Following on from transgender day of visibility (tdov) earlier this week, I wanted to make a list to share wonderful works from authors who write trans inclusive fic in the ppcu fandom
Trans people are here, trans people are real and trans people are important. Especially now when a lot of the world is rallying against us. Please remember to show your love and your support for trans people in your community, in your country, in this world. Please stand up for us as allies, and as friends, when you see we're facing adversity. It means so much that you do. There is power in community, please never forget that.
Before I get into the list, I wanted to share some resources and information you may find useful (Please help to provide more resources espeically outside of UK & USA, add them in the comments or reblogs if you can)
A guide to being a trans ally
Black trans advocacy coalition (USA)
UK clinics and resources for trans and non binary people
Trans Latina Coalition
TransActual UK
Guide to Being an Ally to Transgender and Nonbinary Young People
Trans lifeline (USA)
Get the Facts on Gender-Affirming Care - HRC (USA)
Mermaids UK
Trans justice project (AUS)
Minus18 (AUS)
Finally, below you will find authors and their respective works listed, where a trans person (individuals whose gender identity differs from the sex they were assigned at birth) features either in the form of a reader, oc or Pedro character themselves.
Most works 18+, please make sure to read individual warnings
Author: @crowandmousewritingco
Dream Daddies Part 1 / Part 2 (Various Pedro characters x trans reader)
Quite the reunion (Jack Daniels (Agent Whiskey) x transmasc!reader)
Locked room rivals (Max Philips x trans!reader, Dave York x trans!reader)
Facing the monster head on Part 1 / Part 2 (Dieter Bravo x trans! actor!reader)
Crimes Against Each Other (Dio x trans!reader)
Guitar Picks and Drum Sticks (trans!Dio x punk!Benny Miller)
Strange Creature (Ezra x trans reader)
Another Cog in the Murder Machine (Frankie Morales x trans reader)
If You're Reading This (Joel Miller x non binary reader)
A Taste of His Own Medicine (Oberyn Martell x trans!reader x Ellaria Sand)
Also find various kinktober fics on their masterlist
Author: @demonsandbullets
Claudia Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 (Trans Mama Flores x reader)
Good Boy Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 (Trans Dieter Bravo x reader)
We meet there all the time (Dave York x gnc transmasc reader (second person) x softdom!Carol York, Mystery PBoy)
Author: @djarinmuse
Ni Cuy' Val (Non binary Din Djarin x reader)
Never Say Never (Din Djarin x non binary oc)
Author: @for-a-longlongtime
Coming (Dieter Bravo x non binary reader)
Author: @its-quiet-colter
Worn bedrolls (FTM Pero Tovar x Male reader)
Author: @kingbrat
Want you to beg for me! (Frankie morales x trans male reader) links to AO3
Author: @max--phillips
Edging trans!Dieter drabble (Trans Dieter Bravo x reader)
Pussy drunk drabble (Trans Dieter Bravo x reader)
Author: @nonbinairyboi
Nothing Left (Joel Miller x non binary reader/oc)
Author: @pedritofics
A little longer than seven minutes in heaven (Javi Gutiérrez x ftm reader)
Author: @perotovar
into the beat of the night (Frankie Morales x non binary oc)
Rebirth (genderfluid javi gutierrez x reader)
Cold (jack daniels x trans man reader)
Author: @qveerthe0ry
Lions Ain't the Kind (Frankie Morales x non binary/genderfluid reader)
Truth or Consequences (Ted Garcia x ftm reader)
What Means to You, What Means to Me (Max Phillips x non binary reader)
Author: @romanarose
About a Girl (Joel Miller x trans fem reader)
Happy birthday, Joel! (Trans Joel Miller x reader)
Author: @seventeenpins
an infinity (Trans man Joel Miller x transmasc reader)
wanna be felled by you, held by you (Joel Miller x non binary reader)
Author: @sp00kymulderr
Lover boy (Joel Miller x transmasc reader)
If you have any fics or any reccomendations to add, please send them my way! Thank you ❤️
It’s your thighs he’s bound this time — not your hands for a change.
Those are free to splay and pull at the sheets, free to fist and tug at worn fabric as he straddles you; your nails digging into the mattress for purchase.
A/N: I cannot even tell you how much this chapter kicked my rear end — it would have never been finished without the love and care and hand holding of @the-scandalorian and @the-ginger-hedge-witch ❤️ Both extremely insightful in their own ways, I am eternally grateful to each of them ❤️ Enjoy!
Series Masterlist
—
All morning he’s been watching you when he thinks you aren’t looking.
The weight of his gaze on your back every time you turn around, logic argues it’s because he’s guiding you into something he knows you’re nervous about. But in the end, shame wins out. It tells you that he knows what you were doing last night while he was in the shower. You contemplate just asking him directly, if only to relieve the feeling, to get it out in the open.
Instead, you keep your mouth closed and decide to put your focus where it should be in the first place.
“Go over it again,” you ask him.
He nods underneath the dome of his helmet, carefully picking his way along a nearly invisible path.
“It’s a wreck. Been one for a while. I came across it a few cycles back, but once I saw that she was no longer functional, I cut my losses. Went through her innards, took what I could – which,” he looks back at you, “mind you, wasn’t much.”
He faces forward again, holding a branch to the side for you to pass. You step carefully over a thick root, accepting the hand that he holds out for help.
“She had been long abandoned even then, so I don’t think we’ll encounter any unsavory protectors today.”
You can tell from the state of the path that he must be telling the truth. The indentation made by long ago steps is covered by overgrowth, a trench you can only feel rather than see. The ground slopes underneath the creeping vines, the crooked line of it hidden by lush leaves. You follow his yellow suit like a beacon, the color a distinct contrast against all the green.
With each step, nerves unfurl in your stomach at the idea that he might be wrong. That there might be another person there, just as eager to keep what’s theirs as you are to take it. The feeling creeps through your veins like the thick vines that crawl over the soil, and keeping your eyes on the familiar yellow in front of you, you squash down the nervousness with every break of one under your boot.
“Slow now. She’s close.”
He holds a gloved hand out to the side, and you peek around the curve of his shoulder. Just beyond the trees, there’s a pod covered in overgrowth, a relic left behind. The windows are yellowed with age, mildew growing over their oval openings.
The hatch is closed, and the area is silent and still.
He takes careful, scouting steps and you follow close behind him.
“Weapon out, Birdie.”
Your thrower already in your grasp, you tighten your hold on it.
You focus on his breathing for a moment, slow and steady through the speaker in your helmet.
“You good?” His voice crackles over the comm link.
When you look up, he meets your gaze with a level one of his own. Patient, checking in.
At the hesitation you can feel in your expression, he reassures. “I promise you, any occupants are long gone.” Reaching out, he lifts the barrel of your thrower. “Still though, can’t be too careful.”
You nod, and he takes the lead, shielding you.
The hatch takes some strength to pry open, and though you should be more nervous about what – or who — you might find inside, you’re temporarily distracted by the sound coming through your commlink. Heavy exhales, low grunts. A low groan of exertion as he pulls, followed by a breathless sound of relief.
The crux of your thighs throbs, and as he disappears into the hatch, you scramble up behind him, right on his heels. There is a tense moment as he rounds the corner, but when he gives you the all clear, your shoulders drop their pressured weight. Relaxed, you both study the disarray in front of you.
Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust: the shards of broken monitor glass scattered on the floor, the torn seats with stuffing spilling out, the stripped panels from the wall. It’s easy to find the compartment you’re looking for: a gaping hole in the middle of the floor, wires spilling from its depths.
You curse silently. “Someone’s been in there.”
“They take everything?” he asks. Using the tip of his pistol, he nudges the lid off the top of a storage compartment and peers inside.
“I’m not sure.”
Setting your thrower and gloves to the side, you get down on all fours and reach into the open compartment. A tangle of wires obstructs your view and your fingers sift through them all, searching by touch alone.
Your arm disappears all the way up to the shoulder before you locate the sharp edge of the circuit board. Grasping it, you lift it free with a sharp tug. It takes forever to ease it out, but when you do, a grin breaks over your face.
Two converters. Worse for wear, but it’s something. Not near what you need, but it still feels like a victory nonetheless. Carefully detaching them from the board, you hold them out for his inspection, cradled in your palm.
“Look at you, my little channel rat.”
His levity sucks all of the remaining tension from the room.
You grimace. “What did you call me?”
“A channel rat. Your little scavenging fingers, digging through the depths of a ship for a treat.”
Dismissing his teasing smile, you shake your head. “Didn’t you tell me once that those things reeked of piss?”
He chuckles. “I did indeed.”
Going back to the hole in the floor, you study the wires left behind for possible scavenging. “If you call me that even one more time, I’ll shoot you in the back.”
His grin widens at your deadpan delivery.
“Deal.”
–
Back in the safety of your own pod, you pull in deep inhales of fresh air as soon as you lift your helmet off. There is a certain sort of pleasure to it, feeling the recycled air hit your cheeks. Inside the helmet, it’s humid and sticky, the blower pack in your suit not enough to combat the heat from your body. It’s built to keep you cool, but under the helmet, your hair sticks to your nape and your forehead with sweat. Under the helmet, your stale breath blows back into your face. Under the helmet, you feel like you can’t breathe sometimes - which is ironic, given the reason for it in the first place.
Ezra stands close, tossing his helmet down to fumble with the zipper of his suit.
That sound. You can hear it in your sleep. No different than the sound of your own zipper being tugged down, and yet, somehow, it is. You envision the entire scene with startling clarity every night: his bare fingers working the clasp, his suit falling away from his body, the sound underneath it all.
“You good?” He checks on you, and when you nod your head but don’t say anything, he bends his gaze to your level. The stark lighting of the pod makes his eyes look even darker, and his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. Right at the edge of your neckline, the heat of his palm brushes against your skin. “You sure?”
“Yea,” you reassure him, trying to ignore the weight behind your navel his touch brings. “It went good. Really good.”
“I think so,” he replies. “I’m impressed. Our first job as a duo, gone off without a hitch.”
He winks, squeezing your shoulder for a brief moment. When his hand slides away, you stop your body from chasing it.
“Here.” His voice pulls you from your reverie, a cleaning kit held outwards towards you. “You do this, and I’ll do dinner?”
Nodding, you take it from him.
Cross-legged on your cot, you enjoy the sounds of domesticity filling the pod: the gentle scrub of your steel cleaning brush, the clink of a metal pan on the stove, a spoon swirling along the bottom of the pan as Ezra stirs. His humming joins the din, and you glance up at him.
If there was something that you’d never have expected from your first confrontation with the man, a scene like this would be at the top of the list. When your attraction initially began, it used to eat you up inside thinking about how you didn’t know him. You felt immature and foolish thinking about how the feelings were rooted in loneliness, sprouting from a life lacking attention and flourishing in close proximity. However, as scenes like the one in front of you became more common, it was easier to accept it.
The want that you feel coats the space like the dust that lingers in the air outside; ever present, in every breath you take. You try to ignore it, a small pocket of embarrassment bubbling up every time you think about approaching him, though he seems like the type who would be into whatever arrangement you’d propose. Especially given how long he’s been alone. Not only that, but the way in which he carries himself suggests he’s ever fluid, open for whatever comes his way. Adaptable, a side effect of his lifestyle you’re sure.
You know better though.
His carefree conversation is practiced, a facade. One meant to disarm and distract. You’re fairly certain he’s past that stage with you, given not only the amount of time you’ve spent together, but also the way he looks at you. Unguarded, in the morning after he wakes or in the evening, right before he goes to bed. Distracted, letting himself slip into thought, his eyes hooded as his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip.
Sometimes though, sometimes you see him looking at you in the same way he looks at others: like they are something to study, his eyes keenly assessing.
That look always gives you pause. No matter how much you know he’d probably say yes, his motives are the question you’d really want answered.
Picturing the bare skin along his ribs that rippled in his stretch the other day when he emerged from the shower, you silently flex your hand, mentally fitting your fingers along the velvet skin. Safe in the secrecy of your own mind, you let your daydreams flourish – a bubble that pops when he approaches your cot.
“Not a feast, by any means,” he says, sitting down next to you. “But it’ll do.”
You accept the bowl gratefully, steam rising from its contents. He blows on his spoon, taking a bite. The motion makes his jaw work, and when he swallows, you watch through the fringe of your eyelashes.
“You did good today.”
His easy praise just slips off his tongue, and for someone who has spent so much time in the darkness, you keen under its light.
You smile over at him, and he returns it - but only for a fraction before it drops.
He looks away, down at his food. “The next one might be a touch harder.”
“How come?” you ask, your mouth full.
“Because it’s occupied.”
You stop chewing.
His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Unattended pods are a thing of rarity. Most are occupied, and their inhabitants can be…”
You raise your eyebrows when he doesn’t finish the sentence. “Can be…?”
“Protective of what’s theirs.”
His statement hangs in the air, his expression sober.
Swallowing hard, you sit with it for a minute. “Makes sense, I guess.”
“Look,” he sighs, studying you. “I feel I should go alone, little bird.”
Frowning, you let your bowl rest in your lap. “What? Why? It’s too dangerous.”
He huffs in amusement. “You wound me with your lack of faith in my skills. I assure you, I’ve been navigating such situations alone for far longer than you’ve even been alive.”
The reminder of his age compared to yours should make you feel more at ease about his capabilities, but instead the statement temporarily distracts you. You take in his calloused hands, the lines that edge around the corners of his eyes, the grey flecks in his beard.
“I’ve taught you a lot,” he continues, “But letting the idea marinate, I believe it’s safer to keep you here.”
His suggestion catches you off guard. Everything about your arrangement has been with the word “partnership” in mind: he’s taught you how to dig, how to shoot, how to be aware of your surroundings. For him to want you to stay behind versus alongside him must mean there is something more dangerous about the situation than he’s letting on.
Not liking the idea of being separated from him, you press. “Trust me, I don’t doubt your skills. I’ve seen you in action.”
He sits up straighter, a proud smile stretching his cheeks, and you roll your eyes, undeterred.
“You’re the mechanic, I’m the muscle,” you mimic in his voice. “Weren’t those your words? If there is anyone there, you’ll deal with them so I can get the converters.”
“I’m afraid they won’t part with them as easily as your statement suggests.”
“I never thought they would.” You hold his gaze, searching. “Why don’t you want me there?”
He hesitates, and you can see a war within the depths of his eyes. Eventually, he answers, his voice softer. “I don’t want to subject you to…an avoidable confrontation. Not if I don’t have to.”
A beat of significant silence fills the space between you. Your dinners forgotten, the space around you shrinks to the size of the cot that you share. The urge to toss your bowl onto the ground and pull him to you builds the longer you sit with his statement, but there is something else about his words that tugs at the back of your mind.
You picture him walking into the Green alone, disappearing from your sight. Weeks with him at your side has you rejecting the mental image. Your stomach churns, your hand reaching out to cover his.
“If you go, I go.”
A grimace flashes over his features, the scar along his cheek highlighted for a moment. “I thought you’d say that.”
Rationally, you know he’s just trying to protect you, but you let your hand fall back, hurt. Busying yourself with your bowl again, you can feel him looking at you.
“Hey now,” he says, soft, but stern. “It’s not a lack of faith in your skills, trust me. It’s just that mercs out here are ruthless, raw. Their sensibilities have been swallowed whole by this place, and I don’t want you anywhere near them.”
His voice lowers even more, his tone gentle. “You remember what I said? About girls being rare in this place?”
You look up, and his gaze is fixed on yours, earnest and serious.
“I meant it.”
Apprehension flickers in your chest, but you remain firm in holding your ground. He can’t go alone.
“You really want to come with?” he asks.
You nod instantly. “Yes.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up, a hint of pride flashing through his eyes.
“Okay then, partner. Let’s talk about a plan.”
–
Ezra shifts on his cot, forcing his pillow into submission under his head.
“If you go, I go.”
Your words echo in his mind, your face appearing alongside. Your presence pulls at him from across the short distance between your cots, and he shifts again, rolling to face the wall.
He doesn’t want you to come with tomorrow.
He knows what this place is capable of, the way it carves out the morals of men to leave them shells of desperation. He himself has fallen victim to it, and though he hasn’t often found regret in his actions, he already regrets agreeing to let you come. He’s been here long enough to know that a partner is crucial to survival, but you…you’re unprecedented. You’re a girl. You’re something no one has seen in a long time, and he worries (an emotion he’s not used to) about how they’ll react when they see you.
If it’s anything like the way he reacts to you, you’re both in trouble.
You stir behind him, and he listens. You shift again, and he stills his breath.
The idea that you might be restless with the want you sated last night blossoms in his mind, heat pooling behind his navel. His fingers lightly scratch the wiry hair underneath it, just over where he aches. His cock twitches in interest, and distracting himself from the thought of everything that could go wrong tomorrow, he immerses himself in the thought of you.
You, right behind him, feet away.
You, trying to be quiet, slick need gathering between your thighs.
You, slipping your hand underneath the band of your leggings.
A phantom stickiness smears across the tips of his fingers, and they twitch against his skin. He teases at the band of his thermals, pretending his hand is yours. He moves it slowly, imagining your hesitation - eager, yet shy.
He thickens fully at the thought.
Unpracticed at hiding his attraction towards someone, he’s testing the limits of his self restraint with every minute spent in your presence. Constantly reminding himself of how vulnerable you are, the idea that you’d go along with any sort of proposition out of intimidation makes him sick. But you wanting it? You making the first move?
His hand (your hand) creeps a little lower, brushing against the base of his cock. It’s stiff to the touch, and he closes his eyes – only to be assaulted with the idea of someone else grabbing your hand to force it underneath their pants. His erection wanes, a series of images flashing through his mind: you screaming for help, you being forcibly dragged out of his sight, someone else taking from you what you never offered.
He softens.
His attachment to you is something like he’s never experienced before. This urge to keep you hidden from the world to protect you, while also helping you flourish. The need that coats him from the inside out, yet is forced to stay on a leash. It feels like a fever dream sometimes, the time he spends in the pod with you. A liminal place, a trapped sort of existence akin to hell itself in the way he wants you, but also something akin to heaven.
A companionship he’s missed, a presence he ached for and now has. Like you dropped from the sky, meant just for him.
He hears you shift again, and he frowns.
He should roll over and ask you if everything’s okay, but he knows it’s not. You’re probably worried about tomorrow and you should be. You’re as ready as you’ll ever be — as ready as this place will allow you to become before you’re thrown into the heat of the fire.
He also shouldn’t because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself. If he rolls over, he’ll see you — see your shadowed form in the darkness, the dips and curves of your body. He pictures himself being drawn to it, crawling the distance between your cots. Settling close to you, feeling the heat of your skin. Murmured, dulcet tones of soothing. His hands smoothing away your nerves.
His mouth being drawn to yours in the dark intimacy of the night.
He wants to tuck your face into the crook of his neck and tell you it will be fine.
But he doesn’t know if it will be, and so he stays still, guilt eating at his restless bones.
—
The pod stands alone in the clearing, silent and imposing.
Boot prints have tamped down the soil surrounding it, the greenery eaten away. The tracks are fresh, and they lead in every direction.
“How many do you think there are?”
Hidden in the green together, you speak lowly even though no one is tuned into your frequency but Ezra.
“Hard to say. I’d judge two, maybe three.” He shifts, trying to get a better view. “The size of their vessel doesn’t say much for numbers. Can’t be more than that.”
“Do you think they’re in there?”
Noting no sign of life surrounding the pod, you try to peer in the windows from afar to spot any movement.
He sighs, a heavy and resigned thing through your connection. He turns his head, and you do the same, facing each other.
“Unfortunately, Birdie, we won’t know until we open the door.”
He checks the charge on his pistol, flicking his eyes to your weapon in a motion for you to do the same. “You ready?”
Nodding, you grip your thrower. “Ready.”
Standing from your hidden spot, he takes an automatic lead in front of you. His slinking steps are careful, his breathing steady and measured. The dust motes surrounding you make the whole thing seem like a suspended dream, like you’re moving in slow motion along with them. For every step he takes, you do the same until you’re moving as mirror images, creeping closer and closer.
Anticipation and adrenaline have your entire body on high alert, yet the green around you remains eerily calm. There is no movement and no sound other than the gentle rustle of the trees, and while that would normally be muted underneath the dome of your helmet, your straining ears pick it up. A bead of sweat glides down the back of your neck, your eyes focused on Ezra’s back as he reaches the pod.
His gloved hand strokes down the smooth metal of the hatch, searching for an opening. When he finds it, you can hear a terse smile in his exhale of relief.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “You gonna open up for me?”
He works the latch open with force, and you spot check the edges of the clearing. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your chest, and in contrast, Ezra seems as calm as ever. You think about your own pod in the middle of a similar clearing, and how your role has reversed in your weeks here. Once the trapped person inside, now the intruder seeking what belongs to someone else.
The hatch opens, and you crawl in behind him.
It’s empty inside, though clearly in use. Two cots are pushed against the wall, blankets and pillows crumpled on top of them. Thermals litter the floor, metal dishes are stacked next to the small sink, and there is a station of cleaning tools left out, as if someone stopped mid-task.
“Speed is of the essence, little bird.”
His voice grounds you, your eyes immediately scanning the floor. It takes a minute to find the sealed compartment, but you catch the edge of it underneath one of the cots.
“Help me move this,” you ask him, picking your way over to the panel. While you’re careful with your steps, he stomps without care on anything in his way: discarded papers on the floor, a dirty shirt. He lifts the cot with a grunt, and you drop to your knees.
The panel springs open and sifting through the wires, you wish you stopped to take your helmet off. It’s hard to get close enough to the floor with the dome limiting how close you can get, and a small huff of frustration slips from your mouth as you stick your arm down, down, down, stretching it as much as you can.
Just when you’ve reached your limit, you feel the edge of the panel.
“Anything there?” He delivers the question calmly, though you can hear the slight tone of urgency that slips through.
“Got it,” you grit through your teeth, tugging it free.
The edges of it catch on the neat wiring that surrounds it, and impatiently, you tear through it all. Lifting it from the floor, your eyes widen.
“Ten. There are ten, Ez.”
You look up at him in awestruck wonder, and he returns a tight smile.
“Speedy now. Show me how you use those nimble fingers of yours.”
You click them off with practiced precision, trying to tamp down the elation that you feel at the added weight of each one in the pouch attached to your hip. When you have all ten, you toss the panel back into the nest of wires and slip the lid back into place. Standing to get out of his way, you watch as Ezra unceremoniously drops the cot back onto the floor.
He smiles at you, a genuine one this time. “You did so good, Birdie. So good.”
Relief floods your chest at his praise. Your stomach has been in knots all morning, worsening as you sat in the bush and waited, and though you know you’re not out of danger yet, you take a moment to let your victory wash over you. A sudden, fierce wish to be back in your own pod with him takes you by surprise, a burning need to throw your helmet off and have him do the same so you can kiss him. Your body subconsciously leans forward, drawn to the idea and to him and to the need to have his praise breathed directly into your mouth for you to swallow.
A similar look flashes across his own dark features, and there is a beat of weighted tension. It swirls in the space between you, filling it — and breaking, when he grabs your hand.
He gives it a squeeze, leading you back towards the hatch. “Come on. Before they get back.”
Following the back of his suit out of the pod, you notice the surroundings of the clearing seem brighter, less ominous. The dust that floats through the air no longer seems threatening and nightmarish, but more like a pleasant dream. You take in the details for the first time today, your eyes fixed where the tops of the trees brush the sky – disappearing when you’re ripped from behind with a sudden, forceful jerk backwards.
“Ezra!”
Your thrower gets tossed from your hand, and the air is pushed from your lungs as your back hits the ground with a thud. You kick wildly and try to scramble up, and a sharp kick from behind keeps you trapped in place, forcing you onto your front.
Coughing, you lift your head under the helmet, but the edges of the dome obstruct your view. Straining, you squirm underneath the heavy pressure of a boot on your back, fighting to see where Ezra is. You can see only his boots, toe to toe with a stranger’s.
The voice above you is grizzled and deep. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Looking for something we need,” Ezra drawls, and though you can’t see his face, you can picture it. The truthful admission comes out slow and confident. “We found it, so we’ll be on our way.”
You hear the charge of a thrower above you, and Ezra’s boots shift slightly. It’s a special sort of hell to hear him through the comm link without being able to see him.
“Go in there and see what the fuck they took,” orders the man pinning you to the ground.
You see his partner's boots walk out of your sight, and hear him climb the ramp to the pod.
“You stay right there,” he warns Ezra. “One move and I’ll shoot your partner here.”
Lifting your torso with a grunt, you shift just enough to get Ezra in your sights before the boot on your back forces you back down. Even though you’re prone and he’s being held at gunpoint—both at the mercy of a stranger—reassurance floods through you at just being able to see his face.
“That would be…regrettable.”
The shift in Ezra’s expression is cold and menacing, his fingers flexing slightly on the grip of his pistol.
“That so?” the man teases. His boot wiggles, shoving you deeper into the soil. “Feels kinda scrawny. Can’t imagine what use he is to you for someone so small.”
“You’d be surprised,” Ezra counters.
“Let’s see him.”
The words take you by surprise, just like the swift jerk of your shoulders. He flips you faster than you can react, his boots coming down to step on your arms and the tip of his thrower aims directly at your face – his eyes wide with surprise right above it.
“Is this – is this a girl?”
Your boot flies up to kick him in the back, and he grunts but doesn’t budge. You do it again, and he presses the muzzle of his thrower into your chest.
“Do it again and see what happens.” Antsy, he glances up in the direction of the pod and yells to his partner. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”
Taking advantage of his split second of distraction, you use every ounce of strength you have to bow your back off the ground just enough to catch him by surprise. His boots falter, taking the pressure off your arms and you quickly sit up, driving your elbows into his thighs. He growls in frustration, trying to keep his thrower on you while also bending to swipe for your leg, and you scramble backwards in the soil. Your boots slide on the damp earth, your gloved fingers digging into the ground for purchase and there is a sharp crack in the air as Ezra aims his pistol at the man and misses. You flinch, crawling backwards to get out of the man’s reach, and panic cuts through you when you hear the stomp of boots coming down the ramp.
“What the hell –”
Those are the only words the man gets out before you hear more cracking shots, and then he’s falling backwards, dead, onto the ground.
“You son of a bitch!” The man who had you pinned lunges for Ezra, his thrower tossed to the side, a knife in his hand instead.
Ezra abandons his own weapon, throwing himself at the stranger. You watch helplessly as two of them hit the ground, fighting for control of the knife. Crawling towards Ezra’s gun, you stretch your hand towards the weapon when you hear it.
“Just wait till I kill you,” the man warns between his teeth. “I’m gonna fuck that girl raw. Right here. Right next to your dead fucking –”
A grizzled choking sound cuts off the man’s words, and you whirl to face them just in time to see Ezra jerking the knife out of the man’s neck. Blood spurts across Ezra’s gloves, and he shoves the knife down again, and again. The force behind it is immense, Ezra’s face contorted in a look you’ve never seen before. His jabs are ruthless and quick, cutting and deep, and his arm speeds up, his face in a rage-filled trance, his eyes wild and cold all at the same time.
“Mine,” you hear him between heavy breaths, between each plunge. “She’s mine.”
Frozen, you watch in a morbid sort of fascination, but also in relief.
He doesn’t stop stabbing until the man is long dead.
—
The walk back to the pod is as quick as it can be, with Ezra’s weight leaning heavily on your side. All traces of joy and victory have long vanished, and the two of you say nothing to each other as you trudge along the hidden path.
His expression as he killed that man plays on repeat in your mind the whole way, along with his words.
“She’s mine.”
Though he’s trying to mask his pain, his grip on your hip tells you the truth, as does his labored breathing. You didn’t see it happen, but the man must have hit his mark at least once, judging from a telltale stain of dark red smeared across the front of Ezra’s suit. It seems to take forever to get back, and with every step, his wound gets worse and worse in your mind.
Finally back inside your pod, you strip and toss everything carelessly onto the ground.
“I need the med kit,” he groans, collapsing against the wall. His movements are jerky as he rips his helmet off, and then his gloves, using his teeth. “Fuck,” he sighs, his eyes pinched closed.
He’s pale, his sweat matted hair stuck to his forehead and you kneel in front of him with the kit, rifling through the contents.
“What do you need?”
His hand splays protectively over his lower stomach. “He got me through my suit, just here.” He shifts, a loud groan breaking free when he peels down the top of his suit. He rolls it to the waist, and gingerly pushing the fabric down, you see his thermals underneath, stained dark and saturated with blood.
He lifts it, and you wince.
“Looks worse than it is,” he breathes heavily, letting his head fall back against the wall.
“It looks pretty bad, Ez. Really bad.”
His stomach is matted and smeared with blood, and at the center of it all, a gash.
He holds his hand out for gauze, dabbing at the wound with a hiss. “See?” His stomach flinches, and he wipes it again before looking at you. “A stitch or two should do it.”
“You sure?” you ask, and he nods, letting his head fall to the side as he looks away.
“In you? Always.”
