almost losing his balance. You reach and grab his arm, hand closing over his bicep in a vice grip.

“Huh?” He asks.

“I asked if you’re okay,” you repeat, pulling on his arm and ignoring Talon’s existence completely. He won’t like that. “We should go. You’ve had a long day.”

“And who are—”

“I’m his assistant, and you need to back off,” you snarl. You are not polite, you don’t even throw him a placating smile. You just draw yourself up to your full height and glare as you corral Dieter, who shuffles past Talon, but not before he gets that cruel gleam in his eye again. Talon is a fan of finding insecurities and exploiting them.

“I see those rumors were true,” he says, eyeing you up and down. His passive aggression would be effective on the right person.

You are not the right person.

Dieter opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off, but you squeeze his arm as you turn to Talon and stare at him.

You say nothing at all; you just wait in the uncomfortable silence that follows. You make them all sit in it.

“Whatever,” Talon says, finally walking away. You roll your eyes, pulling Dieter toward the door.

“Hang on,” you say, parking him next to the coat rack and making a beeline toward Nova. He watches you smile and tell her something, nodding happily and then accepting a hug. Nova waves at him from across the room as you make your back to him, and he waves back.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Just told her you had a headache and we were leaving and thanked her for inviting us. Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest as you call for a car.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” you say. “You okay?”

Dieter shrugs. He has no idea if he’s okay. He’s feeling a little lost.

It’s quiet in the car.

You tap your fingers on your thigh, biting your lip as you look out the window.

“Why’d you do that? What was that?” He asks. “I’m not upset,” he adds quickly when you freeze and you avert your gaze like you do when you think you’re in trouble. You give him a slow nod.

“That guy was being a freak,” you clarify. “And you looked scared.”

He doesn’t admit it, but he was scared. Even more so now. “But you’re mad at me. I was an asshole. Why’d you do that?”

You furrow your brow, like you can’t believe he’d ask that question. “Just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean I would leave you to that guy. I still care about you, dummy. Who was that?"

"A mistake," he says. You don't press him. His hand finds its way to yours. It’s soft and warm and his chest loosens when you let him hold it. “You’re still mad?”

You look back out of the window to watch the city lights from the hillside. “Not as much, anymore. We should probably still talk.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I should…I need to tell you something.”

You squeeze his hand. “I need to tell you something, too.”

Maybe you should have just let him handle it.

It’s just that he’d looked like he was afraid for his life. You couldn’t just let that man, whoever that was, get away with whatever he’d been trying to do.

But now you don’t know what Dieter wants to talk about. Your hand is cradled in his, his big thumb rubbing your palm back and forth as you type in the door code. You don’t know if he’s trying to comfort you or himself or both, but you wish you could be closer to him.

“You look really pretty,” he says.

You should hope so. This dress is suffocating you.

“Thank you,” you say. “So do you.”

As if he doesn’t always.

The dark, cavernous living room is even more ominous than usual. You let him pull you upstairs after you kick off your shoes, happy to be in his room in his bed that smells like him.

“So are we talking about?” You ask before he can distract you with the way he’s running his hand up and down your hip, sliding his fingers under the hem of your dress.

You’re still mad at him, after all.

“I was stupid,” he says, and you rein in the part of you that wants to comfort him and deny that and tell him he didn’t do anything wrong, it was all you.

“You’re not stupid,” you say instead, because he isn’t. “But I don’t really understand why you were so worried about what everyone thought of me. It’s not like I’m your girlfriend. Or your anything, really. Not that—I know what we said. Just like, why would what I do reflect on you?”

“You think you’re not my anything?” he asks. It’s easy to forget just how soft-hearted he really is, but when his voice cracks and his eyes grow wide and shimmery, you remember with vicious clarity.

“Well, you said. You said ‘casual’ and so I thought this was just, like, whatever to you,” you say. “So that’s why I’m confused. Why do you care about how the girl you’re just fooling around with makes you look?”

Dieter presses a lingering kiss against your forehead.  