Your fingers tremble slightly when you flick open the med kit, and then rote memory takes over. You’ve done this – your father used to stumble home all the time with various gashes. Bar fights, brawls in alley ways. Prospectors are a rough crowd, and you’d stitched him up more than once. This is just like that, only better because you don’t have someone yelling at you to do it faster – but also worse, because you care about this person more. The thought leaps into your mind, and knowing you don’t have time to dwell on it, you shove it away.
Ezra flinches at the touch of your hand against his bare stomach, his muscles tensing under your fingers.
You pause, and he lets out a nervous laugh.
“Sorry. Cold hands.”
You give him an apologetic smile.
“Keep going.”
You take your time disinfecting the wound, making sure all traces of dirt are gone. Your hand sweeps across this skin more than once, trying not to think about all the ways you imagined touching his stomach for the first time. It’s soft under your fingertips, a slight round to his lean belly and though his neck is taut with tension, he remains still under your exploration. You want him to look at you: for reassurance, for acknowledgement of your hands on his skin – but he is resolute, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall.
Setting your rag down, you pick up the stapler.
“You ready?”
He nods.
Using one hand to pinch his flesh together, you brace the stapler against his skin, blood smearing on the metal. You punch the first one through, and he hisses, his hand gripping your wrist.
“Shit. Shit. Keep going.”
His breathing has turned into panting, his eyes clenched tight. You slide it along his skin an inch, and then punch another one.
The groan he lets out would be filthy, if not for the situation you’re in. It’s a strained, long thing — his head tipped back, veins highlighted along his neck and you toss the stapler to the side, pressing fresh gauze against the wound.
“All done. It’s done.”
He nods, a tired smile gracing his face. Leaning forward, he keeps one hand on his stomach and you watch nervously as he crawls onto his cot. He falls back onto his pillow, calmer now, but still pale.
“My thanks, Birdie.”
He slips into a stress-induced sleep, and you look at him for a moment before cleaning up.
At the sink, you notice his red hand print around your wrist. The blood had pooled between his fingers, the digits a slick slide over your small wrist and you brush your thumb over the marks he left behind. It looks violent, yet there is a part of you that likes it. Being branded with him, a part of him smeared into your skin.
You hesitate to wash it off.
—
He sleeps, and you keep watch.
You had worried for your father sometimes, but it was nothing like this. In the small amount of time that you’d come to know him, Ezra already meant more to you than your own father ever did.
In the dark, you finally let yourself dwell on the realization.
Your father had never truly been a father. He was more of a stranger, or a roommate at best. He dragged you down with him, keeping you close enough to use you when he needed. He was never invested in you, never cared what you thought or wanted. You never needed him for anything, but Ezra…Ezra you need. You need him to survive and get off this planet, but you also need him more than that. Deeper than that.
The respect and courtesy he treats you with is something that surprised you, given the way you met. In a short while though, you’ve come to realize it’s exactly what’s been missing from your life this whole time. His curiosity and interest is genuine, and his care for you — especially after the events of today — is obvious.
She’s mine.
Did he say that because it’s true? Or because he needs everyone else to believe it’s true?
His lashes flutter, a dream seemingly racing through his slumber and you watch the movement of his eyes under his lids. His fingers flex, and without thinking, you place your hand on top of his.
He stills, and so do you.
The minutes and hours slip by, the moon slowly making its way from one pod window to another and you keep your vigil all the while. He murmurs in his sleep, and you cradle the curve of his jaw. Even after he stops, you keep your hand in place.
Your thumb traces the line of the scar on his cheek - a hooked thing, violent. He never told you how he got it, and you long for him to wake up and regale you with the story. He’d make a meal out of it, you know he would.
When he doesn’t stir, you continue your exploration.
Delicate touches: a swipe over his silken eyelid, a trace down the line of his nose. The bristle of his moustache tickles the pad of your thumb, a direct contrast against the smooth patch of skin on his jawline where there is no hair.
He’s a killer, and you wonder how many have gotten as close as this.
She’s mine.
He’s right — you are. In a short while you have become his. The juxtaposition of the man you saw today versus the man in front of you now is jarring, as if he couldn’t be the same man at all. And maybe he’s not, for anyone else. But for you, he is.
You get both, and while you should have been scared by the way he savagely killed today, you instead find yourself proud. You find yourself drawn to it, admiration and assurance and a sense of protection swirling around in your mind.
He did that for you, something no one has ever done.
Emboldened by this knowledge and drawn to his profile in the dark, you rest on his firm chest, and your fingers splay outwards over his heart.
Leaning down, you press your lips lightly against his.
–
He’s been awake for a while.
He has wished for you like this so many times. Just like this, only he never imagined himself like this. Just his luck that his wish comes true, but at a cost.
You’re so close, your face hovering just above his. He can smell the sweetness of your breath, of your skin. The way you’re looking at him has been one he’s only ever seen in his dreams, and though his body aches with a hidden want that threatens to consume, he stays perfectly still, not wanting it to end.
He’s never been touched like this by anyone, and it takes everything he has to keep his eyes closed — until he feels you press your lips against his.
He responds instantly, his hand coming up to cup the crown of your head.
Your kiss is so soft — soft and delicate and vulnerable, just like you. Your mouth fits neatly against his own, and before he can truly savor it, it’s gone.
He opens his eyes and your shadowed form comes into focus, your proximity intoxicating. His dream come to life.
His hand slides down the back of your hair, settling on your neck. Holding you place, he can see the vulnerability that seeps out of your every pore, and he longs to soothe you. If he knew what he should soothe, he would.
He knows what he wants to soothe, but he waits.
“What are you doing, Birdie?” he whispers.
Your eyes flit between his, and you bite your lip, thinking. He watches as you war with yourself inside your head, and his touch drifts to cup your cheek. His thumb slides across the soft curve of it, and when his eyes dip to your mouth, he watches your expression change to something more assured.
Confident, resolute.
“This,” you whisper back, bending down for another kiss.
The hatch takes some strength to pry open, and though you should be more nervous about what – or who — you might find inside, you’re temporarily distracted by the sound coming through your commlink. Heavy exhales, low grunts. A low groan of exertion as he pulls, followed by a breathless sound of relief.
The crux of your thighs throbs, and as he disappears into the hatch, you scramble up behind him, right on his heels.
got that thang purrriiiinnngggg lmao
You grimace. “What did you call me?”
“A channel rat. Your little scavenging fingers, digging through the depths of a ship for a treat.”
Dismissing his teasing smile, you shake your head. “Didn’t you tell me once that those things reeked of piss?”
He chuckles. “I did indeed.”
piss kink Ezra alert? 👀
That sound. You can hear it in your sleep. No different than the sound of your own zipper being tugged down, and yet, somehow, it is. You envision the entire scene with startling clarity every night: his bare fingers working the clasp, his suit falling away from his body, the sound underneath it all.
damn even a zipper is getting her worked up. he better rail her soon or she's gonna go full Yellow Wallpaper
Cross-legged on your cot, you enjoy the sounds of domesticity filling the pod: the gentle scrub of your steel cleaning brush, the clink of a metal pan on the stove, a spoon swirling along the bottom of the pan as Ezra stirs. His humming joins the din, and you glance up at him.
omg domestic Ezra 🥰
“If you go, I go.”
YOUR HONOR, I LOVE THEM
His gloved hand strokes down the smooth metal of the hatch, searching for an opening. When he finds it, you can hear a terse smile in his exhale of relief.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “You gonna open up for me?”
something tells me this won't be the last time we hear Ezra say something like this 😏
“Just wait till I kill you,” the man warns between his teeth. “I’m gonna fuck that girl raw. Right here. Right next to your dead fucking –”
A grizzled choking sound cuts off the man’s words, and you whirl to face them just in time to see Ezra jerking the knife out of the man’s neck.
Blood spurts across Ezra’s gloves, and he shoves the knife down again, and again. The force behind it is immense, Ezra’s face contorted in a look you’ve never seen before. His jabs are ruthless and quick, cutting and deep, and his arm speeds up, his face in a rage-filled trance, his eyes wild and cold all at the same time.
“Mine,” you hear him between heavy breaths, between each plunge. “She’s mine.”
Frozen, you watch in a morbid sort of fascination, but also in relief.
He doesn’t stop stabbing until the man is long dead.
Your hand sweeps across this skin more than once, trying not to think about all the ways you imagined touching his stomach for the first time. It’s soft under your fingertips, a slight round to his lean belly and though his neck is taut with tension, he remains still under your exploration.
nnnggghhhhh belly
Using one hand to pinch his flesh together, you brace the stapler against his skin, blood smearing on the metal. You punch the first one through, and he hisses, his hand gripping your wrist.
“Shit. Shit. Keep going.”
another line I think we just might hear Ezra say again but in a different context lmao
You need him to survive and get off this planet, but you also need him more than that. Deeper than that.
oh yeah? how deep?
He’s been awake for a while.
He has wished for you like this so many times.
lmao this fuckin sneaky bitch! pretending to be asleep is only gonna work so long when she sees you're bricked up 😂
He’s never been touched like this by anyone, and it takes everything he has to keep his eyes closed — until he feels you press your lips against his.
okay but can we talk about the parallels here bc, yes, she's younger/less experienced, yet here he is experiencing this sort of attention for the first time. there are still things that are new for him to experience - the emotional vulnerability (like him feeling worried), the physical intimacy that blossoms from tenderness, etc. I really love how they mirror and contrast each other all at once
“This,” you whisper back, bending down for another kiss.
I'm actually going insane that the chapter ended like this so thanks lmao
UGH another amazing chapter, Kelli! The sexual tension made me feel touch starved just reading it. And the looming threat of violence and then the high stakes action/violent scene were so so so well written. Even knowing they have more of a story, I was still sitting there reading worried something was going to happen! (yeah yeah Ezra got cut, but other than that hahaha)
THANK YOU FOR WRITING THIS! I love your Ezra so much, and I don't care how long in between updates it is, this story is worth it every. single. time. I think about it often, and it is always a better day when the next chapter to their story comes out. 💚
Rating: age gap, mature-ish, bordering on explicit?
A/N: thank you thank you thank you to @imaswellkid for reassuring me that I actually understand this man in some capacity and for giving me praise when I needed it the most. ily. ❤ thank you also to @the-scandalorian who had the patience to decipher my half-asleep ramblings and assure me that I was on the right path. ily. ❤ and thank you to YOU, reader, for sticking with me during my unintentional months long hiatus of this story - I hope you enjoy!
Series Masterlist
--
The back of your suit disappears in the lush greenery as he follows you through the forest. You guide him deeper and deeper, the light reflecting off your helmet flickering between the leaves. Moss gives way to thick, creeping vines, and then the earth opens up into a deep, gaping pit.
You stand at the edge, and his glove reaches through the air to pull you away from danger but before he can grasp your suit – you jump.
You’re at the bottom of the pit together, your profile alight as he watches you dig. His eyes slip over the flutter of your lashes, the tip of your nose, your plush lips. You turn and say something to him, and he smiles. Opening his mouth to reply, he tries to take a breath in, but the air is…thinner. Like his suit has a leak.
He checks his filter and when he looks up, you’re gone, the connection hose between your suits cut.
You’re running again, and he’s chasing you.
Ezra.
It’s your voice, but it doesn’t sound the same as it does from within his helmet. It sounds like you’re outside of him and inside of him all at once, whispering his name. He loses sight of you, and panic blooms in his chest. His lungs constrict with every gasp for air, his body breaking out in a sweat underneath his suit and then several things happen all at once:
He’s in the pod with you beneath him, your body arching underneath his.
A moan breaks free of your throat; a masked person hiding in the bushes before they disappear.
A scream – he can’t decide if it’s a cry of ecstasy or of pain – and he’s pushing forward between your spread thighs.
Ezra.
He reaches for your face, your lips parting to allow for his thumb to press inside.
He does; another masked person peering in through the pod window.
Ezra, you moan.
You suck hard on his thumb, a deep groan reverberating from his throat as his hips rock forward and —
He jerks awake.
With his heart pounding and his cock hard, you perch at the edge of his cot, your delicate face etched with worry.
“Ezra. Ezra, hey.”
Your hand presses down on his chest, and he covers it with his own for a moment as the surroundings of the pod become clearer, sharper. Your face comes into focus, a luminous, soft thing in the hazy dark and for a split second, he feels an overwhelming draw towards you. As if he should sit up and meet your mouth with his.
His cock throbs, and he flinches. Shit.
“Hey,” he breathes, taking his hand off yours. He sits up, trying to disguise the aching heft of his cock under his thermals. They leave nothing to the imagination – he knows, since he’s seen you in yours.
“You okay?” you ask. “Another nightmare?”
He’s used to them after being in this line of work for as long as he’s been in it, but he’s not used to someone else seeing them. He feels slightly sheepish, but can’t decide if it’s because he feels vulnerable or guilty, like you know what he was dreaming about.
“Seems so,” he replies, the corner of his mouth lifting ruefully. “Sorry to have woken you, Birdie.”
You shrug. “Wanna talk about it?”
He pauses. “Not particularly, no.”
He’s grateful for the way you immediately drop it.
Weeks on the Green have left you with a certain sort of familiarity with each other, one that’s grown and flourished in the way only sharing a very small space allows. You know about his nightmares, and he knows things about you as well.
He knows you prefer to start your day in silence: a hot beverage, your headphones, your journal. You look even younger then, swaddled in your blanket by the window, your face still puffy with sleep.
You like it neat, a good balance to his own disarray.
You’re a good cook, which has saved him from a diet that used to consist purely of Bits Bars.
You’re methodical and measured, which, paired with his own impulsive ways, makes for a good partnership.
However, he’s been careful beyond that.
Whatever role you assumed during life with your father is not one he intends to make you relive. You’ve taken every single thing he’s thrown at you in stride, but to make up for it, he’s tried to balance the scales by teaching you anything he can. He hasn’t allowed you to assume the role of caretaker. You’re equals, or, if anything, he’s over corrected in some sort of fucked up recompense for everything you went through before this. Just like he promised, he’s protected you.
And he’s needed to – with word getting out about your ship, he’s had to take care of two more people in the last month alone. He taught you how to shoot after you asked him to, and he was grateful for it later on when the second one almost got the better of him. It was a close call, and he hated you being in it.
Hated the man more though, which he satisfied with a shot between his eyes.
He blamed the pull towards you after that on the adrenaline, but he wasn’t being honest with himself. It began long before that. The lessons themselves had been tests of his self-control: your smaller back tucked against his chest, your eagerness and willingness to learn, the way you preened under his praise.
He fucked his fist in the shower that night and blamed it on so many things: the needed release of stress, the forced proximity, how long it’s been since he was able to sink into a willing partner. His loneliness crept into the dark room while you slept that night and he thought about how, until now, it had been satisfied with your close companionship.
That night, he’d laid awake and wondered how eager you’d be underneath his hands.
Would you beg him to teach you what he likes? Would you ask for more the way you do now that he’s encouraged it?
Then the dreams started, and it got worse. Your face, so close to his each time you woke him. The warmth of your body next to his cot. They only made the urge to protect you fiercer, both from himself and the scavengers, and that didn’t even take into account the real threat. The one he’s waited for to show up since he found you. The one who he promised –
They appear in his dreams, alongside you. Hiding in the bushes, peering in the windows. But they aren’t ones who come looking. They wait for you to come to them, and so far, he’s avoided it at all costs. He made that deal when he was desperate for a ship, but now he’s more desperate to keep you safe.
You both need to get off this fucking planet.
He shakes the thought of the others free as you crawl back to your own cot. Your headphones discarded on the floor next to your face down journal and your rumpled socks, you tug the blanket up around your shoulders, rolling over to go back to sleep.
Too unsettled to follow you, he stays awake.
–
He watches you frown in concentration, focusing on the tiny piece of metal in your hand.
Your fingers are so much more nimble than his, but even you’re having a hard time finding purchase. It slips within your grip the longer you hold it, and not for the first time, he marvels at something seemingly so insignificant in size, yet so crucial to your plan. The converter in your palm is what sparks the engines to life – just a tiny scrap of intricate wiring, one of many that clips into a board that then fits neatly beneath a panel on the floor.
And unfortunately, the thing that took the hardest brunt of impact upon your rough landing.
There are forty in total needed and you have twelve that function. Thirteen, he counts, if you’re successful with this one.
Satisfied with your work, you blow gently on the piece. His eyes drop to your mouth when you purse your lips, and it stays on your profile until you break his reverie, handing the converter to him.
He blows out a breath, prepping the voltage pen.
“Here goes nothing, little bird.”
He attaches the pen to the converter, and the pod is silent for a fraction of a second.
His thumb presses forward and – red.
“Fuck,” you mutter, letting out a heavy sigh.
“I don’t understand what the issue is.” The statement is laced with frustration, and he runs a broad hand down his face before dropping it onto his lap. “Do you have any idea?”
You shake your head, defeat etched into your features. “I wish. I’ve rewired it a couple of times. I’m scared if I keep messing with it, it’ll strip what there is to work with.”
Leaning back on your hands, you arch your back to stretch the muscles and the action draws his gaze downwards, focusing on the way he can see your chest through your tight thermals.
“I feel like we should call it,” you suggest. “We’ve been at it for ages, and I’m starving.”
You crawl over to the cupboard next to your bed, your pert little ass in the air as you rifle through the contents and he thinks about how he’s starving too. His mouth waters, and his tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip.
“I can read through the manual again,” you start to say, the rest of your words fading into the background as he continues to stare. Your thighs, the flare of your hips, the peek he has of your cunt. He can see the shape of it through your leggings, a tiny hot little space that he imagines the heat of. He longs to touch it. It calls for his fingers, or his tongue and he imagines the taste of it through the thin material.
What would you sound like if he put his mouth on you that way? Would you let him?
“Maybe I missed something.” You straighten, sitting on your knees to thumb through the pages of the ship’s manual and the youthful way you bite your lip as you study it stirs shame in his gut. It’s a sensation he’s not used to, and though it would normally be easy to ignore, he can’t. Not when it comes to you.
You are so fucking young, and he needs to get out of here.
Still, he wonders if you feel it like he does. The tension that fills the space sometimes, the magnet that pulls the two of you together. He might be inclined to say you don’t feel it…but he also knows people. He’s seen a flicker of interest on your face, he’s seen your pretty eyes hooded with what he’s sure was lust. With anyone else, he’d have already broached the subject of a…mutual arrangement, but with you, guilt stops him every time. He’s not used to the feeling stopping him from doing anything, but the imbalance of the situation is too much for even him to think about taking advantage of.
Though if you were to ask him, he wouldn’t say no.
You continue to flip through the manual, and he imagines you making the first move. Asking him to help with an ache you have, telling him only his fingers could soothe it. You, hovering at the side of his cot, whispering please. It’s perverse, the dynamic that makes him throb. You, helpless and begging for relief, and him, competent and so very willing.
Your youth plays into it, he’s sure. Your eagerness does too. You’re so sweet, and it’s been so long – which is exactly why he shouldn’t even think about sullying you with his dirty hands.
You want it though, he can tell. Maybe not everything he wants, but you do want. You’ve dirtied your hands and liked it, reveled in the things he’s been able to teach you: how to defend yourself, how to shoot, how to dig and plot and survive.
You’re a fighter, and he loves it.
He feels your eyes on him.
What would you do if he stood up and took what he wanted?
“Ezra?”
He blinks at the sound of your voice bringing him back to the present.
“Want some dinner?”
“Sure.” .
Watching you cook, he’s momentarily transported outside this pod, off this planet and into wherever you lived before this. Every action is a practiced, deft one. You work in silence, as if you’re used to it. A solitary creature, much like himself. Not by choice though – also much like himself. He’d almost think you prefer to be alone, but the way you’ve leaned into his companionship tells him differently.
Feeling the guilt press against his ribcage again when he hungrily takes in the nape of your neck, he tamps it down. Helping you instead of fantasizing about you is the least he can fucking do.
He comes to stand next to you, and you look up at him, confused.
“Want some help?”
You smile, and he mirrors it, taking the meal packet from your hands. Dehydrated rations vacuum sealed in tiny pouches, he pours the contents of two into the pan on the stove, adding water. He stirs for a moment, watching a porridge of sorts form. Chicken, he thinks, from the color of it.
“I can’t say this looks entirely appetizing.”
“Feel free to feast on your Bits bars,” you toss back, and the edge of his mouth lifts.
“Now now, I didn’t say I wasn’t going to eat it.”
You set the bowls out, and he pours the contents of the pan into them, dividing the portions up. Your cots parallel to each other’s, he sits across from you, each of you cradling a bowl in your hands.
Rain hits the roof harder, making the small space intimate.
“What are we going to do if we can’t fix it?”
Your question gives him pause, but it’s your face that affects him more. So open, so trusting. Looking to him for guidance and reassurance, and an image of you flat on your back on your cot with the same face flashes through his mind. He clears his throat.
“Somethin’ I’ve been trying to avoid,” he replies. “Though it seems that I can no longer.”
You wait, and he meets your eyes directly.
“We’re going to have to scavenge some parts,” he says. You chew thoughtfully for a moment, and he keeps his eyes on your own, studying your expression. He lifts his eyebrow in question. “You ready to be my right hand man?”
“...I think so,” you reply hesitantly. “I mean, I’ve got the hang of the thrower.”
“That you do,” he agrees, taking a bite of his dinner.
You picked it up much faster than he thought, but it shouldn’t have surprised him the way it did. You were a determined, fierce creature – one who was capable of so much more than you thought you were, and one who reveled in it every time he encouraged you to learn something new. Sometimes, when he thought about the man he never knew, he felt frustration flare bright. He wasted you. You could have been so much more, and not just a harvester partner either.
You could still be so much more, he reasons – and not for the first time, he wonders what will become of you once you go home. He’ll be sad to miss it.
“Do you think I can do it?”
He lets the question sit for a moment. Can you? Yes. Should you? That’s a question he can’t answer. You shouldn’t even be here in the first place. But you are here, and so you have to do what you have to do.
He leans forward, as if to let you in on a secret.
“I think you can do anything, little bird.”
You smile, and he returns it – but only for a moment, before his expression sobers.
“We need a few things, and I don’t think we can get them all from the same ship. That means we’ll have to throw ourselves in the face of confrontation more than a few times. You understand?”
You nod. “What do you need me to do?”
The question is asked without hesitation, and he fights the urge to tell you to forget he ever said anything. That he’ll find another way to get the two of you out of here without putting you in direct danger. His mind races for an alternative…but there isn’t one. He knows what this place demands of people. There isn’t any hiding from it; it’s better you understand the risk and prepare for it.
“I’ll be the muscle, you the mechanic. I’ll need your nimble fingers to harvest those converters. I know where we can find some, but it might take us a couple cycles to get them all.”
“Where?”
“The other prospectors that are here. They have ships – between those and some wreckage sites I’ve come across, I’m hopeful we can gather enough for what we need. I’m not sure if they’ll be functioning or not, but it’s worth a try.”
You nod in agreement, and he scrapes the rest of his bowl clean. Spooning it into his mouth, he catches the way your eyes linger on the action and he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself. You make it too easy with your expressive face, and feeling guilty only goes so far against his impulses.
Keeping his eyes on you, he sticks the spoon back in his mouth with relish, sucking it clean.
“Tastes sweeter than I thought it would,” he hums.
You swallow hard, staring at his throat. He feels the thrill of victory, but only for a split second though, until the tension between your bodies immediately fills the small space. Your eyes hood, and his own calculating gaze narrows. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, taking note of the way you watch it.
Will you ask him now?
Taking a deep breath, you stand instead and reach for his bowl.
He hands it to you, keeping his eyes on your ass while you walk away.
—
It started with the lessons.
Actually, it began in flickers before that: glimpses of his profile, the feeling of his arm across your chest when he stopped you from tripping over a vine, the sound of his steady breathing in the night. The lessons had only amplified it, dragging the fleeting sparks of attraction to the surface, letting them catch fire under the intensity of his presence.
You asked him to teach you how to shoot and the whole while, you felt it dripping down your spine to pool between your thighs. Two suits between you, and every word he uttered through the comm link left you feeling stripped bare.
“Easy does it,” he murmured. The speaker in your helmet added husk to his voice, and that only made it worse.
“Grip it harder,” he said, pressing his hand around yours, and your knees almost buckled.
He must have felt the tension, because he brought it up afterwards. Not directly, but that was never his way. He danced around it, until he pounced.
“Small space. Before. How did you…seek relief?” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully.
It was a bold question, but then again – everything he’s done told you he’s a bold man.
“I don’t –” you shied away from the question, looking away. "Let's not talk about it.”
“So you didn’t.”
“I didn’t say that, I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“So you did?” His eyebrows raised.
No, you didn’t, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
“Why are you so worried about it?” you asked instead, and he lifted his hands in surrender.
“Not worried, little bird. Just curious.”
He was always curious - and that was the issue. It wasn’t true attraction he felt, but rather misplaced attraction on your part. When you thought about it for too long, you felt foolish and immature. It wasn’t him, it was the situation. He was too attentive for his own good, too charming. He thought of you as someone who was dependent on him, not someone to be attracted to. Besides, how could it be him? Not only someone with ages more experience than you, but also someone so…rough? A murderer?
A murderer that’s done so only for you, a small voice whispered inside your head.
Logic told you that you were too young, too inexperienced for a man like that. But it didn’t stop your treacherous mind from rebelling.
You did seek relief that night, hours after he teased you about it. The second he went to shower, you laid down on your cot and spread your thighs and let the fire you felt earlier consume you. You recalled his words, his touch, the solid breadth of his body behind yours. It didn’t take long with how worked up you were, but afterwards, you felt overwhelming shame. You scolded yourself, telling yourself never again. It was a violation of his fucking privacy for fucks sake, a violation of his boundaries that you did it while he was stuck inside the same small container with you. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who would mind, but still, the guilt consumed you for days, so bad that you couldn’t even meet Ezra’s eyes for fear that he would know.
You felt like your fingertips were branded red, your come a permanent stain on the skin.
Days later, you did it again.
You couldn’t help yourself. It seemed like everything he did was unintentionally filthy. The phrases he said, the little grunts he let out while working, the strain in his voice sometimes through the helmet. Everything sounded like a double entendre to your horny, shameful ears and that said nothing for the way he looked at you.
You never stood a chance against that empty promise to yourself.
Weeks of living together has taught you that he likes to shower at night before bed, and tonight is no exception. You watch as he gathers his clothes from underneath his cot, his thermals stretching across his broad back. The muscles shift underneath the thin fabric, and you track every movement out of the corner of your eye.
Pretending to clean the dishes, you’ve been waiting all day for this, and after today especially, it takes everything you have to feign nonchalance.
That spoon. The way he licked it, the sound he made, the look on his face. The mental image joins others: his hands while he works, the shift of his back muscles underneath his thermals, the heat of his knee knocking into yours when he sits close. Sounds join: his breathing through the commlink, the soft sound in the back of his throat that he makes when he shifts in his sleep.
Images and sounds cycle rapidly through your head, all joining the swirl of arousal that feels like an empty pit low in your belly and it’s everything you can do to wait until you’re sure he’s showering before you bend over the kitchen counter, thrusting a hand beneath your thermals.
The second your fingers find slippery wetness, you sigh with relief. It’s a pained sigh though, one of desperation that has you rubbing the pads of your fingers over your clit with a steady, firm press as you bite your lip to quell the telltale sounds of what you’re doing. You hurt with the way you’ve wanted him, made worse by his close proximity. It’s been raining for days and you’ve been stuck inside with him and the sounds he made last night while he was sleeping echo in your mind. You breathe hard, condensation fogging the counter top.
The sound of water splashing in the background, your imagination supplies the rest:
His tanned skin, flush with heat. His hair, even darker when wet. The line of his throat as he tips his head back, the swirl of hair around his belly button and down, the broadness of his shoulders in that small space. His forearms flexing as he washes himself – an image that automatically turns into his hand braced on the wall of the shower, steam filling the air around him as his other hand pumps frantically between his thighs –
You climb higher and higher, a heady pulse throbbing between your legs, your thighs trembling as you ascend with frantic, little whines between your clenched teeth.
The phantom weight of his cock in your grip and then the smooth, blunt tip of it sliding across your cheek, between your breasts, your lips stretching around it as your tongue molds to fit the underside.
You don’t have a ton of experience under your belt, but you have enough to know what a cock feels like. His though? Would it be thicker? Bigger? You picture him stripping out of his suit the way he does, his thermal inching up just enough to see the thatch of hair that collects underneath his belly button to lead down beneath his waistband, and you start to come, pressing your face into the crook of your arm to muffle the sound.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Watch my fingers.”
“Easy, easy, Birdie. That’s it.”
“Hold it nice and tight. That’s it.”
Every word he’s spoken to you taken out of context to supply the scene in your head, you bite the fabric of your thermal when you come. You let out a breathless sob, your cunt pulsing as the sparks of your release burst bright between your hips, and your fingers work the last dregs of it out, savoring the intensity of satisfying the ache you’ve felt all day.
You slump against the counter, your limp hand resting between your thighs and catch your breath. The blood rushing through your ears fades, clarity bringing the sound of silence.
Silence.
The shower is off.
–
He heard it.
He thought he was hearing things as he dried off; lingering echoes that remained from his release moments ago. It was faint, but when he paused toweling, he heard it.
A muffled groan, a soft whine and even while still feeling the throbs of the spend he painted the shower wall with, he begins to harden.
He fucking knew it. He clasps himself in hand, giving his cock a firm squeeze, and listens.
There is silence on the other side of the door, and he wonders where you are in the pod right now. Where did you end up when you took your relief? He pictures it, and the flare of lust that instantly clouds his vision almost has him opening the door without getting dressed. He’ll come and find you, push you down onto your cot, rip the clothes off that have been giving him everything and nothing all at once these weeks and finally consume you, like you’ve consumed him.
He dresses quickly, pulling his thermals over still damp skin. Opening the shower compartment, he finds you at the sink, scrubbing your hands.
In the kitchen? You didn’t even lay down on your cot? Your need must have been too urgent, and he grins at the idea. Will you let him fuck you there?
He feigns ignorance, coming to lean casually against the counter. Leaning in close, he wears a mask of politeness. “Thanks for cleaning up.”
“No problem,” you reply, not meeting his eyes.
In any other situation, he’d revel in the game of cat and mouse. He’d plot out ways to get you to break or bend to his will, letting you dangle on the edge until you were begging him for relief. But now…he pauses.
“You okay, Birdie?”
“Yea.” Your expression is one of fake brightness, your eyes giving it away. “Just…thinking about tomorrow.”
It’s clear that’s not the whole truth. He knows what he heard and from the rapid beat of your pulse under your delicate skin tells him that you’re obviously hiding something, but the mention of tomorrow is like being doused with cold water.
Tomorrow, when he brings you out into the Green, putting you in the path of danger that you never asked to be in. You never asked for any of this, and he feels sickened at the previous idea of pushing you down on your cot to take what you’re “offering”. He should be focusing on preparing you for the danger that’s out there. He knows better than this, and for the first time in a long time, he feels chastened.
“You’ve got this,” he reassures you, and though he can feel the slight hitch in your breathing when his hand rests on your shoulder, he ignores it. “We’ve got this. As your partner, I swear on my life I won’t let anything happen. Understand?”
He feels you lean slightly into his touch, and suppresses the urge to pull you close. It’s been a long time since he’s comforted anyone, and he’s surprised the impulse comes back so quickly.
You look up at him, and the impulse grows with how vulnerable you look. So open, so trusting – yet resolute in your faith in him.
I've been very selfish in how many times I've read this through without sitting down to do a proper reblog of it! Let's get to it.
He jerks awake.
With his heart pounding and his cock hard, you perch at the edge of his cot, your delicate face etched with worry.
“Ezra. Ezra, hey.”
Your hand presses down on his chest, and he covers it with his own for a moment as the surroundings of the pod become clearer, sharper. Your face comes into focus, a luminous, soft thing in the hazy dark and for a split second, he feels an overwhelming draw towards you. As if he should sit up and meet your mouth with his.
His cock throbs, and he flinches. Shit.
This is how I imagined this part:
There are forty in total needed and you have twelve that function. Thirteen, he counts, if you’re successful with this one.
listen, I'm not the best with math, but this sounds like a real bleak situation lmao
You continue to flip through the manual, and he imagines you making the first move. Asking him to help with an ache you have, telling him only his fingers could soothe it. You, hovering at the side of his cot, whispering please. It’s perverse, the dynamic that makes him throb. You, helpless and begging for relief, and him, competent and so very willing.
well damn brother it's making me throb too
Your question gives him pause, but it’s your face that affects him more. So open, so trusting. Looking to him for guidance and reassurance, and an image of you flat on your back on your cot with the same face flashes through his mind. He clears his throat.
i actually need them to fuck RIGHT NOW
Spooning it into his mouth, he catches the way your eyes linger on the action and he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself. You make it too easy with your expressive face, and feeling guilty only goes so far against his impulses.
he is my favoritist little pervert rapscallion 🥹
You look up at him, and the impulse grows with how vulnerable you look. So open, so trusting – yet resolute in your faith in him.
You nod. “We’ve got this.”
UUGHHHHH I'M SO NERVOUS FOR THEM!!!!
ty ty ty a million times over for writing this, Kelli. You writing Ezra will always scratch that itch, and I feel so grateful that you lend your talents to him. I love this story so much! Ty for keeping at it, and please know that no matter how many weeks or months pass between one chapter to the next, I will be here to read it and show it love!
summary: after a night out dancing and a lift home turns into something more, you learn something about your dad's buddy.
joel miller fucks.
pairing: young!joel miller x f!reader
ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. it's smut, y'all. everything you've come to expect. respectable age gap (10 years ish), tiny bit of spanking, one (1) gentle pussy slap, lil bit of daddy kink, joel miller eats it from the back (oral (f&m)), edging, unprotected piv (do better), creampie, feelings, joel miller's whore mouth.
reader has hair and wears dresses, no other descriptions or name.
wc: 6.9k (wahey)
an: for @schnarfer. my favourite hot priest, i worship in your church <3
Joel went out looking for trouble that night.
Hair curling at the nape of his neck, a beer sweltering in his hand as beads of sweat carved their way down the strong line of his back. T-shirt sticking to his skin, tension wound tight in his shoulders, thick in every muscle, every strand of sinew after work.
Revelling in the feeling of how the weight of the day lifted the more he drank, the more he relaxed, feeling his smile get wider the more he loosened up in the crowded bar. Freshly thirty five, another year in hand. Tommy buying the shots, introducing him to every new face that walked into the steaming, heavy swell of wood and linoleum, every stranger who leant against the tacky bar, every pretty girl who flicked their hair and batted their eyelashes.
He’s laughing - held flung back, chest heaving - harder than he has in a long time. Dancing in a way so unlike how he dances with Sarah in the kitchen, welcoming the heavy, slow grind of hips against his own, breathless against a sweet smelling neck. It’s hot and it’s loud on this Friday night in Austin, and he loves it.
Not quite basking in the attention of being the birthday boy, but shouldering the stream of conversation that Tommy directs his way nonetheless. Cheeks flushed pink as he’s hauled up on to the bar top, clumsy, unsure where to look as the bartender encourages him to stand in full view of the crowd. The whole bar, oscillating with colour and light and sound, roaring into a raucous chorus of happy birthday, beckoned by the chime of the bell by the till.
The spectacle of it all makes him look to the ceiling before dropping his chin to his chest, makes him laugh again, watching these people, many strangers, cheer and sing for him.
He holds his beer to his chest through the first part of the song, cheeks tight with a smile. His eyes swivel to the corner of the dancefloor on the downturn of Joel… catching the flicker and flare of a pair he recognises, scanning your face on the refrain - happy birthday - heart dropping confusingly low in his chest, the world taking a sticky beat as his blood halts and begins to rush again - to you.
He’s not seen you here before. Much more used to seeing you coming and going from your father’s house - bright smile, wicked eyes. Moved back home after spending some time out west when you’d finished your Masters program, always happy to chat for a little longer if you were where he was. Interesting and interested - he’s been regaled by tales of you from your father - the man who’s been overseeing safety on Joel’s latest job site - and listened to more directly from you, lip caught between his teeth as he bit back amusement at the things you didn’t want your dad to know.
Your father is a good man. Kind, supportive. So proud of you in the way he talks that Joel’s taking blueprints for raising Sarah. And you - you. Joel tries to think of you in ways he thinks of other colleagues or acquaintances. Smart, creative, perceptive. Patient, generous with your time and energy when entertaining neighbours at cookouts. Any other thoughts creep in in the dead of night, and he’s quick to try and forget them by morning.
But this - you here, now - is entirely different. It could be the buzz of the tequila in his system, could be the hot blood in his veins, could be the giddy little flash of that smile you shoot him as you clap and whoop with the rest of the crowd, but his feet are itching to find you once he half hops, half clambers down off the bar, accepting claps on the back and other sentiments as he searches for you again.
But you’re gone.
Disappeared, into thin air. Like he imagined you in the first place.
He cranes his neck a little, twisting his head from side to side as if trying to loosen another tight muscle, trying to tamp down the damp disappointment he feels.
Trying to remember how he tries to forget.
‘Happy birthday, cowboy,’ the words are breathless, squeezed through a smile.
The grin that creeps across his face is slow and wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he turns to face you.
‘Evenin’, darlin’,’ is his reply. Deep, coy, any idea of hiding his thoughts gone, buried. It’s his birthday, and you’re here. You and your sparkling eyes.
‘You gonna let me buy you a drink, or have you got a queue of ladies lining up to do that already?’
He laughs, and you feel the sound glimmer down your body, lighting every synapse, every receptor. You track his gaze as it drifts down your body and back up, spine straightening at his appraisal.
Delicious thighs beneath the hem of your skirt, soft swell of your breasts above your neckline.
‘Your daddy know you’re here?’ He asks, delighting in the way you scoff.
‘My daddy knows I’m out tonight,’ you say, licking your teeth, eyes dropping to his mouth, ‘And he don’t care much about it. I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle myself.’
They’re big words for someone around ten years his junior, but he doesn’t doubt it. He’s heard your bartending stories, about your debates with fratboys. Something about your confidence, your self-assuredness licks a tongue of flame up his back. He bites his cheek.
‘Best buy me that drink, then.’
He went looking for trouble that night.
And Jesus, he found it.
Found it on the dancefloor, your soft body grinding against his. The heat and the sweat, how you moved your hips with his, how you’d giggled when he’d turned you around, pulling you flush against him. Your hands grasping for him, clutching at his thigh as you pressed firmly against the bulge growing at your backside, head tipped back, bliss etched across your face as you felt each other.
Found it in his truck when he dragged you outside under the pretence of giving you a lift home, found it when he rucked your skirt up on the backseat, when he pulled the top of your dress down. Inches of skin he had banished fantasies about to the back of his mind, revealed to him in the dim light of the parking lot. The sweat gleaming on your sternum, shining on your clavicles, your neck. He wishes, now, that he had taken more time to tell you how beautiful you looked, how smart you are, how funny, that first time, but the two of you had been too caught up in seeing, feeling, as much as possible.
His knees had protested as he crammed himself onto the floor, wanting to be between those thighs, wanting to taste you. Pressing, gliding his fingers against your pussy over your underwear, watching you keen and beg, hands twisting tight in the material of your dress, then his shirt collar, then his hair.
And that first swipe of his tongue when he’d pulled your underwear to the side, that first, most base knowledge of you. The sweet and sour, your smell, the way you became pliant, willing to have your thighs pushed up towards your chest. Quickly obsessed with the way you looked down at him, jaw slack, pupils blown, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Quickly obsessed with the way your pussy looked, puffy, needy, the way it leaked and clenched before him as he leant back to spit on it, how your head hit the headrest with a soft thump.
Too obsessed, everything about that night feeling too good as he lowered you down onto him, as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder to stop himself from coming too early, watching you bounce on his cock, listening to the way you moaned and panted and whimpered his name. The wet sounds of you fucking, the way he held you still, big hands on your waist as he bucked up into you. The way your noises, your breathing stuttered as he thrusted harder, as he dropped you lower. The fogged windows, low bass from the bar, how you clenched and fluttered around him as he wrung two orgasms from your pretty body before spilling himself inside you.
He’s been finding trouble ever since.
Finding reasons to help you grab drinks, bring out nibbles at your dad’s Halloween party. Finding excuses to have you backed up against the tool bench in the garage instead, his hips between yours, soft lips against chapped or your hand tight against your mouth to make sure nobody would find you. Heading back out into the garden with his cock still swollen, tucked into his black slacks, feeling your slick around its base still, your fake blood smeared on his dog collar, watching as you pressed your thighs together in your seat, knowing you could still feel him trickling out of you. He could hear your teasing through the glint in your eye - some hot priest you are, father.
Driving you home from the bar after a night of dancing around each other, after glances were snuck whenever they could be - over his brother’s shoulder, between your friends’ laughter. The crackle of electricity in the truck cab as the warm air threaded itself between you, your sparkling eyes, devious little laugh.
Walking you to your door, keeping you safe, don't wanna disappoint your old man.
Jamming his foot between the wood and the frame to come in when you told him he wasn’t home.
The mornings when Sarah’s waking up, still sugar-high after a sleepover, in a house the other side of town. The mornings he’s awake first, drinking coffee at his kitchen table when you hop down the stairs in his t-shirt from the night before, sleep-stained and perfect. The mornings that start with you in his lap, with kisses pressed to temples, lips, necks, his wide palms snaking under the material, fiending warm skin, finding it, cradling it. The firm weight of your breasts in his palms, the pebbling of your nipples beneath his thumbs. The soft rock of your hips against his hardening length, his fingers reaching to pull your panties to the side, finding you soaked like that first night. How you whine and huff against his shoulder as he sinks one, two, three digits into you, as he twists them, pumps them, as he uses his thumb to toy with your clit. The wet patch you leave, darkening the grey tenting below you, the outline of him something you want to press your face against, nuzzle, mouth at until he’s begging this time.
Mornings when he takes you apart deftly, until you hover above him, pulling his hard, leaking cock over the top of his sweatpants, savouring that delicious stretch around him, the way he thickens out at the base, the way the wiry hair there catches on your clit. When you can enjoy the way he holds you there afterwards, talking about your days ahead, nibbling at your ear as his cum slips from you along with his softening cock.
All these moments, and they’re never enough.
Because despite how often they happen, how often he might be able to hold you, kiss you - you make Joel Miller feel like a fucking teenager.
It’s been years since he’s woken up to the cooling evidence of a wet dream in his boxers. He’s having them nightly now in his thirties; sick and tired of waking up wet and aching and sticky, sick and tired of wishing it was you, not his hand, helping to solve the problem.
He wants you here so much more often than he does. The tip of his tongue on the evenings you call, sunlight fading through the window, orange on his sheets. He wonders, as you talk, what it would look like painted onto your skin.
He wants Sarah to actually know how he feels about the woman who babysits her every so often, wants Tommy to understand the reason why he turns up smiling to the site every day. And he wants your father to know his daughter has found someone who’ll treat her right, who’ll hold her hand through the bad days and give her all he can to make her smile.
The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders whether you have, too.
Whether you’d confess to your father the crush you have on the contractor, ask if he could put in a good word for you. There isn’t much between you - it would only take some careful wording, an evening where he can present the flowers he’s been dying to give you at your door.
He’s sure your father wouldn’t mind.
But this secret, the sneaking around - he can’t deny the thrill of it. Stolen touches, kisses, whispers in the moonlight. Quiet jokes between the two of you, the looks exchanged around others, the show of you putting your hand on his shoulder - can I get you anything else, Mr Miller?
You’ve only come close to being found out once. Just the once. By Tommy - who else could it have been?
Tommy, who couldn't hide his delight when he found the underwear you’d left behind in Joel's truck one morning, wheezing with laughter as Joel stuffed your soft, cotton panties into his back pocket. His cheeks aflame, he swore under his breath that he’d kill his little brother if he ever flicked a woman’s underwear at him like that again instead of doing the right thing - kicking them under the seat and pretending he hadn’t seen anything.
Between gasping breaths, Tommy had managed to make a good point. At least it wasn't Sarah who’d found them.
You gonna tell me who the lucky lady is, big brother?
He didn’t. Not yet.
It’s been so unbearably hot all day.
Too hot to work in the open air, and though Joel’s not grateful for the heat, he is grateful for the chance to stay at home. A chance to catch up on chores while Sarah basks in the AC at school, a chance to work his way through bills and invoices, fighting to keep his head clear of any thought of you and what you might be up to in weather like this.
He keeps his eyes carefully trained on numbers, figures, dates, unaware of the clock, unaware of the calls he’s missing. Only catches himself daydreaming when the lines start to blur.
He makes it to just past lunchtime when he hears a car pull up in the driveway. He knows the rattle of that engine, the heave of noise it makes as it turns off.
He stands from the table, blood racing in his chest.
‘God- motherfuckin’ shit,'
Joel lets the front door hang open behind him, folding his arms across his heart as you try and jam your wing mirror back in place.
‘You kiss your grandma with that mouth?’
You grin, flipping him off as you slam the door closed. The mirror sticks.
‘Yeah. Suck your dick with it, too,’
His lips quirk, watching as you stand with your hip against the front of your car, a box in one hand, the other shielding your eyes from the sun. Staring at each other, a little game you play. You watch his smirk grow, feeling the trickle of sweat down your spine.
‘There a reason why you’re here?’
You roll your eyes, like it should be obvious. And it is obvious, but -
‘Freezer’s fucked,’ you huff, and Joel raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I put them in yours?’
You hold the box up to him.
‘Popsicles?’ Joel frowns. You roll your eyes at him.
‘Please, Joel. They’re literally the only thing keeping me sane,’
He scratches at his jaw, pretending to contemplate.
‘I dunno, darlin’,’ he says, ‘The only thing? Surely that AC of yours is doin’ a fine job,'
You scoff at him, folding your own arms.
‘That old piece a’ shit ain’t doin’ nothin’ and you know it,’
He chuckles, letting his arms drift to his sides.
‘Guess I can take care of ‘em for ya. Anythin’ else?’
You bite your lip, eyes glinting in the sun.
‘Can I come in?’ you ask. A slow, smug smile grows across Joel’s lips.
‘'N do what, exactly?’
You pout at him, fluttering your eyelashes. His cock twitches.
‘Just wanna swim in the pool. Promise I won’t do nothin’ else, Mr Miller,’
‘Nothin’ else, baby?’ He says, lowly.
You shake your head, eyes wide. Picture of false innocence.
‘Nothin’ else,'
If there are two things Joel has come to know about you in the last year, it’s that you’re a great fuck, and a bad liar.
He steps back into the open door behind him, grinning as you skip past him into the hallway. He watches, snicking the catch and lock as you make your way into the kitchen, swinging open the refrigerator door, finding a spot for your iced treats. He follows, leaning against the doorframe, watching as you stand in the cold air flowing from the appliance for a moment, your eyes closed.
He’s looking at your legs when you turn to speak to him, snapping to meet your gaze as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. That ship sailed long ago. You grin at him.
‘Whatcha been doin’?’
He exhales, stepping closer.
‘Workin’,’
You hum, meeting him beside the kitchen table, surveying the stacks of paper.
‘Not too hard?’
‘Hard to, when I'm thinkin’ ‘bout you,’
You grin, twisting to look at him.
‘You sweet on me, Miller?’
He shrugs.
‘Bout time you noticed,’
His hands find your waist as yours make their way up his chest, his shoulders, winding around his neck.
‘I had my suspicions,’ you whisper, before pressing your lips to his. He smiles into it, parting his lips to invite you in, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
‘Missed you,’ you breathe, and he hums in response.
‘Missed you too, baby,’
You’re salty sweet; warm scent of your skin, your sun lotion, your perfume, your sweat. When he’s satisfied, done licking lazily into your mouth, exploring the taste of your lips, he moves to your neck. Laving kisses there, biting, sucking, nibbling as you sigh against him. He bites harder, earning a particularly needy whimper, hands moving to knead the flesh of your ass through your dress.
‘Joel,’ you murmur, ‘You’ll leave a mark,’
He hums, trailing kisses up your neck to the space behind your ear, along your jaw, before finally meeting your lips again.
‘Don’t care.’
He’s grasping your hips to turn you so you’re pressed against the table, your back to his firm chest. You can’t help the gasp, the giggle that floats from you as he tugs you closer, as you feel the heft of him pressed into the small of your back. You shift your hips, brushing against him, slow and purposeful.
Joel groans - a long, drawn out, hungry sound. He pulls your hips tighter to him, moving against you just the same before his hands slide up to your breasts, holding the weight of each in his palms, squeezing and rolling a nipple between his thumb and finger. You tip your head back against his shoulder, and he hums approvingly as you begin to grind against him in earnest. He pauses only for a moment to pull your straps from your shoulders and work your dress down to expose your tits, and then he’s on you again. Teasing and stroking and pinching, your hand gripping his forearms as you huff and whimper, caged between him and the table. You moan his name, bleeding every once of want you feel into it, hoping he can hear just by the sound of your voice how wet you are for him.
‘Dreamt about ya last night,’ he rasps in your ear, and you flash him a dazzling, breathless smile.
‘Oh yeah? ‘N what’d ya dream about, cowboy?’
You whine as he crowds you, leaning down to suck another bruise into the junction between your neck and shoulders, whiskers bristling against your skin, hands hot and heavy everywhere they can find purchase.
‘Much rather show you,’ he rumbles.
You nip your bottom lip between your teeth, shooting him a wicked look over your shoulder. His eyes crinkle, and as he spins you to face him again, he moves to pinch your jaw, just rough enough to curb your inevitable wise ass response. He watches as your eyes glaze a little, soft slump of your shoulders as he gives your head a little shake. His cock is achingly hard.
‘Upstairs. Now,’
As soon as he backs away from you, you’re sprinting towards the stairs with a shriek. Joel is close behind, and you can feel the heat of him, enough to set your heart galloping in your chest. Something primal urging space between you, something base wishing there was none.
You clatter through his bedroom door, whirling to face him - bare chest heaving, lips curled. He pauses in the doorway - so tall and broad, so imposing - shoulders straining against his t-shirt, curls frayed from your hands. He steps in, swings the door shut behind him, and then he’s closing the space easily - one, two, three - gathering you in his arms until you’re on tiptoes, pawing at the flesh of your ass through your sundress. Obsessed with it. You on him, him on you.
He needs this like air.
His breath is hot against your lips, mouth needy and wet as you open yourself to him. He licks into your mouth, kissing you like it’s something you need to take from him, like there’s something you need to understand through the action alone. He fiddles with the flimsy material of your half-removed sundress, pulling at it a little.
‘Take this off,’ he growls, nipping at your lips.
You step back from him as you push it past your hips, the fabric pooling to the floor in seconds, leaving you in your panties. He bites his lip, murmuring a fuck before stripping himself of his t-shirt. Glorious tan chest, slightly lighter than his strong arms, shoulders seeming even broader, smattering of hair that leads down past his navel, his smooth belly, the constellations of freckles that join beneath your fingertips.
You busy your fingers with his belt as he cups your face once more, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your cheekbones. You’re giggling, trying to see what you’re doing through the blur of his face and hands, but then his palms are moving lower, groping at your breasts again, swiping his thumbs against your taught nipples, groaning against your mouth as you dip your hand past his unfastened belt and fly, into his boxers to cup his silken skin.
‘How’d that dream go again?’
Joel smiles against your mouth, giving a harsh twist to each peaked bud before beginning to push his jeans further down.
‘Kneel,’ he commands.
You drop to your knees in one swift motion, biting your lip at him as he whips his belt from its loops and throws it to the corner of the room. Your eager fingers curl under the waistband of his jeans, inching them and his underwear down.
‘Don’t know how you’re wearing jeans in this weather -’
‘Cos I knew you’d be here some point to take ‘em off me,’
You smirk, blinking up at him through your eyelashes.
‘Who, me? I don’t know what kind of girl you take me for, daddy, but…’ You’re chewing your cheek to try and temper your look of amusement, but Joel gives in immediately. Goofy smile, all teeth, eyes crinkling at the edges. He cups your jaw as you wrap your hand around his base, pulling him out of his underwear, soft black material barely holding him in.
You make him weak in many ways, but two especially. The little gasp you make when you see him before you like this, and the little moan you let out when he just notches his tip inside you.
His body moves with the first pump of your tight fist, the swirl of your thumb when you reach the head, spreading the pearl of precum beading there as he hisses. Thick and pulsing in your hand, velvety smooth, you trace its lines, veins with a delicate finger, press a kiss to his tip. Joel’s nostrils flare.
‘So pretty,’ you murmur, and that smirk tugs at his lips again.
‘I say you could touch it?’
You roll your eyes, quirking your head at him.
‘Didn’t think you had to,’ you shrug, ‘Kinda comes with the territory of tellin’ me to get on my knees -’
He scoffs.
‘Alright, smart ass,’ tangling his fingers in your hair, ‘Make me proud.’
You smile broadly, before inching closer, moving your mouth with your hand to chase down his length. You always know how to shut him up, and right now, the sight, the sound, the feel of you taking him all on the first try makes him fucking dizzy.
Hot and wet, the ridges of the roof of your mouth like satin around his cock, jumping as it hits the back of your throat and further, twitching again as you hum around him, opening your eyes - doe-like, watering already, the pinch in your brows telling him what you need to hear.
‘Good girl,’ he groans, ‘Good fucking girl,’
It’s the encouragement you need, moaning again as you pull back to the tip, taking him back in again as you bring one hand up to scratch at his thigh, the other moving from his length to his balls, cupping them softly, squeezing, rolling, and he’s on fucking fire. If there was ever a chance he was going to hell before, he’s sure the way you make him feel will send him there regardless.
You’re taking it slow, steady, making him feel every inch of your mouth as you moan and breathe, so intense that he can feel his tip heating - a kind of overstimulation - as he lets little moans slip more freely from his lips. Sighs and mutterings, breathless praise, wrecked groans as you start to move faster, jaw falling open. A steady stream of salt on your tongue, the taste making you keen for him, press your nose to the skin above his cock, making you forget anything outside the taste of him in your mouth. The hand on his thigh moving to work his length as you pay special attention to his head, your hips bucking unconsciously. His stomach jumps, lungs heaving as he massages your crown, as you kitten lick and swirl your tongue down the vein on the underside, rewarded with a sharp, wanton gasp as you pull back to slap him against your tongue.
You watch as his pink tip flushes a darker shade, as it dribbles even more, feeling him jerk in your hand. Spellbound, slack-jawed at the way you take him, at the way you want him, like the taste and the pressure is never enough. How you always need more, more, more, and he’s getting closer, closer, closer -
He pulls you off with a deep, guttural groan - missing your mouth the minute it’s gone, resisting the temptation to shove himself back past your lips and come down your throat.
You gaze up at him, pouting, straining against the hand in your hair.
‘What? Didn’t I make you proud, cowboy?’
He tightens his grip, tips your head further to meet his gaze.
‘Bed,’ he commands, relinquishing his hold, ridding himself of his remaining clothes as you do yours, clambering up onto his bed, settling yourself on your knees again, wiggling side to side, your wide eyes rapt, wired. Chin wet, chest heaving, fingers twitching in your lap, he makes his decision almost instantly. Steps forwards, fingers brushing against the inside of your knee. Your legs part automatically, and he follows the contour of soft skin in the inside of your thighs right to the very top, no grace in the way he swipes his fingers through your folds, collecting the wetness there. And there’s so much of it, so much you feel proud of the way his eyes darken when he feels it.
‘What’s this, baby?’ He coos, repeating the motion as you whimper, as your shoulders hunch and your chin tips down. He lifts it with a finger and thumb, before cupping your face. You nuzzle into the touch, eyes hungry. ‘Oh, pretty girl,’ he murmurs, smiling again, ‘This happen while you were down on your knees sucking daddy’s cock?’
You snort softly, forehead knocking against his as he crowds closer.
‘Fucker-’ you start, but it’s cut off by your gasp as he easily slips in two thick fingers. He tuts.
‘Try again,’
‘Yes,’ you whisper, ‘Fuck yes, it did,’
He kisses your nose, pumping the digits slowly.
‘Gonna have to do something about that then, aren’t we?’
‘Please,’ you breathe, and he removes his fingers, slipping them into his mouth with another groan, tasting you - fuck.
‘Hands and knees, baby,’ he says roughly, and you obey.
He pushes you forward so your chest is pressed into the sheets, nipples catching on the fabric, sweat soaking, cooling against the bed. Your breath catches in your throat - good girl, like this - and he’s pulling your hips up towards him, gripping the flesh at the backs of your thighs to spread you. Your knees slide, pliant with the need that scorches through you, and you press your cheek into the duvet, trying to angle your head so you can watch him watching you.
And fuck, is he watching you. Eyes blown, lips bitten, a depraved intensity settling in the way his jaw flexes. You bunch your hands into fists on the cotton, shuddering as his palms run over your curves - hips, waist, hips, ass, thighs - before they stop, parting you for him again. You can’t help the way you present yourself to him, the way your hips tilt when air meets your bare cunt.
‘Atta girl,’ he mumbles, ‘Look at all that. You makin’ a mess f’me, baby? This pretty little pussy achin’ for what I wanna give her?’
You muffle your response, so fucking desperate, against his sheets, clutching the material tighter. He swipes both his thumbs through your folds, tracing the seam of your cunt, spreading the slick there to shine against your skin, teasing one digit at the entrance of your hole, the other inching its way - agonisingly - towards your clit. You throb, and he watches a bead of slick dribble down your folds, grinding himself against the bed as his cock jumps.
‘Is she, baby?’
You gasp, turning your head to him again. His eyes meet yours, dark, burning.
‘Yes,’ you half-moan, half-sob.
He hums in response, before turning back to your spread cunt. The thumb making its way towards your clit disappears, and you scrunch your brows together in disapproval, mouth working around a strangled please- before the sensation is replaced by his warm breath, then his firm tongue as he licks you from your clit to your hole.