“I should have told you this weeks ago. I shouldn’t have used that word. I don’t want you to be the girl I’m fooling around with,” he admits. “I want this to be something real.”

You give him a sad smile. “I want that, too. But I don’t think that’s a very good idea if you need me to be someone I’m not when we’re around other people. Like, I understand you have appearances to uphold and all that, but I’m not really the person you’d want for that. I’m bad at being someone else. Even when I’m trying you can see right through it and I embarrass you. Like tonight.”

“No. No, you didn’t—hey,” he says, curling his finger under your chin and making you look at him. His eyes are so beautiful it hurts. “No. You did not embarrass me. Holy shit, I’m so sorry for making you think that. I don’t want you to be someone else. I’m just an asshole. I know I’m not making a very good case for myself here.”

You laugh because he is not.

But you understand what he means.

“So?” He asks. “Do you want to try this, like, for real?”

You do.

Fuck, you really do.

But now it’s your turn to talk and you have to figure out what to say. You have to tell him, right? Like, he has to know. He has to know what he’s getting himself into.

Some people think it’s a big deal, no matter how well you fit into society. Some people think not saying something is like lying.

It isn’t like you’d expect him to take care of you or anything. You don’t expect anyone to take care of you. You learned how to manage all of this all on your own a long time ago. Well enough that you can manage him, too.

But what if he cares?

What if he cares a lot? What if he looks at you differently?

It’s all very dramatic, and it’s stupid. He knows you’re weird. He’s seen you do weird stuff. Now there’s just a reason for it. Why should it change?

You’ve been quiet for too long.

“Baby?” he whispers.

Just get it over with.

“I’m autistic,” you blurt out.

He doesn’t take his hand from your face, but he frowns. “Okay?”

“I mean…I just…yeah,” you say feebly. “I thought you’d want to know in case it changed anything.”

“Why would that change anything?”

This is not the reaction you’d been preparing yourself for. “It does for some people. You know what that is, right?” You’re suddenly seized by the fear that he has never even heard of any of this, or worse, he’s an anti-vaxxer, or worse—

“I know what it is,” he says defensively. “I read.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“I used to be friends with Elon Musk,” he admits.

“Gross,” you say.

“You’re a lot hotter than him,” he says, leaning down to kiss your neck.

“Wait, so that’s it? That’s all you got?”

Dieter shrugs. “I mean, it clarifies some shit. I just don’t think it’s a big deal. I’m bisexual, is that a problem?”

“Really?” you tease. “Shocking.” 

He laughs and pinches the meat of your thigh. “So now what?”

“Are you my boyfriend? Aren’t you too old to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” he says, sealing his lips to yours. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Do you wanna have sex with me?”

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[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL | Merge Mansion Mobile Game Event

[acupofhollie-deactivated2026031]

Out of Context Line Challenge

How to play: if you're tagged, make a new post and share one or two sentences (or lines for artists) from your unposted WIP with zero context.

thank you for tagging me pookie @f0rlornmyths <3

here is a wip of smth i’m working on that y’all have already seen but !!! anyways

no pressure tags :cP @bonkhrnyjail @oogaboogasphincter

[genuinelyshallow]

Israel has done what we all predicted and warned about. Simple, pure evil. They pushed Palestinians by carpet bombing everywhere till they all had to go to the least bombed place (No, Rafah was never completely safe. They were bombed there, too, to a horrific degree), and then, after cramming what nears a two million civilians with about 600 thousand children, they are asking them to leave... to where?! Nowhere. They are just saying leave. So then, when they kill them all, they can say 'Oh, we warned them'

It was all predicted, and no one did a thing

Rafah is now the most densely populated place in the world, with a population of about 1.5 million and prehaps more in 64 km2. About 25 miles squere.

25 miles squere

A marathon is 26 miles straight. You can at least run through Rafah in length once and in width twice and pass the 1.5 million Palestinians. That's how crammed it is. With no where to run

[fungal-rot]

HANDSHANDSHANDHANDSHANDS-