The cry that forces its way past your lips is strangled, choked, stuck in your throat as you clench around nothing at the contact.
‘Oh, fuck -’
And he chuckles against you, at the way your legs almost give out, wrapping his strong arms around your thighs in an effort to hold you upright. You squeeze your eyes closed as he licks further - Joel, fuck - seeking your clit again, pulling it between his lips, dragging his face against you, like he needs it, like he can’t be apart from you.
He sucks a little harsher, and at the very same time, you feel the tip of his nose edge against your cunt. You moan, a fractured sound, and he pulls you towards him again, pressing the curve of it further inside, moving his tongue in circles. You’re seeing fucking stars.
Breath shuddering out of you in high pitched gasps, toes curling against the pressure that builds so quickly already in your gut, unable to move, to find any relief as he mouths at you - ravenous, cramming his face, his fucking nose, as far into you as he can, slurping and sucking, letting his teeth graze you gently when you try to protest - too much, close Joel, ‘m close, fuck -
He pulls back just as suddenly as he came near, swatting your ass quickly, once, twice, before leaning back in. You barely have time to register the sting, how it flares goosebumps up your back, what it means, drunk on the feel of his mouth on you. He begins the same onslaught, sucking, licking, groaning at your taste before the knot tightens again.
‘Yes, please, Joel, please -’
But he’s gone again, that same firm hand landing on your backside as he pushes himself up, loosening his arms from their vice grip on your thighs.
‘Not yet,’ he rasps, ‘Not yet, gonna come on my cock, yeah? Get it nice and wet, show me how much you like it?’
You rock your forehead against his mattress, waves of pleasure rolling through you, cunt fluttering, still so exposed to him. You take too long to answer, moaning loudly as he taps his palm against your soaked folds. You jolt, hips moving instinctively, finding nothing. You shudder a breath.
‘Yes, wanna come on your cock, I need it daddy. Need you inside me, need you to fuck me, need to come, Joel, please -’
He pulls you by the hips to the edge of the bed again, one palm kneading the flesh there, the other sliding three fingers through your arousal, bringing the wetness to his cock, slicking himself up. You raise yourself up on your elbows, looking back at him, and Joel's heart almost gives out. That perfect little pout, the sweat dripping down your forehead, the bead of it that travels down the valley of your spine, shining against your skin. Every inch of you so perfect, glossy in the heat, his. The patch he loves so much at the bottom of your back, just before the swell of your ass, even better, impossibly, from this angle.
He holds you still with the grip on your hip as he nudges the tip of his cock against your entrance, and your breath stills in your lungs. That first press, the pressure, the beginning of the stretch, the way you contract around the promise of it, waiting, waiting -
Waiting.
Joel smiles, though you can’t see it. His body pulled taught, barely resisting the urge to push himself further into you.
‘Go on, pretty girl,’ he says, ‘Wanna see you fuck yourself on it. Show me how bad you need it,’
You hear his breath catch the moment you begin to slide down, and then the room is silent, save for the buzzing of his fans and the sticky sound of you pulling him inside. When you reach his base, nestling against the hair there, you both let out an honest, drawn out groan of relief. You’re so full of him, the stretch welcome, pressing against a sweet spot deep inside you, just enough to leave you breathless. You can feel him pulse in time with your heartbeat, feel yourself grow wetter, begin to drip down your thighs as you breathe heavily, as his grip grows firmer, as his fingers slide to the crease between your thighs and your stomach.
‘Move, baby,’ he pleads, sounding just as wrecked as you feel.
So you do. Slow, methodical, so you can feel all of him. Every inch, every vein that makes you clench around him, that makes him groan low in his throat. You know he wants it faster, that this time he wants more, but you’re too busy indulging yourself, focused on the drag of him against your walls, showing him how he takes care of you, making sure he watches how he fills you, how well you take him.
When the pressure begins to grow, when he coos at you a little more, you move with more force, fucking yourself back, your noises coming louder, higher pitched, while his grow lower, as he babbles to you more and more.
‘Fuck, look at you, baby. Look at you. Take me so good, take me so deep. Perfect pussy, made f’me, ain’t she? So pretty baby, so pretty the way you stretch, feel so good, so good, darlin’, fuck -’
He’s almost too caught up in the way your ass recoils against his thighs, the way your pussy moulds itself to him, that he misses the tell tale signs of you about to come. The way you gasp, the way you tighten and throb, the way you fist the sheets around you, the way your body begins to lock up -
‘No. Not yet,’ he grits out, pulling his hips back, pulse pounding in his ears as he watches your body try to chase his before he grips you again, turning you onto your back.
You’re sobbing around your plea - please Joel, been so good, just wanna come around you, please baby - but he’s steadfast.
He wants to see your face when you let go. Wants to watch your eyes roll, wants to watch you arch, wants to see the way your stomach lurches -
You scrabble for him, slurring your words, so fucked out - please Joel please, please baby, god, I just need - as he arranges your legs so your knees are bent, so your pretty little pussy is exposed completely to him - need you, please fuck me - before he swipes his thumb against your clit again, just to hear your broken whine, the hiccuped sigh, the way your body twitches, so close.
He pauses, holds your thighs wide open before him, towering above you. You reach to skate a hand up his tan belly, fingers scraping through the hair there, the muscled lines leading down to his cock, enjoying the thrum of his heart beating through his skin before he knocks it aside, pursing his lips and spitting straight onto where you are connected.
It turns you half-feral, rearing up towards him as he speaks.
‘There we go, baby. This what we need,’
The first thrust in takes your breath away.
And he doesn’t give you any chance to get it back.
He sets a punishing pace, feeding you his cock with dogged precision, consumed by how you look spread beneath him, with how puffy and slick and shiny your pussy is, how it splits around him.
Thick heft of him sawing in and out, the way you clutch at him, sucking him back in, tighter and tighter each time, like your body is already missing him. So wet slick is smeared around your thighs, soaking Joel’s lap, leaking down into the cleft of your ass. He kisses you, slow and deep, gasping and panting against your lips. Guttural moans from him, needy little whimpers from you, the sloppy sound of pleasure.
He breaks away from you when the kisses are splintered by gasps of air, fixing his mouth to your neck, inhaling deeply there, pressing his lips to your shoulder, lower, the top of your breast, your sternum, before closing them around your nipple. You keen as he scrapes his teeth over the sensitive bud, hands flying from his flexing forearms to his hair, scratching his scalp, moaning his name, chanting it - Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel.
He sucks harder, tongue working around the flesh before he does the same to your other breast, fingers slipping down over the damp skin of your belly towards your sex, seeking that last nudge you need to send you flying over the edge.
Tighter, wetter, arching to meet his mouth as you gasp and plead - gonna come Joel, gonna come, please can I come, please, please -
You barely register his nod against your chest, barely hear him gasp ‘Give it to me baby, good girl, that’s it,’ before the flood overwhelms you, clawing through your body, ripping through you like flame. Your body tenses, jerks, hips stuttering against him, pussy throbbing as you cry out, pleasure flushing through you all the way to the top of your head. Aftershocks flare like fireworks behind your eyelids, hips moving frantically with his to chase the very end of your orgasm.
Joel watches, chest hot, stomach tightening with that tell tale taughtness - oh, shit baby, yeah, s'that good? - before his own eyes squeeze shut, his body faltering, pushing all the way up against your cervix as he pulses inside you, filling you with warmth, spilling himself until it begins to leak between your thighs.
He gives a couple of softer thrusts before he groans again, hearing you whimper, ears ringing, pulling out just to watch himself drip out of you. The sight makes him greedy, makes him press it back into you even as you hiss in protest, too sensitive. He looks up just as you crack an eye open, an arm swinging across your forehead.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ you mumble, a smile growing before he breathes a shy laugh at the ceiling. He loves the sound of your giggle as you watch him.
He crawls back up your body, ignoring how the heat begins to creep back in, become formidable again. He presses kisses to your collarbones, your neck, your cheeks, and you thread your spare hand back through his hair, enjoying the way it looks, mussed by you.
His sweaty forehead presses against your sternum, laving affectionate, wet kisses there as you come down from your highs, panting in the warm air of the room.
You continue to card your fingers through his damp curls, staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirs and spins above you. Your eyes flutter closed, content.
‘You’ll have to get Sarah from school soon,’
He grunts in acknowledgement, nuzzling into your ribcage, licking at the salty skin before nipping it between his teeth. You giggle, body lurching away slightly before it’s fixed in place by his wide palms at your hips. ‘And I have to be home before four,’
He groans, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast.
‘Come over for dinner,’ he murmurs, ‘Tell your dad we're hangin’ out, gettin’ to know each other. I’ll grill some stuff. You bring some more of those popsicles,’
You snort at him, huffing something about how nothing will get grilled if you’re watchin’ me suck on a popsicle, even as your chest and cheeks heat, before he slumps on top of you, plush lips crushing against yours in a searing kiss, tongue licking into your mouth, setting you ablaze again beneath him. You moan as he moves to your neck, sucking and biting and bruising.
‘Come,’ he groans into your skin, ‘Promise you’ll come. I'll make it worth your while,’
You offer him a breathy laugh, a sure at the double entendre with sparkling eyes. Your back arches, hands gripping his biceps as he languidly moves lower, taking your nipple in his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the raw bud, grazing it with his teeth before sucking gently.
‘Joel -’ you gasp, clenching your thighs together as you wriggle beneath him, meeting his warm brown eyes as he looks up at you through his eyelashes. ‘We need to -’
He cuts you off with a sharp nip at the puckered flesh. He turns his head to the side, checks the watch he’s still wearing, and fixes you with a dark, hungry look.
Summary: Something weird happens when Dieter tries to post his X-Files fanfiction
Word Count: 14,941
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Fox Mulder x Dana Scully
Rating: 18+ mdni
Warnings: threesome, oral (m & f receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected PIV, poor explanation of time travel and quantaam physics, it's a little cracky tbh
Beta: the one and only @for-a-longlongtime obviously
A/N: listen. I have ten episodes left of the whole series so if something is totally off and not accurate to x files canon just ignore me :) Also I'm absolutely aware of how completely ridiculous this fic is but I heard the voice of Dieter Bravo speak to me and could not ignore it
Curled up under at least three blankets, in just his underwear, stoned out of his mind (just weed— he’s California sober now) Dieter watches Mulder and Scully shake hands for the first time.
The first time for them.
He’s had to have seen this episode at least a thousand times by now.
He’s in one of those funks again. His therapist calls it a depressive episode, but that’s so dramatic. He’s just a little bit down in the dumps thinking about how worthless he is and how no one’s ever really loved him before, not even his own parents, and how he hates himself so much he’s not sure if he would ever get rid of the guilt of letting someone else love him because he knows he’d just be a waste of their time.
It’s no big deal. Nothing an X-Files rewatch, weed, and a footlong Subway sandwich can’t fix.
Except this time, the way Scully and Mulder instantly mesh so well kind of makes him feel like he smoked too much pot. His stomach’s a little queasy as he watches him give her his undivided attention, and fuck, maybe this is a job above these FBI agents’ pay grade.
He eyes that stupid notebook on his nightstand, still wrapped in plastic from the Amazon order.
His therapist told him to start writing his thoughts down in a journal. He doesn’t like writing. It’s not what he does. He can’t stand those actors who think just because they’ve starred in a few movies means they should start writing them, or scrawling down some convoluted, conceited novel. Just fucking act, y’know?
But as Scully throws herself into Mulder’s arms after knowing him for only a few days, and they both look so comfortable, Dieter rips open the packaging and swallows down the bile threatening his esophagus.
—
I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing here. What should I even write down in this thing? How lonely I am? Get in line, right? I’m not the only one. Even though sometimes it feels like I am.
Maybe it feels so bad because I know I did this to myself. Everyone always told me I’d always be a piece of shit. Even when I was young. And I just let their narrative take over and now here I am. The biggest piece of shit.
It’s like Mulder. Everyone always called him Spooky and said he was too ‘out there’ and he ended up in the basement chasing Bigfoot.
Except I don’t have a hot redhead in my life to balance me out or slowly fall in love with me.
And I’m not a tall, boyishly handsome, charming FBI agent.
I’m just a washed-up actor, and a slob, and a drug addict. That’s probably why.
Golly gee, doc, this sure made me feel better.
—
He writes in his journal a bit here and there. He also slowly rots away in his bed, takes far too little showers and far too many THC gummies. He talks to his therapist two weeks later and tells her he’s been writing down his thoughts and her impressed hum and “That’s very good, Dieter” has him riding a high the rest of the afternoon.
So he keeps it up.
He doesn’t leave the house much, and when he does, he just wants to get back into his permanently affixed blanket fort to watch more X-Files and get high.
He writes a little about his day, about what he’s mulling over in his mind. But as he reaches the end of season two, he’s out of his funk enough to start feeling horny again.
Who wouldn’t, watching the world’s hottest FBI agents on a near constant loop?
So who can blame him when his journal thoughts get a little spicy?
—
God, Mulder’s such an idiot sometimes. So is Scully. They waste so much time getting on each others’ nerves. This entire show is just years-long foreplay. I swear they get off on irritating each other.
I irritate so many people, why aren’t any of them ever turned on about it?
They should have just let them kiss in the first season. There could have been so much sex. All the motel rooms these two wasted! On the government’s dime, too!
Rental car sex, alleyway sex, OFFICE sex. The Sex Files. That’s what this show should have been.
I wonder if Mulder’s better at eating ass or pussy. I just know he’s freaky with all the porn and phone sex hotlines. And the auto erotic asphyxiation thing, can’t forget about that. I’d choke the shit out of him if he wanted that. With my hand or my cock, his choice.
I wonder if Scully is freaky, too? I think she’d deny it, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she was filthy kinky. She always has to be in control. I wonder if she’d be like that in bed, too? I wonder if she’d get off on torturing me and making me beg. Or maybe she’s always so in control that she wants to relinquish all of it when she’s in bed.
—
Dieter remembers that fanfiction exists shortly after that.
His dick is raw and he hasn’t even made it through half of the explicit entries on archive of our own. But everything’s so… Vanilla.
Don’t get him wrong, he’s a total sucker for tender, missionary love-making. But where’s the experimentation? Where’s the creativity? And why the hell does everyone think Fox Mulder is such a dom?
Just look at him.
He’s pathetic. Scully could have him begging on his knees with nothing but the snap of her finger and one of her sexy, stern glances. Maybe he’s projecting a little bit, but not much.
He gripes to his therapist about this while he avoids the topic of his greatest fear being dying without ever having a meaningful relationship in his whole life.
“Have you ever thought about writing your own fanfiction?”
And no, he truly never has. It seems like something so far away from appropriate given his profession. But then again, when has he ever been totally professional?
So he starts writing. At first he finds himself falling into the popular tropes— love confessions and sweet, romantic first times. Just little blurbs in his journal he ends up scrawling out with his pen. There’s enough of that already. He needs to explore the fun stuff with these two.
One night/early morning, he finally grabs his laptop from his rarely-used office. He snuggles up under all the blankets he can find, turns on The X-Files, and gets down to business.
—
“I’m sorry Scully—”
“Don’t.”
Her icy blue stare pins Mulder in place. His pouty lips close and his sharp jaw clenches as he looks down at his feet.
“You almost got us killed!”
“I wouldn’t have let you get hurt, you know that.”
Scully doesn’t know what comes over her, but she crosses what little distance is between them to grab the back of Mulder’s hair and tug.
His jaw drops and as hard as he tries, he can’t stifle the whimper that slips from his lip.
“You were reckless with your own life. You can’t— Do you know what I would do if anything ever happened to you?”
Scully’s sharp gaze softens. Tears prickle at Mulder’s eyes, partly from Scully’s death grip and partly because of the way her voice wavers.
“Scully—”
“Get on your knees.”
——
Dieter fights the heavy, sharp arousal in his gut as he writes Mulder on his knees for Scully. He just knows he’d eat pussy like a champ, what with those sunflower seeds he’s always got between those pillowy lips. He’d be great at sucking cock, too. Dieter thinks they would look so fucking pretty around his own dick.
Or Scully’s strap.
Perfect.
He stays awake for way too long, writing about Scully trapping Mulder between her thighs for hours, and then making him choke or her strap, and then making him beg and whimper and cry for it as she teases his prostate with her fingers.
Scully’s so dainty, but the idea of her fucking into her big, tall partner with fury has Dieter leaking into his boxers as he types away. It takes all of Dieter’s willpower to write the sweet aftercare scene. Scully gently cleans up his cum and sweat and tears, telling him what a good boy he was as she pets his hair and kisses his face.
As soon as Dieter writes the last words, he’s fumbling for his lube and dildo in the bedside drawer. He’s too worked up to prepare properly, and it burns, and he hears Scully’s disappointed tuts in his head as he fucks himself into a mess.
He whines her name, and Mulder’s name, as filthy images of the two fill his head.
He comes without even touching his dick. He makes an absolute mess of his sheets and just grinds into the puddle beneath him as he fucks himself through the aftershocks.
And if he cries a little bit at the thought of two beautiful FBI agents telling him how good he was as they stroke his sweaty skin, that’s between him and his open laptop.
—
“Do you think I should post my fanfiction?”
His therapist’s perfectly shaped eyebrows perk up.
“Do you think you should post it?”
“I dunno. Probably not.”
“Why not?”
“Wouldn’t it be a little weird? An actor writing fanfiction about characters his peers portrayed?”
His therapist hums. He knows that’s his cue to keep talking, but they just sit in silence for a bit.
“Do you want to post it?” She asks.
He huffs.
“I don’t know. What if everyone hates it?”
She shrugs and nods at him to continue.
“I’m afraid no one’s gonna read it. Or if they do, they’ll hate it. And leave mean comments.”
“Would that bother you?”
“Well yeah, duh.”
She hums again. Dieter rolls his eyes, half at her but half at himself.
“I know, I know,” he sighs, “I’m a walking contradiction. I crave praise but I’m too afraid to put myself out there to receive any.”
“That’s not necessarily true. You’re an actor. It’s your job to put yourself out there and be consumed and reviewed.”
“Yeah but that’s not me, it’s just the guy they tell me to play.”
His therapist smiles.
Shit.
“I think you know what you need to do, Dieter.”
He does leave that therapy session crying, thirty minutes later. If he had a tail, it would be between his legs.
It takes him six days to work up enough courage to even make an account. And then another two days to pour over every single word he wrote, change it, change it back, wash rinse and repeat.
When he finally works up the nerve to post it, his laptop dies just as he’s about to press the publish button.
You gotta be kidding me, he thinks, maybe this is a sign.
But then he thinks about what his therapist would say, that things that are worth it rarely come easy, and that he should probably stop assuming everything is a sign, and so he plugs his laptop in and waits for it to charge enough to come back to life.
It’s the longest four minutes of his life.
He stares at the black screen in silence. He blinks at his reflection as he listens to the storm brewing outside his window, only flinching slightly as lightning illuminates his dark room.
His heart leaps up into his throat when the screen lights up again. Everything’s right where he left it. All he has to do is press that little button.
He takes one, two, three deep breaths with his finger on the trigger and then—
CRACK
—
Everything hurts. Like, bad.
Dieter groans and tries to blink his eyes open. It’s bright. He’s no stranger to waking up in an unfamiliar place with a terrible headache and no recollection of how or why he’s there. However, he hasn’t touched a party drug in a year and a half, and hasn’t even been to a party for even longer than that.
He finally blinks away the sleep in his eyes. He’s on the cold ground. The grass is plush and dewy under him. When he sits up, the world spins around him for a few moments and he just barely keeps his stomach from emptying.
He checks his pockets. At least he has his phone on him. No wallet, though. And he’s in his pajamas, which is fine, not unusual attire for most of his outings.
He goes to unlock his phone but of course it’s dead.
Shit.
He looks around a bit more and all this scenery does not look like Los Angeles. There are hills in the distance that are much more rolling than the jagged peaks in California. The smell of campfire fills the air and it’s humid, he realizes. Stiflingly so.
He stands up. His joints ache even more than they usually do, stiff and popping. When he runs his hand through his hair he’s got wicked bed head.
At least he can make out a dirt path amongst the grass and trees around him. He follows it for a while, and just as he thinks he might be wandering to his own death out in the boonies he sees a little shack in the clearing just by what seems to be a lake.
It looks… Strangely familiar, despite the fact that he’s certain he’s never been here before. There’s a sign that reads “Bait & Tackle” that’s seen better days and a big giant inflatable… something tied down to the roof.
He scratches his head as he stares. He has the feeling of something being on the tip of his tongue, but it’s on the tip of his brain instead.
As he approaches, a high-pitched growl startles him out of his daze. His eyes frantically search for the source, and as he walks closer he spots it.
A tiny little yappy Pomeranian, tan and fluffy.
It hits him all at once.
He gasps and moves toward the fiesty little thing as his heart pounds. There’s no way…
It snarls and yaps at him as he crouches down to greet it— him.
Once he starts giving the dog butt pats and head scratches, it warms up to him pretty quickly. He searches for the dog tag hiding under all that fur and gasps as he reads it.
QUEEQUEG
“Oh my god, Queequeg, I thought I’d never see you again, buddy.”
The pup wags his tail at the sound of his name and Dieter goes down on his knees to accept him into his lap.
“How are you real? What’s happening?”
Tears well at Dieter’s eyes as he holds this fictional dog in his arms, who’s been dead since season 3. Sue him, he’s very confused and vulnerable and it was the most devastating death of the series by far.
As he pets the derpy little thing, he tries to wrap his head around everything that’s going on. Last he remembers, he was holding his breath and clicking the mouse pad and now he’s here, in the middle of nowhere Georgia if he remembers his X-Files trivia correctly.
Which means this sweet little pup is going to die in this… episode? And if he’s in the episode, that means—
“Hey! What are you doing? That’s my dog!”
Dieter’s heart pounds, heavy and fast, like he’s done way too much coke. He looks up with wide eyes and it’s unmistakable, her bright red hair and sexy scowl and the lanky handsome man attached to her hip.
“Scully?”
Dieter watches her face twist up in confusion, and watches Mulder’s eyebrows raise with a smirk on his face as he looks between him and his partner.
“You know this guy, Scully?”
She squints at Dieter as they walk closer. He feels very warm under her gaze. He pets Queequeg’s head for comfort.
“No, I don’t. What’s your name?”
Dieter clears his throat.
“You don’t recognize me?”
Mulder presses his lips together, trying to hide his amused smile as he nudges Scully’s side.
“Should I?”
“Wait… what year is it?”
Scully’s face turns from annoyed to concerned. She kneels down in front of Dieter and looks into his eyes, and her gaze is too heavy, it spears right through him.
“It’s 1995. Are you concussed?”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean— Maybe. Probably, to be honest. It’s 1995?”
“Has been for five months, now,” Mulder supplies.
Dieter nods.
“Do you know where you are?”
“I think so… listen. You guys aren’t gonna believe this— well, Mulder might believe it— But I’m from the future.”
Scully’s concerned gaze turns right back to annoyed very quickly, and she stands back up to cross her arms.
Mulder just chuckles.
“How do you know our names?” He asks.
Dieter feels a little weird on the ground while they’re staring down at him, in a horny way, so he gently places Queequeg back on the gravel to stand up himself.
“Would you believe it if I said I’m from an alternate reality where you guys are the main characters in a cult classic sci-fi television series?”
Mulder blinks at him. Dieter shrugs with a sheepish grin.
“Honestly? That’s more believable than the time travel.”
Dieter smirks.
“That’s such a Scully thing to say.”
“That is such a Scully thing to say,” Mulder agrees.
“Oh my god.”
“I can prove it! I swear. C’mon, let’s get this little guy safe and sound in your cabin and I’ll prove everything.”
Mulder shrugs, and gives Scully one of his looks, the c’mon, let’s see where this goes look that Dieter’s so used to seeing.
She just scoffs.
“Mulder, we don’t have time for this. People are dying left and right, you’re on a wild sea-monster chase, and half the town is—”
“Wait, Scully, look at this guy. He’s going to tell you another body’s been found in the lake. Well— half of a body.”
They all turn to the man running up from the docks, and sure enough, it plays out almost exactly how Dieter remembers from the episode. Scully’s very focused on the legs floating in the lake, but Mulder keeps eyeing him in a way that makes him wish he was wearing something more than just flimsy pajama pants.
“Scully…” Mulder mumbles as they walk back toward their car, “I think we should hear him out.”
“Hear him out!? We should be shoving him in handcuffs, he’s the only suspect we have that isn’t mythical.”
“I’d be into that, actually,” Dieter says, holding his hands out toward them, wrists pressed together.
Scully grimaces and Mulder smirks but he drapes an arm around her shoulder in a way that seems suspiciously protective.
“There’s not enough evidence to cuff him, but we can at least keep him close and see what else we can get out of him.”
“Mulder—”
“If anything, he can just dogsit for us.”
The way they’re talking about him like he’s not even there makes the tips of his ears burn.
“I’d love to dogsit! I miss Queequeg.”
“What do you mean you miss him? He’s right here.”
Dieter winces.
“Actually that’s a big plot point in this episode,” Dieter whispers.
They stop at the car and Scully glares at him, and Mulder looks a little bit like he’s just brought a stray dog home without her permission. Dieter kinda likes it.
“You never told us your name,” Scully grills.
“Dieter. Dieter Bravo.”
Mulder huffs.
“What kind of name is Dieter Bravo? Do you do adult films?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Fox?”
The way the giggle bubbles up out of Scully’s chest makes him preen.
“Alright. Where do you live, Dieter?”
He winces and scratches the back of his neck.
“Los Angeles.”
“Oh brother,” Scully grumbles.
“How did you get here then?”
“Y’know, it’s the weirdest thing. I was writing a fanfiction about the two of you and when I went to post it, I think lightning struck my house and sent me here.”
The two agents stare at him in silence for so long that Dieter has the time to question every single moment that has led up to this. He determines that this is all his therapist’s fault when Mulder finally clears his throat.
“You can bunk with me until we get everything sorted out, alright?”
Dieter straightens up and salutes him.
“Yes, sir, Agent Mulder.”
Scully rolls her eyes and turns to open the car door for him, but Mulder smirks.
“I think I kinda like this guy, Scully.”
——
Mulder’s nice enough to let him shower and lend him spare clothes that aren’t caked in mud and grass stains, once they’re back at the cabin. He cleans up in silence trying to wrap his head around this entire pickle he’s in, and how to go about making them believe him.
He’s got his work cut out with Scully, he knows this. But he works over every bit of information he can remember from each season, each episode, to remember something that couldn’t be denied.
They’re doing their Scully and Mulder thing when he comes out with damp hair and Mulder’s clothes on. (He definitely had to will away a half-chub at the thought of being wrapped in his things.)
They sit around the small living room with photos and paperwork all sprawled out and Dieter feels like geeking out a little bit. This is like the world’s greatest and most interactive X-Files museum.
“Okay. I’m going to try to do this in the best way I know how. Just— Bear with me.”
They sit back in their seats, and Dieter lifts Queequeg onto his lap to take his place on the couch. He waits for them to give him a go-ahead, but neither of them are responsive. He tries not to feel so aroused by their focused gazes. Maybe he should have jerked off in the shower, as a precaution.
“Okay then… let’s see… this is Season 3, Episode… 22? So. You guys just went through the whole Skinner thing, right? With his— his bad dreams lady killing that prostitute?”
“How do you know Skinner?”
“I told you, it’s a TV show. Skinner’s always busting your balls. Big tough assistant director business. He’s actually just a softy though, I think.”
Scully looks disinterested and a little annoyed, but Mulder’s starting to shift forward in his seat.
“What’s the show called?”
“The X-Files.”
Scully snorts.
“How creative.”
“Okay, okay, I know. It sounds whacky. But I’ve seen the show a billion times over, I’ve been unknowingly preparing for this moment since the pilot aired.”
He takes a moment to determine what to say and how to word it before he continues.
“Okay… Well… Your first case together was that weird kid in Oregon that kept helping aliens abduct his classmates. Scully conveniently missed the UFO though. Ever the skeptic. Then… let’s see… Deep Throat turns up in the next episode. Scully, he ended up dying in your arms and his last words were trust no one.”
“Mulder, we’ve been bugged for 90 percent of the time we’ve known each other, this doesn’t mean anything.”
Dieter huffs and Mulder shrugs.
“Keep going. Give us a deep cut, man. You gotta try harder than that.”
“When did you become the skeptic, Mulder?”
The agent shrugs and raises his eyebrows to urge him to continue.
“Okay… Scully, when you were at your god son’s birthday party, you told your friend that Mulder is a jerk.”
“Hey, what the hell, Scully?”
“No, I said he was just—”
“Obsessed with his work, yeah. After you called him a jerk though.”
Dieter hates to see the way Mulder’s eyebrows draw up in the middle. It’s kind of funny to see Scully so embarrassed, though. He figures he’ll keep what else she said to himself, about him being cute, because it looks like she’s praying that he doesn’t blab about it.
“You wound me, Scully.”
“Oh, yeah, and there’s the time you shot Mulder in the shoulder.”
“You’re kind of a bully, y’know?”
Scully shoves at his shoulder to prove their point, and Mulder just laughs and leans into it.
“Do you want to know what happens in the future? Wait, if I affect the future will the show be different? I dunno how I feel about that… new X-Files episodes in 2024 would be incredible. But what if the new episodes suck, though?”
“2024? That’s what year you’re going with?”
Dieter nods.
“It kinda sucks. We have smartphones and streaming services and stuff but also, you wouldn’t believe who the last president was if I told you. Also there was a global pandemic. Still kinda is one, but everyone’s just ignoring it. Actually, come to think of it, you guys would thrive in 2024.”
“Do we die before then?”
“Oh, no, no, the show just finished. And then came back and then— it’s a whole thing. But neither of you die.”
“Hmm.”
Mulder hums, and Dieter knows exactly what he’s thinking. Scully too, by the faraway look on her face. Total idiots. Why couldn’t he have landed at least after the first kiss. Or even the almost-kiss?
“Well, I’m tired, and this case isn’t going to solve itself. And Queequeg needs to go potty, so, I think we’re done here.”
Dieter’s whole body feels hot, like the time he was stabbed in the chest with that epi-pen. He shoots up off the couch so fast that Queequeg yelps and hops down to cower behind Scully’s ankles.
“Wait! It’s an alligator. Literally. It’s just an ordinary alligator killing these people. And if you let Queequeg walk into the woods he’s going to get eaten and if there’s one single thing you believe me about it has to be this, okay? For Queequeg’s sake.”
Dieter’s got his hands clasped in front of him, pleading. Scully looks startled and Mulder looks awed, but he’s desperate to drive this point home.
“…Okay. I’ll keep him close. Thank you.”
They think he’s crazy. Scully does, at least. Mulder’s just quiet, uncharacteristically so.
“Thank you.”
“Alright,” she sighs, grabbing Queequeg’s leash and hooking him up, “goodnight guys.”
“Goodnight Scully.”
Dieter sighs and sits back down.
“She thinks I’m insane, doesn’t she?”
“Welcome to the club.”
Dieter chuckles and looks to Mulder. He’s still got that pensive look on his face. It suits him, all brooding with that fucking jawline and those plush lips and sad eyes. He wants to kiss him so bad. He almost says it out loud, so used to his horny musings while watching this guy on TV that his filter is a little out of whack.
Dieter doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Mulder tilts his head at him, confused. He opens his mouth and takes a breath but the door ripping open cuts him off.
“Mulder, there’s something in the woods; Dieter was right. I think we should check it out.”
Mulder jumps up at her beck and call and seeing it in person is even more overwhelming, how he follows her without question and trusts her, so eagerly.
“Queequeg?”
“He’s here, can you watch him?”
Dieter nods.
“Me? Yeah, yes ma’am, Agent Scully.”
He doesn’t miss the amused look on her face just before the door slams shut behind them.
He lies on the couch with Queequeg on his chest, enjoying the silence after the… everythingness of his day. He really wishes he could smoke some pot, but even if he could get his hands on some, he’s sure it would be weak as hell. And there’s the FBI agent thing.
Dieter’s not sure how long he’s been staring at nothing and snuggling Queequeg when the cabin door finally opens again.
“Did you catch the alligator?”
The eerie silence he’s met with makes him whip his head around. Scully and Mulder are staring at him. He’s pretty sure 80 percent of his X-Files fantasies have started exactly like this.
“… We did. We caught it just in time to save Ted Bertram.”
“That’s the guy with the lake monster feet, right?”
They both nod slowly.
Queequeg hops down from his perch on Dieter’s chest, so he sits up.
“I told you. You guys believe me now?”
He watches as Mulder nods his head yes and Scully shakes her head no. All he can do is shrug and start wondering what’s next for him, in the year of 1995.
“Hey, do you guys need an assistant? I could tell you how to solve the next case! I think it’s the one with the mind control cable. Mulder, are you really red-green color blind? I think that was a major plot hole. How do you tell the difference between human blood and alien blood if one is red and one is green, then?”
“Mulder’s not colorblind,” Scully says.
“Uhh… Actually, yeah. I am.”
“What? How did you pass the color vision test?”
“I’m colorblind, not an idiot. I can still tell them apart, they just look different to me than they would to you.”
“I— I can’t believe you’ve been colorblind this entire time.”
Mulder shrugs. Then his brow quirks up.
“Why does that matter?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you. It might mess with the space-time continuum and— quantum physics, you know?”
Scully’s clearly had enough. She sighs and finally kicks off her shoes.
“I’m grabbing a shower and clearing my head,” she says, “don’t— don’t let him out of your sight for now, Mulder.”
Mulder nods and half smiles at her. They both look pretty tired. He wants to remind them that he’s the one who traveled 29 years into the past today, but it seems like a pretty sore subject.
They stand still and silent in the living room until Scully closes her bedroom door behind her, Queequeg in tow.
“You heard the woman. There’s a TV in my room.”
Mulder nods toward the other bedroom door and Dieter follows dutifully.
“Does it get the good channels?”
He hears Mulder chuckle and watches from behind as he sheds his jacket. He admires all those lean muscles in his back, now that he’s not wearing one of those god awful baggy suits. Maybe he should suggest a tailor, he thinks, and wonders if the later seasons would be filled with more eye candy if he did.
“You know about that?”
“All the video tapes that aren’t yours? And the hotline lady that leaves messages on your answering machine? Yeah. You wouldn’t believe what porn is like in thirty years. You’re gonna love it.”
Dieter’s torn between looking away and staring shamelessly while Mulder unbuttons his fly. He settles for nonchalant, hoping his eyes don’t pop out of their sockets like a cartoon character when he notices the outline of Little Mulder. This is even better than the gray sweatpants in the Humbug episode.
“I was hoping to kick the habit in thirty years’ time, actually.”
Dieter shrugs and his staring contest with Mulder’s crotch ends abruptly as he slides into a pair of pajama pants. Which is weird, because usually Mulder sleeps in his underwear. Must be the fact that he’s sharing a cabin with Scully.
Mulder throws Dieter the remote and settles onto the bed. There’s no couch in here, not even a cuck chair, so Dieter settles next to him. His whole body burns. God, if 20-year-old Dieter could see himself now, he’d ruin the pants he was wearing.
The silence feels a little awkward, so he turns the TV on. Nineties TV is so simple. It’s easy to settle on a channel playing Invasion of the Body Snatchers and sink into the mattress under him.
It only takes a few moments before he realizes Mulder’s staring holes into the side of his face.
“What’s up?” Dieter asks.
There’s so little room between them it’s making Dieter’s entire body throb along with his pulse.
“You’re telling the truth.”
Dieter nods and tries to give him a reassuring smile. Mulder sighs and throws his head back onto the pillow. His eyes close and his brows furrow and his jaw does that sexy clenching thing again. It’s all Dieter can do to not bite at it and soothe the sting with his tongue.
“What happens to us?”
Dieter clears his throat.
“I mean— I know, you shouldn’t affect the future, yadda yadda. I just…”
Fuck it, Dieter thinks, if I’ve already solved the case way before the episode is supposed to end, I’ve thrown everything off anyway.
“You end up together.”
Mulder lets out a big, long breath. His face instantly relaxes. His hands flex by his sides and Dieter goes out on a big giant limb and grabs one of them.
Mulder starts at the touch, but lets it happen.
“When?”
“Way later than you should have shacked up, in my opinion.”
He grumbles.
“My opinion, too.”
“You should make a move, then. I’m pretty sure at this point she’s only waiting for you to make a move.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Oh, it’s a whole thing involving a shapeshifting guy with a tail. Trust me. She’s got it just as bad.”
They’re still holding hands. Mulder hasn’t moved a muscle. An idea so bright pops into Dieter’s head that he’s certain there’s a lightbulb floating above him.
“You know when you met Bambi on that cockroach case?”
Mulder nods.
“She was so jealous. Didn’t you pick up on that?”
“I— I thought so. But I also thought she was just annoyed with me, y’know, how she usually is.”
Dieter squeezes his hand.
“She was annoyed because she’s into you, dude. It was envy. Very, very clearly.”
He hums.
“So? What now? Do I apologize for something that happened months ago? You apparently know Scully as well as I do, how do you think that’ll blow over? ‘Hey, sorry I made you jealous because you have a big fat crush on me.’ She’d deck me.”
Dieter shakes his head.
“No, man. You need to make her jealous. So jealous she can’t deny why she’s upset with you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, and I mean, why not just start right now, y’know? Get a head start on the whole thing. I mean, you’re here, I’m here, there’s only one bed…”
“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were coming onto me.”
“I would love to come on you, actually.”
Mulder laughs, and Dieter deflates a little at the sound. But when he goes to pull his hand away, Mulder cinches it in his own.
“Dieter…”
“Mulder.”
“We’re doing this, then?”
Dieter nods like an overexcited puppy wagging its tail. Oh my god. Oh my god. Fox Mulder in his prime, how fucking lucky can one guy be?
Mulder glances at the door to make sure it’s open. The faint sound of running water can be heard from Scully’s room, and he thinks he smells her shampoo wafting out with the steam.
Like two nervous teenagers, they shift to face one another. Dieter brings their joined hands together on his own hip. Mulder’s palm is warm on his skin where his shirt rides high, and it makes Dieter’s breath hitch.
Slowly, Dieter urges him to keep his hand still with a squeeze before mirroring Mulder’s, creeping his hand under his shirt and feeling his solid, trim waist.
Mulder hums into his touch and Dieter realizes this man is possibly just as touch-starved as he is. He starts swirling circles into his skin with his thumb and inches forward, but those beautiful hazel eyes hold apprehension in their timid gaze.
“What if this blows up in my face?” Mulder whispers.
“It won’t. I guarantee it. I’ll make sure of it. Trust me?”
A soft grin tugs at Mulder’s lips and he nods, and it’s all the permission Dieter needs.
Christ, his lips are soft. Soft and plush and exactly how Dieter imagined only a million times better. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good, not on any drug, and they’re just kissing.
It’s chaste until he feels Mulder’s tongue prod at the seam of his lips and then it’s filthy. As soon as Dieter opens his mouth to him, Mulder takes it with a grunt. His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh at Dieter’s hip as he traces the arch of his bottom teeth. Dieter tries to keep up, but his brain constantly shorts out at the thought of who’s tongue is poking and prodding around in his mouth.
He’s a great fucking kisser. His tongue tickles the roof of Dieter’s mouth and it makes him shiver, makes his cock swell against his borrowed sweatpants, against Mulder.
He doesn’t seem deterred. Quite the opposite actually. He tugs Dieter by the hip and presses his own solid prick right up against Dieter’s, and they both groan into the sloppy kiss.
“It’s been quite a while,” Mulder says.
Dieter can’t tell if the huffed little laugh is directed toward the eager way he chases Mulder’s lips, or toward himself for being out of practice. He likes the thought of either.
“For me, too,” Dieter mumbles.
Mulder hums and rolls his hips. As their dicks press together and twitch, Dieter decides they are not naked enough by any means.
He presses his hand up, up, bringing Mulder’s shirt with it and grabbing a handful of his sturdy pec, admiring how stiff it feels under his palm when his lungs inflate. He gets with the program, and Dieter pulls his own shirt over his head, then promptly salivates over all the lean muscles and wiry hair and pale skin in front of him.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
It’s not until Mulder’s breath hitches does he realize he might actually be into this, not just their plan, but being here in bed with Dieter. His pretty hazel eyes are dark now, pupils blown out, and his chest is heaving, and the tent in his pajama pants is far too enticing to resist.
Dieter reaches down to cup him through the flannel material and Mulder gasps and falls flat onto his back. His eyes close and his jaw hangs open like an invitation. Dieter wiggles and shifts to press up against the length of his side and to finally press his face into the crook of his neck.
The hint of aftershave that’s been teasing him all day is now overwhelming his senses, sharp and spicy. Dieter is delighted to know that his skin tastes just as delicious as it smells, salty and heady under his tongue. Mulder’s prick throbs in his grasp and Dieter’s torn between wanting to tease him over his pants and feel the hot skin of his cock in his palm.
“Feels good,” Mulder whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Mmm.”
Dieter nips at his racing pulse first, then down to his jaw and the impressive five o’clock shadow he’s always been jealous and in awe of. The prickly hairs there tickle his tongue and lips, and he grinds into the outside of Mulder’s thigh for a bit of relief.
“You think about Scully doing this?”
The way Mulder’s dick jolts in his grasp is answer enough, but he speaks up anyway.
“Yes.”
The admission is so hot it makes Dieter’s brain spin. He himself has thought of it many times before, Scully torturing him with teasing touches, her little sharp canines digging into his flesh, but the thought of Mulder thinking of it too…
All those heated glances Dieter’s mulled over, he wonders how many of those were fueled by Mulder’s dirty thoughts about her. Wonders how many times he’s seen a flash of something in Mulder’s gaze and it’s been him fantasizing about getting Scully in bed.
Dieter huffs against the heated skin of Mulder’s neck before he pulls back. His head his thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and he’s fucking gorgeous. He lightens his touch, teases the underside of his cock with one fingertip, and delights in the pleasure scrawled across Mulder’s face.
“How often?”
Mulder’s gravelly chuckle is cut off by a low groan when Dieter presses against his sac over his pajamas.
“All the time,” he confesses, “every time.”
“In the office?”
Mulder whimpers and nods his head.
“On the job, in the field?”
“God yes.”
Dieter hums, squeezes his balls to goad him into continuing.
“When she— when she’s so serious, it’s hot. She’s so smart, it turns me on.”
Dieter smirks. He completely sympathizes.
“You like it when she debunks you?”
Mulder whines and nods his head again. Dieter tries his hardest not to react to the sound of the water shutting off across the cabin, or Scully’s door creaking open. Instead, he shoves his hand down Mulder’s pants and hopes to god he keeps his eyes closed, hopes Scully’s ever present need to call out his name is tampered down when she inevitably hears him talking.
Mulder gasps and raises his hips into the circle of Dieter’s hand, and his brows furrow as he shuts his eyes even tighter.
“Why?”
Mulder moans.
“Because she— she balances me out. Makes me feel even. Whole.”
Dieter chuckles.
“Aww, does she complete you, Foxy?”
He scoffs but bites his lip when Dieter thumbs at his head and spreads his slick, sticky pre-cum all around.
“Tell me what you think about, Mulder.”
His breathing is so ragged that Dieter thinks he should maybe be concerned. But he can tell things are about to come to a head, can hear Scully’s little footsteps inching closer to their room, pointedly quiet.
“Her, I think about her body against mine. And touching her.”
As if on cue, fiery red hair peeks through the door frame. Dieter’s got his free hand up and a finger at his lips before Scully’s face can even twist up in concern and shock. He gives her a pleading look as she stands stock-still and wide-eyed.
“Where would you touch Scully, if she was here?”
“Everywhere. Anywhere she wants me to. I just wanna make her feel good.”
Dieter turns his head back to Mulder to confirm that his eyes are still closed. They are, positively scrunched shut as sweat threatens to penetrate his brows and slip into his eyes.
“Do you wanna taste her?”
Mulder’s breath hitches and his cock pulses and dribbles more against Dieter’s hand.
“Yes, yes, so bad. I think about it every time I— every time I touch myself.”
Dieter turns back to Scully. Her hair is damp and her silky pajama top is unbuttoned more than it was just a moment ago. It just barely hides her heaving chest and he has a hard time not giving her away when he realizes his plan is working. Her lips are parted and wet, like she’s licked them, and god he really fucking hopes they don’t kick him out once this all comes to a head.
“You do?”
“Mm-hmm,” Mulder nods, “I could spend the rest of my life down there and die happy.”
Dieter chuckles then, and Mulder does too, but he opens his eyes. It takes him just a second to blink and adjust but, ever the vigilant one, his eyes jolt toward the now closed bedroom door and Scully standing in front of it. His body goes stiff and still, aside from his prick, which twitches wildly in Dieter’s grasp.
Mulder’s voice cracks amusingly around Scully’s name. She crosses her arms and lifts one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows as she shuffles to the foot of the bed.
“Boys.”
Dieter smiles sheepishly at her. Mulder’s staring and gaping like a fish out of water, all tense now, one elbow on the bed so he can prop himself up. Dieter doesn’t miss the way Scully’s eyes trace over his naked torso or the activity going on at the front of Mulder’s pajamas.
“Is it true, Mulder?”
He’s nodding his head before she can even finish the question.
“Yeah, Scully. I—”
He cuts himself off when Dieter squeezes and strokes him, and Scully’s gaze is locked on the movement.
“It certainly feels like the truth,” Dieter supplies.
Mulder whimpers under him and Dieter swears he sees Scully’s ears perk up at the sound, like some kind of predator.
“Mulder, c’mere.”
God, the way he follows so readily, like he always does, it warms Dieter’s heart just as much as it makes his dick throb. He kneels on the edge of the bed right in front of her. His cock is protruding obscenely out in front of him, but Scully doesn’t seem to care about that.
No, she’s focused on his face instead where it’s settled gently between her dainty hands. God, the way they look at each other is so fucking intoxicating. Dieter’s bound by it, physically stuck on the mattress as he watches.
Her brows furrow slightly as she looks at him, but Mulder’s face is slack, almost dazed as he meets her eyes.
“What did he tell you, Mulder?”
Mulder shifts awkwardly from knee to knee. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and she giggles under her breath.
“You’re not in trouble.”
Dieter laughs, and god, it’s so fucking weird. It’s like he’s watching a director’s cut.
Mulder sighs, though.
“We end up together, Scully. You and me. And I— I believe it. I believed it long before this guy showed up, and it… Out of everything I believe, everything I’ve been working toward… it might be the only belief I have that keeps me going.”
Scully’s gaze grows soft as his confession, and Dieter refrains from squealing in delight at how sweet Mulder sounds and how Mulder it all is.
“Why now, then?”
Mulder huffs and tries to turn away, but she keeps his face tight in her grasp. His cheeks are so pink.
“Just worked up the guts, I guess.”
Dieter doesn’t miss the quick flicker of Scully’s eyes down to his lips. His fingers twitch with the urge to smash their faces together.
She sighs and brushes some errant strands of hair from Mulder’s forehead.
“Well,” she says, and her voice wavers with a heavy breath, “I’m glad one of us did.”
Mulder visibly melts. His shoulders slump and he leans forward into her touch. His face loses all of that tension from earlier, and his lips look loose when Scully’s own finally brushes against them.
He’s so gentle with her, in a way he definitely wasn’t with Dieter. His hands are nearly hovering over her with how lightly he places them on her waist. His lips stay slack and still as he lets her control the kiss. The only thing giving him away is the comical bobbing of his prick disrupting the front of his pajamas, and there’s no way Dieter can blame him for that.
One of Scully’s hands tangles in Mulder’s hair and produces a beautiful, high pitched sound that Dieter and Scully both react to.
She pulls away. Mulder chases her lips, but her grip on his hair tightens. He curses under his breath with a face more flushed than Dieter’s ever seen on him.
Her eyes flicker over to Dieter and he feels like a deer in headlights. Why is he still here? Is this weird, is he being a creep for staying?
“C’mere,” she mumbles, tipping her head to urge him to kneel right beside Mulder on the bed.
He does, of course he does. He wants to be good for her, for them.
He kneels, shoulder to shoulder with the man panting beside him. He grasps his hands behind his back and waits patiently as she looks the both of them over.
“What did I walk in on, Dieter?”
The way his name sounds coming from her low, rasping voice makes his spine tingle.
“It was my idea, Agent Scully. I was trying to make you jealous. I’m sorry.”
She clicks her tongue and the noise makes his cock throb.
“And you went along with this plan?”
She looks back to Mulder and Dieter shivers. He instantly misses the warmth of her gaze.
“I— yeah. I did... It worked, didn’t it?”
Scully’s eyes narrow, and Dieter can’t tell if Mulder’s an idiot or a genius for riling her up. He should have known Fox Mulder would be a brat. He thinks if he plays his cards right, maybe Scully will forget the whole plot and he can be her good boy while Mulder gets punished for his smart mouth.
A whimper falling from Mulder’s parted lips knocks him out of his daze and he notices Scully’s grip all tight in his floppy hair.
Fuck, he wishes that were him. Maybe he should mouth off too, maybe then he’ll get the attention that he craves.
“Get on your knees, Mulder.”
“I am on my knees.”
Dieter gasps as Scully tugs on his hair and leaves him no choice but to scramble off of the edge of the bed, lest she rip all that perfectly coiffed hair out of his head. His shoulders rise and fall with baited breath when he’s finally sunken his knees on the gaudy rug on the hardwood floors. Dieter whimpers and no one’s even touching him.
“You too, time bandit.”
Dieter gets whiplash with how quickly he gets on his knees for her. He breathes out a labored ‘yes ma’am’ and Mulder throws him a look of disbelief. He shrugs, what can I say?
They’re both rock hard for her, on the floor, staring up at her. She looks like an angel, or the devil, or maybe like God herself. Her breathing is suspiciously calm compared to their own, even though her nipples create tantalizing nubs at the front of her silk pajamas.
“Keep your eyes forward, both of you.”
Dieter nods at her commanding voice. He wants to look to Mulder for— direction? Comfort? Some kind of trauma bonding? But he doesn’t. He wants to be good.
He hears Scully behind them, bed creaking under her weight, sheets ruffling underneath her. There’s a pregnant pause where all of their heavy breathing can be heard and the anticipation is so much Dieter might explode on the spot.
“Strip.”
Twin breaths release from both Dieter and Mulder and he swears he hears her giggle behind them. He’s quick to comply, tugging at the drawstring of Mulder’s sweats he’s borrowed and awkwardly shuffling them off while he tries to stay kneeling.
He notices Mulder still motionless beside him.
“Scully…”
Idiot, Dieter thinks.
“Good boy, Dieter, doing exactly what I say.”
He can’t help the satisfied smirk that twists his lips up, or the way the back of his neck burns at the praise. In his peripheral, Mulder hastily shucks his pajama pants.
He has a pretty cock. Dieter knew he would. Everything else about him is pretty. It’s long and lean, just like he is, and the upward curve of it makes him jealous. It’s going to feel so good for Scully, if she lets him fuck her.
There’s more shuffling behind them, and he flinches when a pair of satin pajama pants land on the floor in front of both of them. He has to dig his nails into his thighs to resist the urge to turn around. Something nudges his arm. He doesn’t dare move his head, but from the corner of his eye he sees a pale, smooth leg and his breath catches in his chest.
He hears Mulder curse under his breath and can nearly feel the tension in him vibrating out energy into this rickety old cabin. Dieter feels a gentle hand in the short curls at the back of his neck just a moment later, her nails scraping his scalp just right, and his leg may just start shaking like a dog’s.
“You want to taste me, Mulder?”
“Fuck yes, Scully, please.”
She hums. Her hand in Dieter’s hair stills.
“Go on, then.”
A lightning flash of movement stirs beside him, but Dieter keeps dutifully still. He’s twitching in anticipation but he doesn’t dare turn to look.
Scully sighs, all breathy and high-pitched, and Dieter’s never heard a more beautiful sound. Then Mulder whimpers, and it’s muffled by Scully’s thighs, and there’s a wet smacking noise and Dieter thinks this obscene music could be a platinum album.
Scully gasps, and Mulder groans, and Dieter aches. He can smell her, a sharp and tangy scent of arousal underneath the flowery soap and shampoo. Her hand is still in his hair and it hasn’t moved since Mulder got down to business and he feels forgotten about but in the best way.
“Dieter, honey, you can watch.”
He breathes out with relief and shifts to get a good look of the action. She’s perfect, gorgeous, breathtaking. Her silky pajama top hangs open on her pointy shoulders and her perky breasts rise and fall with her breathing. Her nipples are a brownish pink that stand erect in a way that makes his mouth water like a leaky faucet.
Her toned, porcelain legs spread wide enough to accommodate Mulder’s shoulders. The man is greedy, and Dieter can’t see a thing aside from the triangle of copper curls on her mound. He wants to nuzzle them so bad, he wants to feel them tickle his nose, smell the arousal that catches there.
“You taste so good.”
Mulder’s words are squished against her center. Dieter whimpers at the thought of her flavor. Her hand soothes through his hair. He wants to touch his cock so badly, but Scully hasn’t told him that he’s allowed. Instead, he balls his hands into fists and bites his lip.
Scully moans, and Dieter watches her face fall slack with pleasure.
“Feels good, just like that.”
Dieter can’t help the sounds that eke out of him, desperate and a little pained. He’s so hard that he’s lightheaded, but Scully’s firm grip on his hair grounds him just enough.
“Don’t be selfish, Mulder.”
He makes a questioning noise between her legs. He looks up at her with wide eyes, mouth open, tongue out and flat against her slit.
“Give him a taste.”
“Oh fuck, please.”
Dieter can see the reluctance in Mulder’s motions, like he’s struggling to break free from her orbit. He looks so fucking hot, absolutely wrecked. His plush lips are red and shiny and his chin is dripping and his pupils completely usurp his irises. Drunk, drugged off of Scully.
He leans away from Dieter to make room between her legs but she tugs his hair. Then she tugs Dieter’s hair, and their noses are bumping together before either man can put two and two together.
He can smell her on his breath. It’s so intoxicating that he loses any crumb of decorum he may have had left. He licks a broad swipe from Mulder’s chin to his Cupid’s bow and groans at all the slick he’s able to lap up.
Mulder’s mouth opens up to him, and he chases the taste of her off of his tongue, his teeth, his gums, anywhere. They’re both panting into each other's mouths, exchanging breath. Dieter feels a big, strong hand on his jaw and neck, and the contrast to Scully’s smaller, gentler touch has him leaking all over the rug underneath him. He feels like he’s drowning, and he just wants to go even deeper, like even death won’t be enough.
He waits for Scully to say anything about Mulder touching him. When she doesn’t, he takes it as permission to reach up and find purchase in his hair. His fingers tingle when they find Scully’s still there, and his whole body shudders and twitches when she links her fingers with his.
“You want more?”
It’s depraved, the way they both pull away from the kiss so fast. Dieter’s nodding and looking toward her, her glistening cunt, her smooth skin and her mischievous gaze.
“Please, Scully,” Mulder mumbles.
His head lolls back against Scully’s thigh so he can look up at her. He looks like he’s just run a marathon, the way sweat is beading at his forehead and his chest is heaving.
“Yes, please, Agent Scully.”
She chuckles. The sound is torture and it’s bliss. She ruffles Dieter’s hair and he hums and leans into it. Mulder whimpers at the lack of attention, so she ruffles his too.
And then she spreads her thighs even wider, like, gymnast levels of flexibility, and both of their eyes are drawn to the way her lips spread open in invitation, puffy red, her clit all swollen while she drips onto the old comforter under her.
“Think you can share?”
Dieter curses. Mulder whimpers against her thigh.
“Play nice, boys.”
Mulder looks at him with a heated gaze that makes him a little bit scared but really really horny.
“Yes ma’am,” Dieter says, but he’s staring at Mulder.
Be good, he’s trying to tell him through telepathy, we’ll get rewarded if you’re just good.
Mulder glances up at her, bats his pretty little eyes, and licks his slick lips.
“Yes ma’am.”
It sounds more teasing than anything, but Dieter doesn’t miss the way she squirms when Mulder says it. He just has that effect, doesn’t he? Such a charming little shit.
He and Dieter look at each other, assessing, when Mulder finally goes low. It’s a little bit awkward, at first. Dieter’s jaw prods at Mulder’s sharp cheekbone as they find a good position.
He traces around her clit with a pointed tongue, delicately, so eager to work her up. He can hear Mulder’s tongue fucking in and out of her, a wet cacophony of sounds that make his ears ring. So much so that he nearly doesn’t catch the sounds of Scully’s breath hitching, her soft little mewls as her hips cant up into their faces.
He’s hyper focused on her pleasure, so lost in it that he doesn’t even recognize how turned on he is until a heavy, warm hand wraps around his cock and he nearly blows his load. His tongue presses broadly against Scully’s clit when he groans. She curses and her hand tightens in his hair and it’s so much.
He reaches out for anything, really, but Mulder’s cock is there, hard and proud and twitching when he wraps his hand around him. He finds solace in the fact that he’s leaking just as much as Dieter is, sticky and slick all the way down the underside of his shaft. His noises get breathier, and his tongue seeks higher ground just as Dieter’s travels lower. They lap at her folds together, briefly, trapping them between their tongues, trading their tastes as she whines above them. Dieter doesn’t even realize his free hand has grasped Scully’s slender hip until she squirms against it.
All of a sudden, Dieter feels her go stiff under his grasp. Her hand tightens in his hair just shy of enough to make him lose it. She lets out stuttered little sounds and Mulder hums below him.
“You like that, Scully?”
“Oh my god, Mulder.”
He groans and shifts and she begs and Dieter’s aroused haze clears enough to make him realize that he’s eating her ass.
He makes a pained sound himself and sucks Scully’s throbbing clit into his mouth. She shakes, and her stiff body loosens just enough for her to roll her hips into them.
“Don’t— don’t stop, I’m so close. I’m gonna come.”
Neither of them would dream of stopping, not for anything. Dieter works his tongue in pulses against her clit as he suckles, and he feels Mulder slip a finger in between them just as she cries out, loud, and falls apart against their tongues.
Dieter drinks up the way her clit jerks and pulses between his lips. He drinks up her gasps and breathy noises. He drinks up the way Mulder’s cock mirrors his own, twitching with pure arousal at the way she’s coming just for them.
They’re both humming satisfied sounds as they work her through it. Their hands on each other’s cocks have stilled completely, just a loose grasp as they coax every last bit of pleasure out of her until she’s lax and shying away from them.
Dieter pulls away first. He watches with a sticky feeling in his chest at the way Mulder kisses her holes gently, and the skin around them, nuzzling between her thighs so tenderly. Both his hands free, now, Mulder soothes them up the outside of her thighs as they tremble in her aftershocks.
Mulder’s babbling, Dieter realizes, once the ringing in his ears finally subsides. Just under his breath, a chant, over and over.
“So perfect, Scully, thank you, thank you, Jesus Christ, Scully…”
Dieter settles back on his heels to keep gazing at them. Scully’s hands both pet through his hair as he leaves wet kisses that make her pale thighs glisten in the dim cabin lighting. He’s panting harder than she is, and his prick dribbles and twitches, and he looks up at her through misty eyes.
“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs.
She bends down at the same time he arches up and their lips meet in a kiss so blindingly passionate that Dieter debates whether or not he should look away. Only for a split second though. Because Scully moans into his mouth and licks herself out of it and Dieter grabs his throbbing dick at the base to chill himself out.
Mulder’s fingers run through her damp hair so gently, but his jaw works and his mouth takes from her in stark contrast. They look so goddamn good together, it’s insane. He’s torn between holding off to see how this plays out, or coming all over himself in three strokes or less as he watches them together.
“Come up here, Mulder.”
Her voice is intoxicating, it sounds so fucked out and blissful. She shuffles up the bed some and Mulder chases her, always touching at some point, until she’s lying back and he’s covering her body with his own.
He dwarfs her. It’s cute, in the show, the way she’s always looking up at him with a craned neck. Now, it’s just filthy, how Mulder’s cock looks so fucking huge lying hard against her small frame. The way he has to scrunch himself up to kiss her so his prick doesn’t go anywhere it’s not supposed to, yet. The way her tiny feet rub up and down Mulder’s calves, only half their size.
The way his hand eclipses her face when he cradles it and pulls away. How his thumb sweeps so easily from her lips to her cheekbone as he sighs.
“Scully…”
She hums and closes her eyes and smiles, a sated and relieved grin that makes her look so serenely beautiful.
“I know, Mulder,” she sighs, “me too.”
Dieter huffs. Chris Carter himself couldn’t have created a more Mulder and Scully-esque love confession. It’s precious. He might cry.
Unfortunately, the sound makes them both look over. Scully’s all relaxed but Mulder’s hackles are all raised, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Dieter slowly moves his hand away from his leaking cock and feels himself blush from his face down to his nipples.
He’s caught in their crosshairs, stuck, eerily still and silent. Should he offer to leave? He really doesn’t want to leave. Maybe he can just peek through the keyhole of the door and leave them to it.
“You too, Dieter,” Scully says, “get up here.”
Relief floods through him and makes his limbs all tingly. He’s nervous as he stands, gently making his way to the side of the bed and settling one knee on, then the other. Mulder shifts to the opposite side of Scully, their legs still tangled, as he watches Dieter with emotion he can’t quite put a name to.
Dieter practically purrs when he slides right into their space. His cock drags a sticky design onto Scully’s smooth thigh and he apologizes, but she just chuckles and gently scratches her nails along his scalp.
“Are you both going to be good for me?”
The tone of her voice makes them both shiver. Mulder huffs out a laugh but Dieter gasps as she tugs a little at his messy, sweaty curls.
“Yes ma’am, Agent Scully.”
Dieter’s voice completely betrays him. He’s so turned on. There’s so much blood pumping to his cock that there’s a real and serious threat of him passing out. He hides his face in her shoulder and tries to even out his breathing and not hump her leg like an unruly dog.
“I’ll be good for you, Scully.”
Mulder sounds a lot more in control. His deep, syrupy voice is just shy of even, only cracking on the second syllable of her name. Dieter feels the way she starts giggling before he hears it, her shoulders jostling with it.
“You’re going to play by the rules, Mulder?”
He chuckles and it sounds dark, and Dieter opens his eyes to watch him smirk that irresistible smirk.
“Hell, Scully, I’d write the rules over and over on the chalkboard to keep this going.”
She rolls her eyes at him, but she’s still grinning. His eyes flicker to her lips and there’s no hesitation this time when they kiss again. It’s tame and loose, until Scully wraps her dainty hand around his cock and he groans. Dieter matches his sound, and he just can’t help it, he rolls his hips into Scully’s thigh as he watches Mulder melt into a puddle against her. She bites at his plush bottom lip before she pulls back.
“Fuck me, then.”
“Jesus,” they both say in unison.
Scully bites her lip to keep in her giggles and it’s cute and debauched and insane. She’s insane. She’s going to kill them both, and Dieter’s going to return to his reality with 8 less seasons of The X-Files, and a season finale where Scully gets locked up for double homicide.
Mulder shuffles to straddle her. Dieter watches his heavy eyelids flutter and his jaw hang open and knows he likely looks the same. His cock twitches heavily where it hangs below him, and Scully teases the underside of it with her fingertips. He shivers, and so does Dieter, where he rocks his hips gently into Scully’s smooth skin.
“You’re sure, Scully?”
Dieter turns away and hides his heated face in the duvet. It’s too tender and raw and he doesn’t deserve to watch them love each other like this.
“Positive, Mulder.”
He hears them kissing, wet, smacking sounds that give Dieter goosebumps. And then a whimper, a huff, muffled into Scully’s mouth and he drags his face away from its hiding spot.
Mulder’s inching inside of her slowly, so slowly, with patience Dieter couldn’t even dream of. He cranes his neck to watch her take him, inch by inch. She looks so tight, and he bets she is, if the way Mulder’s eyes are squeezed shut is any indication.
Scully’s head tips back and breaks their kiss. Her eyes roll into the back of her head before she closes them. Her chest is heaving now with shallow breaths, her nipples taut and inviting.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
Mulder’s hips stay flush once he’s all the way in and he pants too. It looks like it takes all the strength he has to just flutter his eyes open and look down at her. His brows furrow and he licks his lips and gasps.
“Scully,” he whines.
She smirks, and christ, Dieter knows she’s clenching around him like a menace. Poor Mulder. He’s got the restraint of a god, he thinks, Dieter wouldn’t have made it even halfway inside of her.
She soothes him by brushing the hair from his forehead, all damp with sweat. She does the same to Dieter and he hums as her fingertips massage his scalp.
Mulder pulls out just as slowly as he entered her. She‘s soaked. He can hear it so well in the stilted silence of the room. When he pushes back in, she sighs and tightens her fist in Dieter’s hair and he needs something. He rocks against her again, and again, and the steady friction makes him gasp.
Her hand slides down to the back of his neck and guides him to her breast. His cock throbs, deliciously trapped between his stomach and her silky skin. His tongue tests the waters, swirling around the pronounced peak of her nipple. When she sighs and arches into it, he takes it into his mouth and sucks.
The noises she’s making are perfect. High pitched, breathy, needy. She’s letting herself go to Dieter and Mulder and it’s gorgeous. He presses his cock against her even harder and closes his eyes and whines around the bud in his mouth.
Mulder’s starting to pick up the pace. Dieter can tell by the way her breast is jiggling just slightly under his mouth. And the sounds, god, the filthy slick sounds coming from her cunt. He’s leaking all over her just thinking about what it must feel like, how snugly Mulder must fit inside of her, how warm it is.
As if Mulder could read his mind, he gasps out and his hips stutter against her.
“It’s so good, Scully.”
Scully arches her back to grind down onto him and moans his name and tells him she needs more and Dieter bites down on her tender skin.
She jolts and tugs his hair and curses and he looks up at her as he soothes it with his tongue.
She’s the poster girl of pleasure. Her face is twisted with it, every beautiful feature dripping with tension. The length of her neck is so apparent with her head thrown back, and her skin is pink and looks hot to the touch. She begins to bounce when Mulder fucks her faster and harder. Dieter wants to do something, anything to make her feel good.
He replaces his mouth with his hand, squeezing her flesh and teasing her nipple with his fingertips. He trails kisses up her chest, little love bites and suction until he reaches just below her ear. Her pulse is fluttering rapidly under his tongue, and she keens just as she turns her head and presses their lips together.
They’re kissing. He’s kissing Scully. Oh god, her lips are so fucking soft against his. Her tongue ripples in his mouth and it tastes so good, minty with a hint of her arousal straight from Mulder’s lips. He whines and rolls his hips against her like he’s in heat, and he’s so close, and he wonders if she’d be mad if he came all over her warm, smooth, freshly showered skin.
She jolts against him, against them, and bites down on Dieter’s lip with an almost pained noise. She turns away from Dieter and they both look to Mulder, who’s circling her puffy clit with his thumb as he fucks her.
He’s looking to her for direction with a glazed expression. He looks like he’s hanging by a thread.
“Here,” she whispers, and takes two of her fingers into her own mouth.
Christ. The way her lips look wrapped around her two digits is sinful and debauched. Mulder must think the same, because he grabs her wrist and makes her stop.
Dieter holds his breath as he waits for his next move. Is he going to pin her arms to the bed? Is he going to stretch them over her head and make her squirm on his cock, make her beg?
It’s sweeter than that. Of course it is, with these two. Mulder brings her hand to his lips and kisses her palm, and then her knuckles. She sighs his name, and watches Mulder smile.
That soft, dopey smile gets an edge to it.
“Let me, please,” he whispers.
Dieter only gets the chance to be confused for half a second when he slips those two fingers into his own mouth.
Scully gasps and moans and wiggles against him. Fuck, it’s beautiful. Mulder’s full lips take her all the way to the last knuckle and he hollows his cheeks as he sucks them. Scully’s hips squirm and rock and the way she moves against him is a sight. Mulder groans when Scully begins to thrust her fingers in and out, just a little, not enough to choke him but enough to make him close his eyes and sigh and start slowly fucking her again.
They leave his mouth all wet and shiny. Mulder’s tongue tries to follow them and it makes Scully huff out a weak laugh.
“You’re too good at that, Mulder.”
He hums, tries to hide his sheepish smile by ducking his head. But Scully grips his chin with her wet fingers to prevent it. His eyes struggle to focus on her, Dieter notices. He can’t blame him, it’s like staring into the sun.
“Why don’t you show off to your little time traveler, huh?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. His eyes dart nervously from Scully to Dieter.
“I— what?”
“Don’t be dense. Make him come. Make me come. You can multitask, can’t you?”
Dieter lies as still as the dead, afraid that if he moves maybe Mulder will snap out of this horny daze and tell him to get lost. He wouldn’t blame him one bit, either, but god he really wants to see this man’s lips wrapped around his cock.
Scully chuckles at Mulder’s frozen stature. Or maybe she’s chuckling at the way Dieter’s heartbeat is pulsing through his dick against her thigh, dribbling all over it.
“I bet you’re so good at it,” she continues to tease him, “with these pretty lips?”
Mulder huffs and squirms when she rubs the pads of her wet fingers against his mouth. His tongue peeks out to taste them, coax them back inside him, but she doesn’t let him.
“For me, Mulder?”
And Dieter can’t help but grin, because he’s never seen such a visceral loss of resolve so clearly before. Mulder closes his eyes and whines and nods his head.
Scully makes a satisfied little noise, and her free hand sneaks down to squeeze Dieter’s slick cock, and he has to bite his own lip really hard to keep from losing it before the fun even begins.
Then there’s some awkward repositioning and shuffling, mostly on his end. He kneels just above Scully’s head, and when he looks down she’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat from under his cock. He has to reach down to collect some of the pre-cum oozing out of him to keep it from dripping onto her gorgeous face, but she grabs his wrist and licks it from his fingers anyway.
And then there’s Mulder, who’s slowly thrusting in and out of his partner like it’s second-nature, like auto-pilot, as he surveys the scene in front of him.
“Mulder,” Scully mumbles.
The deep, breathy, commanding tone of her voice makes Dieter shiver.
“Yeah, Scully?”
“Make us come. Then you can.”
He groans, and his hips stutter then slam into her. Dieter’s torn between looking at the blissed-out look on Mulder’s face or the mischievous look in Scully’s eyes.
“Are you— are you sure?” Dieter asks.
Like an idiot, looking a gift horse in the mouth. But how can he not? They’re so perfect, so made for each other, and he’s just some weird fucking guy.
But then Mulder’s expression turns into something darker, determined, and he nods with glassy eyes.
“C’mon, McFly.”
And that’s all the encouragement Dieter needs, really. He widens his knees to line his cock up with those shiny, plush lips. Mulder gives Scully one last glance before he’s craning his neck forward and closing his eyes.
Scully and Dieter gasp at precisely the same time, just as Mulder’s tongue swipes at his frenulum. Dieter’s eyes lose focus as he watches Mulder open his mouth wider, then looks past to see Scully’s icy blue gaze fixated on everything going on above her. It’s like an erotic kaleidoscope, the way they’re all blending together in pleasure.
He suckles on Dieter’s head, a little too hard, but he thinks it might be on purpose. He hisses and grabs Mulder’s hair in one clammy, shaking hand. His tongue works the underside of his cock as he fits more into his mouth, and Scully was right, he is way too good at this.
Scully curses under them, and only then does Dieter notice she’s touching herself as Mulder keeps pumping into her with a shaky, stilted rhythm.
“So good, Mulder.”
His responding moan turns into a whimper as Dieter’s prick slides across the back of his tongue and hits his throat.
“Fuck, yeah, so good,” Dieter agrees.
It’s more than good. It’s incredible, unbelievable. He watches Mulder’s shiny, puffy lips wrapped around him, so in awe of how gorgeous he is. His pretty eyes are closed, half concentration and half bliss as he slides in and out of Scully’s dripping cunt.
It takes him a while to find a rhythm that works, but when he finds his groove he fucking finds it. Of course he’d be good at this, too. He fucks in and out of Scully once, twice, and then sinks his mouth down as far as he can on Dieter’s cock (all the fucking way— Jesus christ) and holds there while he pumps in and out of her some more.
And Dieter’s so, so torn. He wants to be good for Scully, wants to challenge Mulder for her and keep up the show. He wants to hang on so she can crumble as she watches her partner taking and receiving so perfectly at the same time.
But he wants to be good for Mulder too. He wants to come in his mouth and give him the satisfaction of satisfying. He wants to let Mulder prove to Scully how good he is, let him make them both come and writhe under his skill and rapt attention.
And it’s like Scully can sense it. With her free hand, she reaches up and cups his balls. It makes his fucking toes curl, makes him cry out her name and slam his eyes shut to stave it off. He’s being tagged teamed by the objects of some of his earliest sexual fantasies and it takes him biting his lip so hard he draws blood to keep it together.
He realizes the noises he’s making are borderline embarrassing. He’s mewling and gasping and whimpering as she squeezes and strokes, as her fingers meet Mulder’s lips every time he takes him deep. He’s shaking with the effort it takes to not fuck Mulder’s mouth. And he’s sweating, and he hopes to god it doesn’t start to trickle down and land on Scully’s blissed-out face.
And then it doesn’t much matter, because those dainty fingers and well-kept nails travel back, across his taint, and press.
“I can’t— I can’t, oh my god.”
Mulder hums around his cock in an echo of the noise Scully makes under him. He’s teetering on the edge, tensed up, out of his mind as Scully massages that spot and Mulder swirls his tongue around the head of his cock.
And in sync, like they always are, in a way that takes him completely off guard but should be absolutely predictable, they unravel him.
Mulder takes him down his throat and swallows, and the pad of one of Scully’s fingers taps his entrance, and he’s done.
He might scream, if he’s being honest. There was never any hope for a warning, the way they ganged up to play him like a fucking fiddle. Mulder groans as the first explosive spurt of Dieter’s cum shoots down his throat. He pulls back as Dieter continues to spill with each spasm of his muscles, as he tries but fails to suck Scully’s finger up inside him. He writhes and curses and clenches Mulder’s hair a little too tight as he works through his orgasm.
Mulder dutifully collects every last drop, extremely intent on keeping it from spilling down across Scully’s face. He is such a good boy for her. Mulder whimpers when she tells him so in her breathy, sexy way she does. His hips stutter inside of her just as Dieter slips from his swollen lips.
He doesn’t get reprieve yet, though. Mulder’s long, lean body arches up, and his arm reaches to grab a fist full of Dieter’s hair and tug and oh, god, he might just come again.
Their lips crash together, and before Dieter can think of how metallic the taste is, Mulder’s pushing his own load into his mouth forcefully. Dieter takes it all, sucks it down and swallows as he pants against Mulder’s mouth.
Then he thanks him, and he thanks Scully, over and over with baited breath until he collapses to the side of them, completely spent and overstimulated.
“You did so good,” he hears Scully say.
Only she’s not talking to him.
She’s got both her hands on Mulder’s face. Her lips just brushing against his own as she whispers. He watches her hike her legs up to wrap around Mulder’s waist, watches Mulder sag into her so he’s plastered against her front.
“Scully,” Mulder whines.
“Harder, Mulder. Make me come.”
He kisses her one last time before he buries his face in her neck and obeys, pulling nearly all the way out of her before driving back in. She’s really vocal now, now that she has Mulder’s undivided attention, now that he can focus on fucking her steadily and deep and fast.
Her head is thrown back and she looks so fucking beautiful. Mulder should be looking at her, shouldn’t miss a moment of the way she looks as he’s making her fall apart. But Dieter can’t blame him, or the concentrated, almost pained look he has on his face that’s just peeking out under her chin.
It’s crazy how she seems to be fucking him from under all his weight, but she’s doing exactly that. Her toned legs pull him into her, her hips arching to meet his, so frantic and hot. One of her hands is leaving red marks down his back and the other one is petting through his hair, scraping his scalp and pulling so many gorgeous noises from him.
Dieter couldn’t look away if he tried. His spent cock is twitching, trying it’s damndest to steal what little blood is left in his brain. He wants to help them along, maybe take Scully’s nipple into his mouth, but they’re both crushed under Mulder’s body in a way Dieter’s extremely jealous of. He could touch Mulder, could grab his pert little asscheek and squeeze. But he resigns to the sidelines instead, lets them share this intimate moment with only the intrusion of his eyes and heavy breathing.
It’s over pretty quickly, anyway. Mulder starts babbling again, a great fucking look on him, there where he’s hidden in the pale crook of her neck.
“Please, Scully. Come for me— I wanna make you come. I wanna be good, let me make you feel good.”
And she’s grinding her hips up as her back arches off the bed, no doubt catching her swollen clit on that enticing patch of wiry curls above his prick. She’s panting and gasping and then she’s shouting.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, Mulder, oh my god! So good, good boy— I’m gonna come—”
And she does. Beautifully. She tenses up and then she shakes, convulsing under him, around him. She moans and mumbles through it, with her eyes shut tight and her cute little nose all scrunched and her mouth hanging open.
It’s so beautiful that she outshines Mulder. Dieter barely even catches his groans, the curses under his breath as his hips stutter and grind into her. They both ride it out for a while, it’s like it’s never going to end. They writhe against each other and Mulder’s panting into her mouth as she tries her best to kiss his open lips. Their rhythm takes forever to slow, and even longer to come to a stop.
It’s better than anything Dieter ever could have imagined. He’s already half hard again, just watching them be together, and that fact only makes him want to leave, disappear, let them play this out without some stranger in their bed.
But christ he wants to stay and watch just as bad.
Their eyes flutter open at the same time, and the smiles on their faces are as nauseating as they are precious. Scully looks like the cat that got the cream, and Mulder has the audacity to look sheepish.
“I uh—” Mulder’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat, “I didn’t pull out.”
Scully giggles.
“I noticed.”
He huffs, and she smooths his sweaty hair from his forehead.
“I’m on the pill.”
Mulder sighs.
“That’s— that’s good.”
Idiots, Dieter thinks. The situational irony is off the charts. His huff alerts them both, snaps them out of their little bubble to look over at him.
He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes to mind. Scully gives him an amused little smirk and reaches over to pet his hair.
“You were so good,” she muses.
He shivers at her words and her fucked-out gaze.
Mulder shifts on top of her, and they both gasp a little noise when he slips out of her, but they’re both focused on him.
Mulder looks him up and down and for a moment he isn’t sure if he’s about to kick him out of bed or kiss him within an inch of his life.
He does neither, it turns out. Instead he holds the side of Dieter’s face in his big, sweaty palm and it’s so soothing that he closes his eyes and leans into it. His thumb strokes Dieter’s cheek while Scully plays with his hair and he could die happy here.
“Yeah man, thank you. That was good— you were good.”
Dieter’s eyes open wide at that. They’re both looking at him with fondness— appreciation. His chest swells with a heavy feeling just as his eyes begin to sting.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
He just barely catches the confused looks on their faces before he hides his own, rolling over into his stomach to let his pitiful tears fall into the blanket below him. Scully ruffles his hair with a sympathetic coo and Mulder pats him on the back of his heated neck before he hears rustling and feels the bed shift.
“Oh my god.”
Scully’s voice sounds horrified. For a quick moment, his tiny little pea brain thinks of Queequeg— is he alright, did he get out while they were occupied?
“What the hell?”
Mulder’s voice sounds much more amused.
Confused, Dieter wipes his wet eyes in what he hopes is an inconspicuous move before he looks over his shoulder at them.
Scully and Mulder are both standing at the foot of the bed, looking equal parts mortified and puzzled. And they’re staring at Dieter’s bare ass.
His bare ass that he now remembers is tattooed. Tattooed with Mulder and Scully’s face on each cheek, respectively.
“Oh, ha— yeah. Maybe that could have proved it faster?”
His face feels hot. He’s had these asscheek tattoos for so long he sometimes forgets about them. He was young and drunk and high when he got them, but they still hold up. Full color portraits of his favorite FBI agents.
“What do the words say?” Scully asks.
Mulder takes one for the team and leans in closer to Dieter’s ass, and he wonders if his blush goes all the way to his buttcheeks.
“Mine says the truth is out there, and yours says I want to believe.”
Dieter lets out a nervous chuckle and shifts, a little scrutinized, a little embarrassed, a little bit turned on at the way Mulder’s gaze settles over his body.
“When did you get these?”
“1998, right after the movie came out.”
“There’s a movie?”
“Two, actually.”
Scully shakes her head and looks from Mulder to Dieter’s butt, back and forth a few times.
“I’ll give you this one, Mulder. Only because there’s no lake monster for you to boast about.”
Mulder preens, a satisfied smirk settling on his handsome face.
“Finally,” he and Dieter say at the exact same time.
She rolls her eyes.
“Brag about it in the morning. I’m tired— and my bed’s clean,” she throws her voice over her shoulder as she leaves the room.
Dieter stays put. His ankles roll around in an attempt to hide his hesitation. He stares at the empty doorway and avoids Mulder’s lanky form.
“You coming, Doc Brown?”
He’d be stupid not to follow like an eager pup.
They all nestle into Scully’s bed. She’s in the middle, wrapped up in blankets, and the guys take either side of her. Dieter rests his head on her naked breast as she kisses Mulder goodnight, as Mulder’s fingers intertwine with his own over her smooth stomach. Their pillow talk lulls him to sleep and he goes to bed happy for the first time in years.
He wakes up alone, on his couch, in his own clothes, with his face smashed against his open laptop.
A dream. It must have all been a crazy, weed and hormone induced dream. Best dream he’s ever had. He sighs, scratches his head and takes in his surroundings.
Everything’s normal, exactly how he left it. Except, when he moves to his bedroom to mourn the loss of the day he never had, he sees a red and white trucker’s hat on his nightstand.
He’s in one of those funks again. His therapist calls it a depressive episode, but that’s so dramatic. He’s just a little bit down in the dumps thinking about how worthless he is and how no one’s ever really loved him before, not even his own parents, and how he hates himself so much he’s not sure if he would ever get rid of the guilt of letting someone else love him because he knows he’d just be a waste of their time.
I'm sorry but this is one of the funniest passages in fic I have read in a very long time holy shit I cackled.
Dieter remembers that fanfiction exists shortly after that.
*slams fists on table* ONE OF US, ONE OF US, ONE OF US
He gripes to his therapist about this while he avoids the topic of his greatest fear being dying without ever having a meaningful relationship in his whole life.
Fucking hell these little dark humor tidbits sprinkled in here are fucking sending me holy shit
And then another two days to pour over every single word he wrote, change it, change it back, wash rinse and repeat.
When he finally works up the nerve to post it, his laptop dies just as he’s about to press the publish button.
*slams fists on table but sadder this time* one of us :/ one of us :/
Actually, come to think of it, you guys would thrive in 2024.”
this is so accurate it's painful
There’s no couch in here, not even a cuck chair, so Dieter settles next to him.
PLEASE I AM FUCKING CRYING jfilewfjelfe not even a cuck chair lmaoooooo
And lastly HOLY SHIT this is the most delicious smut I've read in a hot minute good lord I will be reading this one again for sure
story summary: Facing immediate eviction you needed a roommate and you seem to have found the perfect choice in Max Phillips. He's charming, tidy, works nights at a marketing firm and even fixes things around the apartment. He's the perfect housemate. . . except for those strange scratching noises coming from his room at night...
a/n: Things are heating up and I love it. Don't forget, REBLOGS and COMMENTS are what keep us authors going! love y'all!
series masterlist here
PART VII : D E V O U R
A call comes the following day at four pm. You hear Van take it in the office as you pass by with your phlebotomy cart.
"I don't understand. Since when? Okay. Well, yeah okay. You’re not giving me much of a choice."
There's the sound of him drumming his fingers on his desk, behind the door. You hear a heavy sigh and you move to the front desk where Mina and Lucy sit chatting about weekend plans. Van eventually comes to the front desk and drums fingers along the counter top anxiously. A habit you've picked up on.
"Is anyone available tomorrow morning?"
Marta and Beth, the older ladies who work in finance don't even bother listening to the rest; they just walk into the next room. Mina glances up from her computer.
"Why?"
"We have a new bio-hazard team coming in for disposal, but I have surgery."
"What happened to the old team?" Lucy asks, confused. "We've been using them for years."
"They just called to say that they can't service us anymore," Van sighs. "They referred this new company Phrog Brother Removal, but their earliest slot was tomorrow morning."
Your two girlfriends look at one another with wary concern. Neither of them wants to have to come in on a weekend. Mina has plans with Johnny and Lucy has two Tinder dates lined up. Seems she's well and over Max who she tells you over lunch one afternoon had But it wouldn't matter even if they were available. This is the setup you and Max worked on.
"I can help," you offer quickly walking towards the desk. "Just give me the spare and the alarm code and I'm happy to do it."
Everyone glances at you in surprise. You're not exactly known for wanting to come in on a weekend either.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course."
"Thank you," Van says warmly, his hand preparing to cup your cheek. "I really appreciate it."
And then as if he's just suddenly become aware that you're both not alone he jerks his hand back to his side, face flushed.
"Okay, well, yeah, Lucy can set you up with the uh, code and stuff."
He heads back to his office, closing the door to the ooo’s that greet you when you turn back to face them. Mina is practically bursting with giggles and Lucy is smirking.
"Tell me you're fucking him," Lucy whispers, not wanting to be overheard by one of the patients whose just arrived.
"No. Just dinner so far," you whisper back. "Now shut up and give me the key and code."
///
At five pm the office is closed and you're a nervous wreck. Van is coming to your place for seven to meet Murray and have dinner.
Van: can I bring anything?
You: just yourself. :-)
Groceries are bought in a rush as you scramble to make it inside. You note that the encroaching winter makes the light fade much earlier. By the time you arrive home a little after 6:00 p.m. Max is awake and strolling around the living room.
"You told me you were out tonight," you snap, angry at how rushed you are and irritated that he's not keeping his end of the bargain up.
He promised you last night before you broke apart to go to bed that he would not be lingering around the apartment when Van showed up. And yet here he is dressed impeccably in a pressed shirt, wearing fresh cologne.
"Hi Max, how are you?" He mocks, coming over to see what you've bought. "Well I'm fine, Sunshine thank you for asking, how are you? Oh wonderful-"
"I don't have time for this," you hiss at him. "I have to do all this prep and get it in the oven."
"What are you making?"
"Lasagna."
"That's not lasagna," Max says with a disgusted look on his face as you take the frozen meal out of its package. "That's cardboard smothered in tomato sauce."
"Oh just go away."
You know that you should probably be more afraid of Max; he could kill you so any moment, but the fact of the matter is he just irritates you more than anything. Plus you do have somewhat of an advantage being the key to him getting guilt-free food.
"Why are you going to all this effort?" Max sneers. "You just want him to take the cat."
You pop the lasagna into the oven, frustrated with your lack of time. You still need to shower and get yourself together. You're not thinking when you answer.
"I like him okay? And if you don't murder me it would be nice to have a functional relationship with someone that likes me."
You don't know why you tell him this. The last time you checked Max doesn't have any sympathy or empathy for anyone but himself. You've seen his true colors.
"So I'm going to shower and I would appreciate if you were gone by the time I get out because now I'm terrified this lasagna is going to be shit and he's never going to want to go out with me again."
You don't wait for his reply. You simply set the timer and head for the shower with a change of clothes.
///
You exit dressed semi-casual with your hair washed and styled to the sound of a door knock. You glance at the stove to see it's still fifteen minutes to seven.
Van stands on the outside of the door with a bouquet of pale flowers. He's dressed in a sweater and jeans, his curls brushed back from his face. When he sees you he nervously pushes his glasses up his nose.
"You're here early," you say breathlessly. "How did you get in?"
"Your roommate was just leaving."
You try to hide your scowl at the mere mention of Max. He's irritated you so much you don't even want his name uttered around you.
"He told me to come right in. That you were expecting me."
"Right."
You're going to kill Max. But you force a smile to your face, thanking Van for the flowers.
"These are stunning," you tell him with a beam. "
You two make your way to the kitchen just as Murray trots out of your bedroom. Van turns to see this, A smile breaking over his features.
"Hi little fella."
You look on in surprise as Murray mewls gently at Van before starting to wind his way around the tall man's ankles.
Van crouches down, trailing his palm along Murray's spine. The cat arches before gazing up at Van, blinking slowly.
"Oh wow he really likes you," you observe, grabbing Van a glass of wine. "I haven't seen him take to anyone like that."
"The feeling is mutual," Van smiles, letting the cat nuzzle his hand. “He’s a sweet little guy.”
The timer on the stove goes off and you inwardly cringe.
"I'm not much of a chef," you tell Van, hoping that the lasagna is cooked the whole way through as you make your way back towards the dining table. "So just keep your expectations realistic."
"I can do that."
You open the oven door, bracing yourself for a blackened lasagna crust. Instead what greets you is a cookie tray holding two plates piled high with creamy looking rice and a miniature chicken on each.
What the fuck?
Confused you turn around, holding it in your hands and peering down at it. Did you have a stroke? Why don't you remember buying or cooking this? Were you in such a state of duress that you thought you bought a lasagna?
Van is studying the tray in your hands.
"You worked all day and still had time to make all this? You're amazing," Van says grinning widely. "I usually just order take out."
You observe the warm dinners before nodding slowly before you head to the table, laying the plates. After Van returns from washing his hands, you hand him his fork and knife and watch him cut into his dinner.
He takes a bite, eyes fluttering closed. You watch him intently, waiting for the inevitable disgusted face.
"Whoa, this is the best risotto I've ever had."
You can only offer a weak nod, looking down at your meal.
Did Max do this? How the fuck did he manage to whip this up? Why did he do this?
You take a bite yourself, a little hesitant. Flavor explodes on your tongue; the creamy risotto and the crispy chicken skin are a match made in heaven.
Murray makes himself comfortable under Van’s chair, curling into a ball and dozing, his purrs loud. You and Van chat back and forth about surgery this weekend, about how he's so glad to have a new little friend to take home.
"So you want to take him?"
"Yeah," Van says smiling down at the cat slumbering at his feet. "I'd love to."
You feel yourself soften for him as the time goes on. Van is so sweet, so tender and gentle yet he's so commanding at work. You like talking with him, you like spending time with him. This feels like it could be something serious. And judging by the way he keeps stealing looks at you when he thinks you're not looking, you think it might be mutual.
After dinner you both find yourself on the couch watching an old episode of "Dark Shadows" with Van’s arm around your shoulder. Murray sleeps curled on your bed in the next room.
The entire time you're breathing shallowly, trying to focus on the television but you can't stop looking at Van out the corner of your eyes. When you notice him doing the same you take a chance and lean towards him. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you fiercely, no words needed.
He's a good kisser; his lips are plump and warm. He takes his time, slotting his lips between yours, hands sliding down to cup your neck as he groans into your mouth.
You and Van proceed to make out on the couch for a while as one episode of Dark Shadows bleeds into the next, your mouths spit slick and your body aching. You're on top of him, body draped over his broad torso, thighs spread over his lap.
"Can I feel you?" Van rasps, fingers coming to cup you between your legs over your dress. His eyes scan yours when you don't immediately reply.
You shutter at the desperation in his voice and gaze, nodding and hitching up your skirt to show off your satin panties.
He grins, kissing you once more as his hand shifts between your bodies, two fingers sliding under the fabric of your panties and down your slit.
He teases you gently, eyes crinkling up at you as he feels your copious arousal coating his fingers. "You been waiting all night for me to touch you?"
Try all week.
You laugh, cheeks flushing as you move your mouth to his, not answering. He continues to slide his two fingers between the lips of your cunt, going knuckle deep and groaning as he curls them.
Your breath hitches as he hits that part of you that makes you whimper, giving his fingers a rub against your sweet spot as you buck against his hand.
"You really needed this didn't you?" he murmurs, hips rolling against yours as your lips graze.
"Yes."
It’s been the most stressful time of your adult life. This time reprieve, this slice of lust and distraction is exactly what you crave. Your cunt clenches around his thick digits, clit catching on the rough fabric of his trousers, making you gasp as you arch.
"Just like that," Van groans, fingers fucking into you deeply and quickly as you gaze languidly down at him.
You feel yourself beginning to crest, body starting to tremble as his thumb circles your clit, thick digits still thrusting into you. He growls something else but you can't hear it over the pounding of your heart.
"Van, I wanna make you come too," you moan as you ride his fingers, your eyes glassy. "Please."
You're grinding slows and you're about to suggest he take off his pants when his eyes go dark and his hands come to grip your hips.
You look down in surprise, seeing his eyes slammed shut. Despite the both of you being fully dressed Van starts to hump against you, bouncing you on his hips as his fingers curl within you.
"Van," you whimper at the sensation, breathing hitched as he thrusts and pumps at once, your breasts bouncing under your shirt, your thighs widening.
"So pretty," Van groans, watching your body move for him. "I'm gonna-"
You're going to suggest the two of you move to the bed, but Van is tilting his head back, hips rutting up into you.
"Fuck yes!" He groans loudly, eyes rolling back. "I'm gonna come for you, Callie! Fuck, that's it honey, take it!"
You can only stare down at him in shock. Normally this kind of dirty talk would turn you on immensely, but your name isn't Callie.
Not even close.
Everything in your body tenses and Van does as well as he realizes what he said. His eyes pop open and be sees your stunned reaction. His erection immediately softens and he withdraws his fingers from between your legs.
"Fuck, I'm sorry," he says, cringing as you crawl off of him, the moment shattered. He wipes his glossy fingers on his jeans, looking humiliated.
You smooth your dress back down over your thighs, hiding your ruined panties as you come to sit on the edge of the couch. Your cheeks are hot with embarrassment.
Van sits up beside you, putting his face in his hands in humiliation. He shakes his head as if he can't believe what just happened.
"I'm so sorry," he keeps repeating, his voice muffled. You meanwhile just keep cringing before finally speaking.
"I'm guessing that Callie was your girlfriend?"
You know he just wants to die of humiliation as he lowers his hands from his flaming face.
"Yeah. Calista – I called her Callie."
"Right."
"It's not ... I'm not still hung up on her," Van tries to explain, face tight with embarrassment. "We were just together for so long and I haven't seen anyone since we broke up and-"
"Van, it's fine," you assure him with a smile that doesn't come anywhere near touching your eyes. "It's not a big deal."
But it is a big deal and you both know it.
He leaves shortly thereafter with Murray in a cat carrier in one hand and all his stuff under the other arm.
"Thanks so much for dinner," he says standing awkwardly at the front door. "And uh, my new pal."
Murray purrs happily inside his carrier. If nothing else about this evening turned out how you thought, you found Murray a safe home with someone who seems to care about him.
"You're still good for tomorrow?"
Tomorrow. You'd almost forgotten. Right. You nod at him.
"Yeah, totally."
He gives your cheek a quick graze before he's gone, leaving you in an empty apartment with your heart in your stomach.
///
When Max returns the house is dark and quiet. The dishes are in the sink, Murray's cat items are gone and there's a sharp scent of disinfectant in the air.
It's just you and him again.
Max knows he should just go back to his room; wait to see how things turn out tomorrow. But his long legs carry him to the threshold of your bedroom, feeling strangely anxious. He doesn't really get anxious.
Only with you.
Tonight Max went to a club downtown to shake off his bad mood after leaving you the dinner in the stove; a weeknight special from the restaurant around the corner. Placing it in the oven to warm and tossing out that shit lasagna made him feel helpful.
He could hear the shower running and he was so tempted to just crack the door open and take a peek at your shower-slick body. But he didn't. Instead he tidied the apartment like a pathetic, mooning loser and left.
Running into Van as he was leaving for the night was just the cherry on the shit sundae. Max fucking hates Van. There's something about the guy that sets him on edge.
So tonight Max danced amongst the throngs of beautiful young people at the trendy club downtown and he almost fucked a sexy little number in one of the bathrooms, but he couldn't muster any enthusiasm. A quick love bite and he was bored. All he could think of was you and a Van back here and it pissed him off.
But now the woman's blood flows through his veins and he's hard. He can't help but push the door open a fraction, peeking in to see you sleeping, curled on your side facing away from the door.
He misses how it used to be before he had to tell you the truth. He misses the shy way you smiled at him, how you ate his meals with gusto, how you let him hold you in this very bed. You talked with him, you shared with him. It's been so long since he had that. It was more than lust, it felt like friendship.
Has he ever truly had a friend before? One who expected nothing in return from him?
He moves silently across the floor until he stands next to your bed. You breathe deeply, eyes twitching behind your closed lids and sighing softly. His fingers slowly rise to your exposed neck, fascinated at the tic of your pulse.
His forefinger suddenly burns and he jerks his hand back, suppressing a hiss of pain. He sees the stripe along his forefinger and frowns. This will take longer to heal.
He glances down before internally chastising himself. it was the chain of your silver necklace, the one from your parents that you never take off. His finger must have grazed it as he trailed his fingertips along your smooth neck.
He glances up to see the crosses hung above your bed, smirking to himself. You don't know everything about vampires, that much is clear. Crosses only work when you have belief. After two sets of dead parental figures it's clear you have none that remains.
He watches you sleep a little longer, amused at the small ways you've tried to keep him out. He respects your healthy fear of him, but you don't need to be afraid.
There's no way he's ever going to hurt you.
///
Saturday morning arrives and you're a wreck. Max didn't tell you much about this biohazard team side from the fact that they were trustworthy and would be arriving at ten am.
You grab the biggest coffee you can and you go to the empty office, typing in the code and pacing anxiously. You disable the indoor cameras, pretending that you hit the button by accident.
You don't know exactly who is gonna show up today. But if they start mouthing off about vampires and Max you have a feeling that's gonna look suspicious.
But when two men arrive at the office dressed in a black van wearing yellow biohazard suits you feel yourself relax. They look professional. The side of their van boasts Phrog Brother Removal and has a picture of a frog carrying a garbage can. It seems legit.
The first man comes in with a polite wave before leaning forward over the desk.
"Hi there, we're Phrog Brother Disposal. You were expecting us?"
"Yep," you nod slowly, waiting for some kind of code or secret handshake or something that indicates they're here for something other than basic disposal.
The second man walks in toting a large cooler. His boots squeak along the tile floors of the office as the first man suddenly drops his voice.
"Cameras are off?"
You nod.
"Great."
He removes his headpiece to grin at you. He's got frizzy brown curls and a paltry moustache. You notice his adult braces when he smiles and he shakes your hand excitedly.
"I'm Alan and this is Edgar," he says pointing to the taller man behind him. "You must be Max's familiar."
What the fuck?
“No, I am not a fucking familiar," you snap, offended. "I'm his roommate."
Does that really sound any better? It has to. A familiar is like... Renfield. You're not that. You're your own person, smart and.. well, when you think about it you are at a vampires beck and call. Maybe you are a Renfield?
"Oh, so you're friends."
"No. Definitely not." You cross your arms. "More like his hostage."
The two men exchange a look.
"Anyway, follow me," you tell them, watching them cart a large cooler with them to the plasma room.
You press your card to the scanner and the three of you walk inside. You show them around the space, ending on the refrigerator. You pull it open and usher them inside.
"Wowee," Alan whistles as he looks around at all the labeled samples. "Eleanor is gonna be real happy about this."
"Who?" You shoot a look at the men as they open the cooler. "This is for Max."
"They're sharing," Alan says readjusting his mask. "Forty percent goes to Max for finding the source; the rest goes to our master, Eleanor."
You don't know anything about this deal. You're concerned that you're being ripped off and that you'll be in trouble.
"Who the fuck is Eleanor?"
"Eleanor Botezatu? The one who turned your Mast-" Alan catches himself. "Roommate."
"Oh." You pause, face scrunched up. "I guess I just assumed it was a guy that turned him."
Are you a vampire sexist? Great, as if things couldn't get any worse.
"No no. It was Eleanor." Alan smirks. "She took to him right away. She likes to sire pretty things."
You don't know what you say to that so you just shrug. You’ll have to talk with Max about this later. There’s two of them and one of you and you have no desire to get into a physical altercation.
"Okay. Well, only take the ones marked to be destroyed."
"Of course."
You watched their masked faces in their gloved hands. Move through the samples. They check the dates, sure not to destroy anything that may be needed in the practice.
You find yourself momentarily fascinated, watching them work. They seem like such normal people, such average young men.
And you suppose there's something comforting about two people who know the situation you're in. That you can talk to freely about the bizarre situation you found yourself in.
"So, you're both this Eleanor woman's familiars? Why both?"
"She's a very busy woman," Alan insists. "She needs at least two familiars at all times, sometimes three."
"Oh. Do lots of vampires have more than one familiar?"
"Nah."
You watch them for a moment, leaning against the chilled wall. You don't know what you would have done if Max was blackmailing more than one person. Maybe teamed up to take him down?
"What do you do when you're not doing her bidding?"
"We're bio-recovery technicians," Alan says, laughing when you shoot him a look of confusion.
"We clean up crime scenes," Alan explains cheerfully as he and Edgar glance at the dates on the blood bags, sliding specific ones into the cooler.
They have a second cooler, much smaller than the first that they pack tightly. You assume that one is for Max.
You can see why they were chosen as the biohazard team. They have a legitimate business, it won't look as suspicious. You figure her connection to them is why Max teamed up with this Eleanor person in the first place.
"How did you find Eleanor?"
She found us," Alan says, making sure the bags aren't leaking in the cooler. "We cleaned up after one of her accidents and she found out. Next thing you know we're being brought to her lair, eating this fancy dinner and being turned."
"Did you even want to be turned?" You ask looking at them both confused.
And now finally Edgar says something from behind his mask.
"Who the fuck wouldn't want to live forever?"
///
When they finish you follow the two of them out to the truck, getting them to sign off that they picked the items up. Thankful that the outdoor cameras don't pick up sound. You watch them open a squeaky back door to their van, peering inside and seeing a lot of cleaning equipment.
As they prepare to load the large cooler into the back of the truck, you're concerned.
"Wait, how will I get the stuff for Max?"
"We'll drive you home with your cut." Alan grunts as he lifts one end of the cooler into the back of the truck with Edgar.
"I suggest you meet us around the block in fifteen minutes. Then we can transport you and the supply without arousing suspicion."
You're impressed they thought of this. You nod, satisfied with their plan. And you do just that, arming the alarm, walking down the block and turning. Their truck idles along the curb. Alan tugs the back siding van door open and you see the back seat is clear for you. You close the door after you, tensing when Edgar takes off with a peel of tires.
The two of them are mask-less and wearing jeans with almost matching army shirts. Without their masks on you can see the family resemblance.
"So you said you're a hostage?" Alan asks as he turns to face you. "I've never heard of that with a vamp before."
"Yeah," Edgar frowns as he continues on in the direction of your apartment. "They either kill, taste or turn."
"I guess you've been feeding him in the meantime?" Alan inquires, his large eye scanning your neck.
"No." You exhale, thinking of Lucy. "My friend has. Not that she knows it."
"Oh."
The two men cast looks at one another before looking at you in the rearview mirror and you feel yourself being studied. You don't like the sensation and you realize you're not that far from home.
"You can just drop me here," you say indicating out the window at the intersection. "I'm close."
"Sorry, we've been given specific instructions to get you home safely." Alan looks at you in the back. "We were told if you had so much as a scratch on you that there would be severe repercussions."
You go quiet at that, looking at the small cooler at your feet. At least they aren't going to hurt you.
It's only five more minutes and they idle at the curb in front of your apartment. You give them a quick thanks, grabbing your cooler and scrambling out of the large van. You bring out your keys, eager to get this all over and done with. The van takes off just as you hear your name being called and you start, your key in the lock.
"Lucy?"
"Hey," Lucy says, flipping her thick red hair over one shoulder. She gives you a quick hug, glancing at your cooler. "Going on a picnic in this weather?"
"What are you doing here?" You ask, trying to distract her from it. She goes somber, raising her face a bit to look supercilious.
"I'm here to see Max."
What? It's the middle of the fucking day. She can't see Max. And now guarding him during the day is your job.
"He's not home."
"I know he is," Lucy says with a sour expression. "You told me he sleeps all day."
You don't know what would happen if Max is woken mid slumber. What if he ripped her to pieces? You panic.
"He's at his girlfriend's."
It's a quick lie, a desperate one. Lucy frowns, a crease between her delicate brows.
"Girlfriend? Since when?"
"Remember at lunch? I told you I thought he was seeing someone."
You can see the disappointment in face and body. She seems to internally debate something and you shift from foot to foot.
"Well I don't care," she finally announces, straightening her shoulders. "I'm going to talk to him."
"No," you say sharply, the cooler heavy in your grip. "He's not here, Lucy. Stop throwing yourself at a guy who isn't into you."
The second it escapes, you feel your eyes squeeze shut. It came out so harsh, so ugly. Lucy blinks eyes wide before her cheeks go pink. She says nothing, just turns and takes off down the street, her heels clicking along the sidewalk. You watch her go; your body sagging against the wall.
"Fuck."
///
Max wakes, wearing his boxers and t-shirt. He grabs his clothing, knowing he has to go to the office tonight. There's a big meeting going on with the GM and he can't miss it.
You're on the couch focused on a book titled "The Judge's House". You're eyes flick over to him briefly before he sees you wince. You don't offer him any type of greeting. He ignores this, showering, dressing, brushing his teeth and spritzing himself with cologne. He exits in a waft of steam, his eyes moving to you.
An expectant silence falls between the two of you and you sigh. This next part cannot be avoided. You live together.
"Your meals are in the mini fridge," you tell him grimacing, not looking up from your book. The mini fridge you had to go out and buy last night to keep the blood at the perfect temperature.
"Thanks, Sunshine."
He's not surprised when you ignore him. He goes to the mini fridge, tugging one of the blood bags out and reading it.
Mister Hernandez. B+. Aged forty.
You just keep reading, but you do sneak a glance to see him pierce the blood bag with the knife, slipping a straw into the slit. It's like a bloody Capri Sun. He takes a deep sip, bliss settling over his handsome features. He swallows slowly, savoring it.
"Fuck that’s so good. I was starving."
The grin he shoots you wouldn't look so menacing if a droplet didn't cling to his lower lip. You shudder and he wipes it away as he walks towards you. You go back to your book, insisting to yourself that you'll ignore him. But then he plops himself down on the couch, his hand falling to your socked foot.
"You did great," he says silky, rubbing his thumb along the arch of your foot. "Thank you."
You hate that his touch feels good. You jerk your foot away, curling at the end of the couch and glaring at him. He looks at you with what could be disappointment before taking another long sip from his bag.
You grimace at the sight, feeling nauseous. Max makes a mental note to put it in a flask or opaque water bottle next time. You scan the half drained bag, suddenly curious.
"How long will that last you?"
Max looks at the stocked mini fridge, mentally calculating. "Two weeks?"
"Two weeks?" You say, horrified. "There's like thirty bags in there!"
"Yeah, and?" Max frowns. "Last time I checked you eat more than one meal a day."
You make a scoffing sound before the two of you grow quiet, the apartment strangely silent without Murray's tiny paws moving around the space.
Is this going to be the rest of your life? Getting blood, risking your job, meeting bizarre men who work themselves to death just for the chance at being granted an eternal life? An eternal life of what? Servitude? How wonderful is this Eleanor woman to inspire that kind of devotion?
You think of all that's happened today, your mind drifting back to your conversation with the Phrog Brothers.
"Who's Eleanor?"
Max almost chokes on his latest sip at the name, pulling a grimace from you.
"How do you know Eleanor?"
"The Phrog Brothers talked about her today. All they told me was that she turned you. That she's your sire."
"They shouldn't have said shit to you," Max groans, relaxing back on the couch opposite you. "I thought it was supposed to be a professional operation."
"It was. But then they told me that you were sharing your cut with someone named Eleanor and I was curious."
Max sighs, placing his drained blood bag onto the coffee table. You can see some of the color is back to his face, and his body is radiating a warmth previously missing. The sweet scent of cinnamon is back.
"I went backpacking through Eastern Europe right after college," Max starts, hooking his arms around the back of the couch you both sit on. "It was fun, lots of parties. I met a lot of cool people, lots of sex, a great time."
"Mhm."
"So I'm invited to this one house party at this random mansion, castle thing by one of the guys at the hostel. Apparently the owner of the place is loaded, has the best drinks and drugs and everyone my age is there partying." Max shifts.
"Then all of a sudden I see this woman passing through the crowd, and I say woman because she wasn't a college girl. She was confident and sexy and when she just looked my way I swear I got hard. She told me her name was Eleanor and that she was the owner of the house. We talk a bit but it's clear what we both want, so she takes me to her bedroom and-"
"And she bit you?"
You're leaning slightly forward, your eyes wide. You’re horrified but fascinated all at the same time.
"Who's telling the story? You or me?" He says it with a teasing lilt but you still feel chastened and slump back.
"So we get on the bed and we fuck for hours. I've never been that turned on in my life, everything I wanna do she does and she does it well. I mean, the party is going on downstairs but all I can hear and think and taste is her and she's fucking insatiable." Max smiles fondly at the memory and you try to hold in an eye roll.
"So eventually I tell her that I have to get back to my friends from the hostel. She just smiles at me and says that she knows we'll see each other again, that our paths are fated. "Max looks wistful. "So I head back to the hostel and keep traveling and two weeks later I'm back in the states starting a shitty internship at my parent’s real estate company."
"Wait," you sit up further when he stops there. "Eleanor didn't bite you?"
For the first time in a while you’re not shrinking from him or pretending he doesn't exist.
"Nope. But the guy who invited me to the party? Never saw him again."
"But then... How did you become.... You know... Undead?"
Max realizes he has your attention now. You're looking at him eagerly, eyes bright with interest.
"That's a story for another night," Max says with an oily smirk.
You feel irritated at this; frustrated that he didn't really answer your question. You're confused at the soft way he gazes at you, his smile gentle. And then there it is the husky voice in your head.
So soft I just know it... Just need to feel-
Your book falls from your lap, slapping onto the ground startling you both into looking away. You stand abruptly, avoiding his gaze.
"Also you might want to send a message to Lucy officially ending things. She came by this afternoon to see you."
"Huh? Why?"
"Apparently you ghosted her," you shrug, looking at your feet.
Max rolls his eyes but unkindly and all at once that blasé attitude of his is back. That arrogance that you simply cannot stand.
"How is it ghosting when we were never actually together?"
You cross your arms, frowning.
"I don't know but she seemed upset."
"She's the one who told me she wanted to keep her options open," Max entreats, wishing you'd look at him. "That's the reason I pursued her."
"Max, I don't wanna hear this," you say pulling a face and turning to go to your bedroom. "Just handle it."
Max notices you stand looking away from him and he feels irritated. He stands, crossing the room.
"I'm sorry I hooked up with your friend. I didn't expect..." He trails off, unsure of how to explain this. He didn't expect to like you this much? He didn't expect to feel protective over you? He didn't expect to care so much about you?
"Max, I don't give a shit who you hook up with," your sneer. "I just don't like seeing her hurt and I'm pretty sure I had to hurt her feelings today because of you."
You speak over your shoulder, eyes still on the floor.
"And so I need you to be a big boy and talk to her,” you continue, avoiding his eyes. “So I don't have to have a repeat performance of today, okay?"
He doesn't reply at first, still disconcerted with how you're trying to shut him out. Max tilts, trying to catch your gaze.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because you'll hypnotize me again."
Max blinks laboriously at you, thrown by your comment.
"When have I ever hypnotized you?"
"That first day we met," you snap, still not looking at him.
“Bullshit.”
"I remember it, your voice in my head saying let me in."
Max is quiet, truly puzzled by this. "Hypnosis doesn't work like that."
"Yeah right," you scoff. "And what about the party when we were playing Pictionary? The answers just came into my head."
Max is curious at this, dark eyes scanning your downturned face. He didn't realize that's what had happened that evening. He remembers trying in vain to read your mind that night, trying to guess your answers.
"I didn't do any of that."
"Yeah right. How about when you were kissing me?"
"What about it?"
"I heard your voice... You said Open for me baby." You flush deeply at this. "And then it was like I couldn't stop kissing you, like I needed it and I couldn't control myself."
Max feels his plump lips curl into a knowing smirk. He feels his chest puff up with amusement and strangely, pride.
"Sorry babe, that was all you."
Now your eyes leap to his face, angry and determined to insist that he's lying to you.
"It was not."
His eyes glitter enticingly.
"Must've been because it wasn't me," Max answers honestly. "Hypnosis doesn't work like that. What you're talking about is suggestion and I don't even know how to do that. That's something The GM does."
"The GM?"
"Grand Master," Max explains. "And other high ups. Ancient Ones."
You blink away this information, too angry about everything else to focus on that specific diversion right now.
"So you suggested me," you tell him with a huff. "Maybe you didn't realize you can do it."
You don't like the look Max has on his face. A smarmy, know-it-all look that he scans over your body.
"Even if I could, suggestion only works when the subject already wants something," Max purrs. "Suggestion is kinda like a nudge in the direction of something you already desire."
You say nothing but your fists clench at your sides.
"So if I had somehow used suggestion that means you desired me that night," Max says, his body slowly advancing towards you. His voice drops to a husky whisper. "Maybe you still do."
Ridiculous.
You don't feel that way about Max, you never have. You've always felt unsettled by him, sensing something unearthly.
But you let him sleep in your bed, a voice whispers and it's all you. You must have felt something for him then.
Max is getting closer, his dark eyes pinning you in place.
Friendship. I was scared and he brought me comfort. That’s all it ever was
Your heartbeat thrums in your ribcage. Ba bump. Ba bump. He's so close to you now, your chests could touch if you moved forward a fraction. But you don't, you remain in place, eyes stuck on his.
"I can hear your heartbeat," Max murmurs, his eyes falling to your neck, a tongue coming to swipe along his lower lip. "So strong and steady. It's throbbing."
You're ashamed to acknowledge that your lids fall shut at his silken tone. Throbbing. His face leans closer to your own, inhaling the sweet scent of the outdoors on you.
"It's going so fast. Faster and faster the closer I get to you." His mouth almost brushes your temple and you suppress a shiver.
"I wonder what would happen if I touched you?"
And suddenly you feel his mouth hovering over your neck, just under your jaw. No closer, you still wear your necklace. But near enough to you that you feel his hot breath buffet it.
It's that which wakes you from your stupor, jerking back from him, eyes blinking furiously at him.
"I got you your blood. I made sure Lucy didn't come up here while you were sleeping," you tell him, so angry your skin is mottled. "I've done my job, so leave me the fuck alone."
Max stares open-mouthed as you streak towards your bedroom, slamming the door brutally behind you.
You collapse onto your bed, furious with Max but even more furious with the throbbing between your legs. What the fuck is wrong with you? Your phone buzzes and you open it to see a text from Van. You hold in a wince as you open it, relieved that nothing awkward awaits you.
VAN: Hey, just wanted to let you know Murray is settling in just great.
A selfie is attached of Van and Murray on the couch, Van smiling broadly and Murray blinking up at the camera.
Van's wearing a tight white t-shirt and soft looking grey sweatpants. His glasses are thicker and his hair looks so soft.
The throb between your legs gets stronger. You stand, going to pull on your sleep shorts and t-shirt, throwing yourself back into bed, tugging on the covers over you.
You're just feeling mixed up because of Van. Aroused at what you two couldn't complete on Friday. That's all. You're not into Max, not into his fuck-boi energy and his bizarre need to unnerve you. He's practically holding you hostage.
That's what you tell yourself as you cup your pussy through your panties, holding in a groan. Your eyes slowly shut, a sigh escaping you as you sink into the sheets.
Thoughts of Van's grey sweatpants and soft curls are stuck in your mind. You let your free fingers trail over your hardened nipples, making you shudder. Van’s smile, the sweet way his eyes crinkle, the deep baritone of his voice. You can picture them all as your fingers dance down your abdomen before sliding under your panties.
You want him here, stupid ex girlfriend be damned. You want his full mouth kissing down your sternum, hands tugging your panties and shorts down until you're bare and open for him. Your fingers circle your clit languidly at this scenario.
You can almost feel his beard grazing your inner thighs as he kisses your soft skin, whispering about how much he needs to taste you, burying his face and fucking into your cunt with his fingers and tongue.
"Fuck, yes," you sigh, brows saddled.
You can feel your ass clench as you thrust up into your greedy fingers, your heartbeat pounding in your ears as the phantom Van lifts his face.
But it's not Van who raises his head from between your legs. It's Max with that familiar smug smile, lips glossy with your arousal.
C'mon, Sunshine. You're so close. Come on my tongue.
"No," you whisper out loud, voice hoarse. You blink away the image of a Max between your naked thighs.
This is sick. You're sick. This man is blackmailing you, he's a fucking vampire, a killer and you're here getting off to him?
No. You won't.
You tell yourself this but your fingers are subconsciously sliding into your fluttering core, making you arch off the bed again.
You can imagine Max here, his body heavy over yours. That cinnamon smell invading your nostrils, his thick cock pressing against your entrance.
You want this. You want me. Give in.
Fuck it was dangerous to want this, to desire that forbidden fruit. To walk the razors edge of lust and destruction. You remember the promise of bliss at his bite. The way you think about it at times, fantasizing about letting go.
I wonder what would happen if I touched you.
"Fuck fuck," you breathe in a whisper, your hips bucking into your hand. Your fingers work furiously over your clit, rubbing with splayed fingers. And then the whine of his name escapes you.
"Max... Max... Please."
///
On the other side of your door Max stands with one shoulder against the wall, his body tensed and listening to your poorly muffled cries. If he was a mortal man he wouldn't be able to hear the slick sound of your wet cunt through the door, wouldn't be able to hear those timid little whimpers you try to quash against your pillow.
But he can and the sound alone is driving him insane.
"C'mon," he whispers, his breathing quick as you begin to pant. He knows you can't hear him but his voice is still a quiet rasp.
"Please, Max..."
You're begging for him. For what? To touch you? To let you come? He doesn't care; he just needs to hear it. His eyes close and his body is practically molded to your door. Your fingers are moving quickly, you’re so fucking close.
Come for me, Sunshine.
He hears his name groaned again and the unmistakable sound of your lengthened orgasm. You pant loudly, the mattress squeaking as you flop onto your side, your breathing shallow.
With a satisfied sigh Max smirks before heading to his bedroom.
series summary: you’re a camerawoman that shoots pornos. javier peña is the pornstar you can’t stand. why is it that you’re always so affected by him? Explicit. Minors DNI.
series tags: pornstar!au, pwp, no use of y/n, some physical descriptions, enemies to lovers trope, pining, smut, additional tags per part.
misc: tag — graphic credit — my masterlist
part one | part two | part three | more coming soon.
Series content: Coffee shop AU, slighter softer Dave but there's still a dom in there, mention of divorce and custody, there is an age gap but no actual ages mentioned, reader is something of a red flag, Dave is a bit of stalker tbh. There be smut; use of a tie as a restraint, hickeys, snogs, fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected P in V (wrap it up folks). Big swears. Reader is able-bodied but physical descriptions are minimal. Always Fleabag coded. Let me know if I've missed any.
A/N: My first murder Dave! This is part of @burntheedges Roll a Trope Challenge! I got Dave York and 'Only One Bed', thank you so much Kate for running this, it has been a proper but absolutely delightful challenge. Long time readers might recognise this reader from Difficult. I was hugely inspired to write Dave by @sin-djarin brilliant take on Dave and of course, my fave gateway drug Dave writers @guiltyasdave and @katareyoudrilling.
Thank you as always to my incredible friend and beta @toomanytookas for helping to craft Meredith Grey Dave. Huge love to everyone who has indulged my new Dave York madness but esp to @mothandpidgeon @luxurychristmaspudding @jolapeno & @secretelephanttattoo (thank El for the Radiohead reference) @pascalssbabyy 🖤
DOWN BAD
Dave hates mess. He’s fucking surrounded by it at the moment. It’s setting his perfectly straight teeth on edge. He’s practically grinding them thinking about how fucked everything is; acrimonious divorce proceedings, unpleasant custody battle, complicated work situations. Which is why it is more important than ever that he sticks to his routines, creates order in the chaos. He knows he’s one spilt coffee away from losing his goddamn mind and he will not countenance that happening.
He is in control.
Up at 6am. Straight out for a run. 6.30; shower and shave. He gets the blade as close to his skin as he can, not a single hair out of place. Applies a results-driven skincare regime that he never diverts from, meticulous in the correct order of his serums, creams and SPF. Dresses in the clothes he’d chosen the night before, hanging up ready and waiting on the back of his wardrobe door. Practical, clean lines and expensive labels, freshly pressed by the dry cleaners. He’s eating the exact same, healthy, bland breakfast and throwing back his first black coffee of the day by 7.10.
The set timings, the enforced rhythm of his morning, it all helps him to forget that there should be little girls’ voices in the house, that this bathroom only needs to make room for his toiletries. Carol has never even been to this new house. It smells of nothing. He has a cleaner come each week but she complains to him the house is pristine, that she has nothing to clean. He likes it that way.
8.15, his allotted time for a take-away coffee. When his normal coffee shop next to work is unexpectedly closed he stops dead in the street. Pinches at the flesh between his brows, the crash of Jesus-Fucking-Christ-Goddamit so loud in his head.
He’s going to have to drink that weak piss they dare to call coffee in the office. If not, he’s going to be late. And he can’t be late, he’s got the Hudson meeting he needs to finalise his preparations for by 10. His whole day is rapidly falling apart before his eyes. There’s a voice in his head he can never quiet, a constant tick-tick-tick of negotiating plans and possibilities, a never-ending game of chess where no one ever wins.
One minor inconvenience and he’s spiralling. He’s sort of stuck, unable to work out what to do next for once, shifting from foot to foot. Dave York is always so prepared, beyond prepared, for every eventuality but this tiny decision is throwing him off kilter. Fucking, fuck, fuck coffee.
At 8.18, he makes the split second decision to try the hippy looking place a few streets away, above the jewellery shop. He’s already frowning furiously at the idea of how many alternative milks they are going to try and offer him as he makes his way up the black winding stairs. The sweet smell of roasting peppers hits him immediately, a bubble of laughter bouncing down the stairs, the sound of indie guitar music blasting from the stereo. He almost turns round and walks straight back out again. Not his vibe.
Then he sees you. Standing behind the coffee machine, your scowl matching his. He assesses you quickly; last night’s mascara smudged under your eyes, an air of the-morning-after-the-night-before hanging over your head as you sip halfheartedly at an espresso. Your nails are chipped and the faded black t-shirt you’re wearing is either three sizes too big or belongs to someone else.
Trouble. Something to avoid.
Your inscrutable gaze catches his and you gift him a half smile, but there’s mischief behind it, it’s bordering on a smirk. There’s a confidence emanating from you that he finds he’s drawn to, watching closely as you nonchalantly brush the bread flour from your chest and saunter over to the till.
“Good morning, what can I get for you… sir?”
The ‘sir’ is clearly an afterthought, but your eyes flash and you look delighted with yourself. He’s sure the fact that he just stood up straighter is what made you bite at your lip and tilt your head playfully. He clears his throat before he trusts himself to speak, lets his voice drop an octave lower than usual, “Just a black coffee. Thanks.”
“To go?”
He pauses, a slight twitch of his dark eyes. Takes a quick glance at his watch and makes a rough estimation. Maybe he can be seven minutes late.
“I’ll have it in.” He hands over a $10 bill and throws the change into the tip bowl. You arch your eyebrow at him, almost quizzical but mostly, irritatingly, amused.
“I’ll bring it over to you, sir.”
There you go again, taunting with your heavily lined eyes, a teasing roll of your lips against your teeth. He lets his eyes flick up and down you again, hard lines at his brow, but maybe, maybe, the tiniest hint of a pout in your direction. You look satisfied with that.
He sits at table six. The only one with a direct view into the small, open plan kitchen and watches you. Doesn't flinch when those seven minutes rapidly become closer to ten.
There’s a part of his brain that Dave can never switch off. The part that knows how to follow people, that can slide into the shadows and trace someone’s movements without the slightest suspicion. Which is how he’s ended up sat at the bar in the seediest indie club he’s ever been in, one that he thinks has probably never seen a suit like his. He has to resist asking the bartender for a cloth so he can wipe down his seat before he sits.
He knows you’re here somewhere, is biding his time, still working out if he’s observing you from afar or if he’s going to find a way to speak to you.
The haunting electric guitar of Radiohead’s Talk Show Host begins and his eyes are instinctively drawn to the stage where there is a swarm of people dancing, almost like he knows that’s where you’ll be.
I want to, I want to be someone else or I’ll explode
Right on time, there you are, lurking in the dark as the mellow riff fills the room. That same confidence seeping out of you, all sharp edges and jarring magnetism. You move so seamlessly to the music he finds he hasn’t taken a breath. Every roll of your hips, every stretch of your arms, every flick of your head, he can’t look away. He doesn’t want to miss a second of you being lost in the moody, cinematic energy that glows around you as the bass and drums kick in.
You’re so fucking sexy he almost can’t stand it. You dance perfectly in time with the eerie beat. It’s like you’re in slow-mo, begging his eyes to drink you up, to imagine what it would be like to have that body lean against his, to feel the drag of your ass against his thigh, fuck, he’d kill for it. Your skin glistens under the strobe lighting, lulling him into a trance; he has to remember to take a breath, a glug of his whiskey, his eyes momentarily leaving you as he rearranges himself so he can try and disguise how hard just watching you has made him.
When he looks up again your eyes are staring directly into his, piercing him like an arrow to the chest.
You want me? Fucking well come and find me
You’re taunting him, dropping down against the pole behind you, sultry eyes never leaving his, you pull at the cotton of your thin baby tee, revealing more flesh, more skin for his eyes to feast on, still perfectly in time to the music that fills the club.
I’m ready, I’m ready
You tilt your head and a smirk spreads across your face as you nod along to the lyrics. Dave’s eyes narrow as your hand drops down lower, caressing your bare thigh before you tug at the hem of your already obscenely short skirt, dragging it higher as you slip down slowly, slowly, hips rolling to the drums, a peek of your black panties just visible.
It’s half a second before Dave bolts off his seat and threads his way through the pulsating crowd so he’s stood directly in front of you, holding both his hands out to you across the packed stage. A delighted half smile creeps onto your painted lips and you bite at them, as if to suggest there's a moment's hesitation. Even he knows it’s a dirty lie, it’s clear you knew exactly what you were going to do the moment you saw him watching you.
Dave lets you lead the way, a rare state of affairs for him. You tug at his collar, pull him into the bathroom and slip the lock shut with practised hands.
Your mouth finds his in the dimly lit room, a haze of red light bathing your skin and giving everything a slightly unreal quality, as if he’s not making out in a seedy club’s bathroom but your own private boudoir. You don’t seem to care about your surroundings but it’s driving Dave wild; it must be fucking filthy in here. Your tongue caresses his with an urgency he knows means only one thing, and despite the desire that’s coursing through his blood and making his cock strain against his sensible work trousers, he pulls back.
“I don’t fuck strangers in public restrooms.”
“Well that’s a shame, because I do.”
An unholy noise leaves his chest without warning and you push harder against him, one hand gripping his tie as you manoeuvre yourself up onto the edge of the sink and wrap your legs around his waist, before beginning that hungry kiss again. His mouth may have said one thing, but his body is saying another and his mind is in a kind of freefall.
This is disgusting, gross, who even are you and why, why does he need to fuck you so badly that he’s willing to do almost anything to get his fingers into you?
As you kiss at him, tongue hot against his, an urgent twist, you begin to roughly unwind his tie. A hard yank to free it and he’s curious to see you’re using it to tie your hair back from your face. He kisses at your neck, tastes the salt of your skin, breathes in your scent, never breaking contact.
Something is happening to Dave; the constant rush of thoughts in his mind is slowing with each caress of your lips against his. He watches with heavy lidded eyes as you snake your hands down his chest and to the leather of his belt. Fingers deft as you pull it undone with one hand and the other presses against the clear outline of his hard cock. His hips jut forward and you swoop in for a nibble at his plush bottom lip before you slip off the counter, push him backwards to the sink and dip your body down.
Determined, eager, wetting your lips in anticipation. He actually groans as you unzip his trousers. You’re on your knees and you flick your eyes up to him, pure sin pooling in them, as your fingers grasp around his dick for the first time.
“Uhhmm, thought this might be the case. Pretty boy like you, gotta be a reason for that swagger.”
His hands clench on the side of the sink, knuckles white as he watches you take your time with him. Tiny little kitten licks at his tip to begin with, your hands firm at his base, making sure he can see the swirl of your tongue as you lap up the pre-come you find there before taking him in that dirty mouth for a few moments. You’re actually smiling when you return to those teasing flicks of your tongue, and it’s making his chest ache, control slipping away.
It’s unusual, this feeling of not being in charge, so he grabs at your makeshift ponytail, tries to control your movements with a firm grip on your hair. He receives a not gentle hint of teeth in return.
He yelps, “Jesus, fuck!”
You remove yourself with an obscene pop, coming back up to his eye level, shaking your head at him, eyes meeting his without a drop of hesitation, “No thank you, none of that. I don’t need any help.”
You’re still moving your head from side to side as he makes to protest, but you unhook his tie from your hair and wrap it around his hands before he can speak. He stares at you in stunned silence, but the way his dick twitches shows he’s not adverse to this new turn of events.
You secure a loose knot, binding his hands together, “I see I’m going to have to teach you how to have fun.”
You’re laughing as you return to the job in hand.
He joins you with a deep chuckle, “Don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, babe.”
Another tiny nip, he gasps, you clearly don’t like babe. How you can be so commanding, let him know exactly what you want whilst his dick is in your mouth, he can’t really fathom.
“Ok ok, I get it, I get it. Little slut like you isn’t anyone’s babe. Nothing but trouble.”
You whine at that, a little shiver of pleasure, and you reward him with a hard suck, then your tongue is flat and hard against his tip as you use your hands to caress his neatly shaven balls. He groans with it, head nodding with each pulse of your mouth around him, “Oh you like that, do you? Trouble, trouble, trouble.”
The power balance has shifted so hard Dave feels dizzy with it, with the desire that is thrumming through him as you alternate sucking and licking, the divine energy fizzing from you that he can feel building in the base of his spine. The tightness of the tie around his hands feels… good? He likes being trapped by you, at your mercy; that he knows you could use your teeth at any moment, but as long as he plays nice you’re choosing not to. What’s turning him on even more? You’re clearly enjoying this just as much as he is. Fuck.
One of your hands twirls up to rest flat against his taut stomach, fingers hot against his skin as you take his cock deep into your throat, messy and delicious. His mind is blissfully blank, the image of you fucking him with your mouth wiping away everything else, and he feels his belly tighten with a pleasure like no other. He knows you sense it under your touch too, hear the ‘fuck, your fucking mouth’ that escapes between his ragged breath as he comes. You drink it up, swallowing every last drop as he empties everything he has into you. You swipe a dribble from your chin with your thumb, lick it right off.
“Delicious,” you laugh, delighted, wicked, the mascara wet under your eyes from your exertion.
He can’t speak, his jaw is slack as he tries to comprehend what is happening. Why he feels so good, but also furious. Furious that he can’t fuck you right now, that the way you’re smiling that devilish smile at him is making him want to do unspeakable things to you this second. The need to have your screaming his name, bent over for him, it’s almost overwhelming, but he can already feel you’re slipping away.
You kiss at his hands as you untie the tie, an unexpected tenderness that he tries to deflect, but it’s seeping in nonetheless.
“Can I… can I have your number?”
You shake a no, “I don’t do phones. You know where to find me.” You’re expertly putting his tie back on. He doesn’t think he’s ever let someone do this for him, but it feels weirdly comfortable, domestic. Even in the red light of this filthy bathroom, his belt still undone, his release still glossy on your lips.
“You’re not really my type anyways, too blonde for me.”
He laughs, “I’m not blonde?”
“It’s a blonde energy,” your eyes light up and your mouth pouts out the next word, “babe.”
Fuck me, you’re infuriating. You tug at his tie, pull him down for a brief kiss. He can taste himself mixed with your sweetness, like cherry cola and cigarettes. You break the kiss first, dance away, flicking open the lock on the door in one smooth movement, “See you around.”
And like that, you’re gone. He leans his head against the cool of the mirror, screws his eyes shut. “Fuck.”
Dave makes your cafe his new stop before work. He tries to convince himself the coffee tastes better than his old place but he knows he’s kidding himself. It’s the seven minutes it takes from ordering it to you placing the hot cup in his hands that makes it worth the detour. A new ritual that’s woven into the rigid fabric of his day.
A part of him had expected a smidge of shyness the first time he’d seen you after your encounter in the bathroom, but he was sorely mistaken. You greeted him with a sardonic, “Hey babe,” and made him a black coffee without taking his order. You’d even leaned over to pick off an imaginary hair from his freshly pressed suit jacket, an act he found so intimate he could feel a heat flushing up his neck. Fuck’s sake.
Dave knows he’s an attractive guy. A good proposition even with the divorce hanging over him. He’s clean, he’s respectable. Somewhat unconventional job, but he doesn’t bring it home with him. He’s not exactly fun, but he’s reliable, on time. He’s been on a few dates recently and whilst they’ve felt a bit perfunctory, they’ve all given him the big eyes and made it clear he’s a catch. He knows the next Mrs. York will be the type that likes these particular things about him. Probably has a little checklist of attributes she’s looking for which he’ll be happy to tick off. Perhaps won’t have a wicked grin on her face whilst his dick is in her mouth, but he can’t have everything.
He tries to crush down that particular mental image, the one that’s been on a constant loop in his head and has him reaching for himself whenever he’s alone. He can’t get you out of his thoughts, which is really, truthfully, why he keeps ending up in the cafe again and again.
That neat little list of qualities he’s so sure of? He knows you don’t like any of these things about him. You’ve made it clear with your morning teasing from behind the coffee machine that he’s too boring, too predictable, too clean-cut for you. You seem beyond amused that his gaze lingers too long on every new hickey that adorns your throat, that his jaw ticks when you toy with the end of a pen in your mouth as you take an order. Dave’s never been anyone’s plaything, but just a sharp look for you has him feeling like he’s chasing bits of string pulled by a disinterested mistress.
Of course he’d done his research. Knew the name and number of your apartment a few hours after he’d first spoken to you at the cafe. Having all that information at his fingertips was just too difficult to resist, just a quick rifle through some files with the access granted by his work and he had all the details of your life. Well, the boring bits, the data. Very different to the girl with her back to him now, the real life person swaying her hips to the music that echoes round the cafe, a stark contrast to the government name that occupied those numbers, addresses, late tax returns and all.
The more he tries to dig, tries to find out more about you from you, the more you resist. You flick from being open and warm to brushing off any of his attempts to take you out properly. But if you’re truly not interested, why do you seem to get such pleasure out of taunting him, both with your body and your words? The way you find opportunities for your fingers to brush his as you pass him his change, the laugh that you only use when you’re talking to him, the brightness in your eyes when he makes his way up the stairs into your domain. He can’t be imagining it all, can he?
Could it be that you’re just a honeytrap luring him in for information, this whole hot mess thing just an act? Didn’t feel like an act when you’d had your tongue wrapped around his cock, but…
This morning as Dave loiters by the till waiting for his coffee, your keys are just there, right in front of him. Sat on the glass of the chiller cabinet that holds the various different cakes he never orders.
He knows they’re yours, has seen them swinging from your hands on numerous occasions, chipped blood red nails playing with the various different charms you have attached to them.
Anyways, he’s just being safe. Protecting himself. Needs to suss out who you might really be.
So, he takes them. Your keys are in his back pocket in an instant as he calls out gruffly ‘thanks’ and slides away down the black stairs holding his coffee. Knows where he’ll be heading later.
It was easy enough to slip into your building undetected. It’s not a good area, cheap, very rough around the edges. But when he comes to getting into your actual apartment, his plan disintegrates. He hears something crumble as soon as he puts the key in your lock, a mechanism breaking as he enters your space. Must have been hanging on by a thread for a while but now it’s truly met the end of its days. He rolls his eyes hard, you must have been living with it like that for a while. Trouble.
The time he thought he could be gathering some information about you, he actually spends searching the rooms for any type of tool he can use to try and fix your lock. You’ve got nothing more useful than three types of eyelash curlers.
He’s given up and is sat on your sofa drinking some of your crappy instant coffee when you come barrelling through your front door. You seem absolutely nonplussed that you don’t have either your keys or a functioning door, but maybe slightly more perturbed to find him sat there.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?”
Dave stands up, making his face look as neutral as possible, as if it’s totally normal for him to be here, “Your lock is busted?”
You scowl at him, your hands on your hips, “Yeah I know, it’s been fucked for a while. That doesn’t answer my question?”
Nothing like a little well timed frustration to distract from his precarious position.
“Jesus Christ! How do you live like this? Do you have any idea how unsafe this is? Anyone could walk in?”
You won’t be diverted, waving a finger at him in an accusatory fashion as you stomp angrily towards him, “Yeah? Someone like you, perhaps?”
He clears his throat, tries not to hesitate for too long but he knows there’s a risk with what he’s about to say, “My job… I… look, I work for a government agency. I can’t tell you any more about it than that, but I deal a lot in security and keeping people safe. And your safety? It’s important to me.”
Your eyes light up unexpectedly and he can see your tongue pushing against your teeth in barely concealed excitement. Your anger turns once more into amusement.
“Oh! Dave! Revealed as a man of mystery after all.”
You wiggle your shoulders, as if mulling it over, eyebrow cocked in his direction, “Dangerous Dave, who would have thought…” You’ve reached him now, your hand resting flat against his chest, “Actually, I knew there was something special about you. Wouldn’t have kept you around otherwise.”
You take this moment to give him a not gentle shove to the collarbone so his back drops against the wall as you line yourself up and push your body against him. You’re soft but firm, everything he’s dreamed of, his fingers itching to reach out and caress the fabric of your dress, grab fistfuls of your ass. You do it for him, take his hands and place them around your waist, tip your face so you’re looking into his narrowed eyes.
“Been hiding lots of secrets from me, have you? Not so boring after all?”
Dave dips down, breathes hot into the shell of your ear, “I do things you wouldn’t believe.” He nips at the spot just beneath your ear, squeezes at your ass and he can feel your breath flutter as you keen beneath him. He meets your gaze again and it’s there, this electricity that sparks between you, fizzing on his skin and lighting your path to each other.
He knows in this moment that you’re going to fuck, it’s hanging in the air like a promise.
“Make me believe, babe.”
Has he ever known a peace like this? Maybe once or twice, in the twilight hours when he knew his family was sleeping soundly under his roof, safe, protected. But even then, his thoughts were always running away with themselves, hearing creaks in the floorboards where there weren’t any, half an eye open to the dangers that always lurk in the darkness, around corners that he can’t control.
All those worries are gone now, disappeared beneath your touch, giving him a glimpse of stillness. You’re on his lap, your hand wrapped behind his head, fingers firm around the back of his neck with a pressure that feels strangely comforting. You squeeze a little tighter the harder you bounce, delicious tits rubbing against the burning skin of his chest as you move desperately with his cock deep within you. Your eyes flutter shut as your pussy stretches around the thickness of him, tight, burning, just right. His eyes never leave you, watching each moan that escapes your mouth with a hunger that can only be sated by your pleasure.
He wants to be lost like this forever, only grounded by the sensations building in his belly as your hot, wet cunt slides around him, each pulse of your walls a twist of sparks within him, building and building as the heat from your bodies brings a sweat to both your brows. He offers his fingers to you, lets you lick at them before he seeks out where you need him, his wet digits meeting your soaking folds with an urgency that makes your hips buck.
You gasp out, “Yes, yes. Like that, please, I like that.”
He likes it too, likes how you tug at his hair, bite at his lips, likes seeing the bliss in your eyes as he uses your own slick to play with you and how your mouth falls slack, quiet for once.
It’s divine, the heat and the softness, how wet and silky you feel as he applies a rhythmic pressure against your puffy clit that means he can feel the pulse of desire from you. Your body taut like a bowstring as you near your ecstasy.
“You going to be a good girl for one time in your life? You gonna come for me?”
You nod your head furiously, your pretty brow is scrunched up in concentration. And he can feel it happening. It’s in the tightening of your grip around his neck, in the gush of arousal around his dick as you chant, like a prayer, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Your entire being softens around him. You seem almost boneless as you rest your head on his shoulder. Breathing hard. He stokes at your hair, loves the way he can feel your cunt throbbing around him, a shiver of sensitivity visibly running up your spine. You look up at him, your eyes meeting again, and a devilish smile plays across your lips and you wiggle your hips.
“Fuck me, Dave. Fuck me exactly how you’ve been dreaming about. I want it. I wanna feel how much you want me.”
He takes his time with you. Explores you like a man in holy devotion. Except his mouth doesn’t move in prayer, it kisses and it bites and it sucks, leaving not an inch of your body untouched as he makes you his.
Where there are the remnants of another man’s touch against your neck he pauses before turning it deep, dark purple again, this time it’s his mouth that feels the thrum of your pulse, his hard intake of breath that leaves you marked.
“Mine.”
It’s almost agony, the weight between his legs, his cock throbbing with unmet desire. He’s smearing pre-cum all over the sheets as he searches out where you need him with his fingers, with his tongue, seeking the spot that will make you come undone.
“Tell me when it feels good. Don’t lie to me, I’ll know.”
He observes as your features soften and he stops hearing the insincere breathy platitudes that can so often escape during first encounters. He can see you letting the sensations rush through you, watches your face closely for signs he’s found where your legs will begin to shake as his fingers curl into your wetness. It feels like heaven.
“Fuck, fuck, there. Please, there.”
He nods, “Good girl,” and you whine as he removes his slippery fingers, wet with your slick. He moves your bodies into a shape that means he can watch your every move from the mirror hanging from your wardrobe, his widely spread thighs pushing your legs together, hands tugging your hips to show how you can lean against him. You look into his eyes for approval and he nods as you sink back onto his cock, a gasp from your pretty mouth as you stretch around him and he fucks into you from behind.
He’s deliberate in his movements, makes sure he finds the same spot his fingers found, he encourages you to wrap your arms behind you, around his neck, and he takes full control of the unrelenting rhythm. He knows the sound he’s searching for as you twist and buck beneath his touch, nipples hard under his fingers as he pinches at them, his hands wrapped around your breasts, breath hot as your neck, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. You look back at him in shared, wordless euphoria, a desperate need connecting you together in this perfect moment. Your mouth hangs open and your eyes are almost pleading, the room filled with the obscene sound of skin on skin, your hands clutching tighter around his neck.
It’s almost musical when he hears it, your gasped “fuck,’ as you surrender to the bliss as the pleasure hits your whole body, an orgasm so strong you’re shaking with it, your walls tightening around his cock with an intensity that he can’t fight. He joins you in the glorious defeat, in letting it end, all the tension in him snapping and dissolving into warmth and ecstasy as he paints your cunt with his cum.
The kiss you gift him is messy, all tongue and want, sloppy in your afterglow but infused with a surprising sweetness that he needs to return, eager for you to know how much he truly wants you. He hopes you can taste it.
“I can’t leave you on your own here with a broken door. I’ll stay tonight and I’ll get one of my guys to come and fix it for you first thing. Put some more security measures in place.”
You seem like you’re only half listening, “Suit yourself. I’m going to have a quick shower.”
He adds for good measure, “I’ll take the couch.”
You literally stop half way through the door to the bathroom, bark a hard laugh, “Dave, you were literally in me ten minutes ago? If you’re going to stay here you can sleep in the bed with me.”
He deliberates for a minute whilst you hop in the shower, sinks down into the sofa and finds his mind is blissfully blank. Whereas normally at this time of night he’d be fretting over his check-list for the next day, anxiously rolling around any loose threads from the various projects he has running, now there’s nothing. Just the softness left from the damp heat of your body, a gentle buzz in his veins from the orgasm that lingers like a goodnight kiss.
You emerge from the bathroom dressed only in a big t-shirt that skims the tops of your thighs, make-up half-heartedly cleansed off, flecks of mascara and eyeliner still holding onto your skin. You walk around the apartment flicking the lights off, “If you want to shower, you can use the grey towel and there’s a spare toothbrush under the sink, help yourself.”
You’re just so, so casual? Part of his mind wants to whir through the list of possibilities, of what this means, if the tenderness from before was real, or if honestly, you don’t care. That none of this matters to you? He decides to tune into the other part of his brain, where it goes quiet when he’s with you, just lets what’s happening, happen, for once. It doesn’t feel comfortable exactly, but even when you’re winding him up he feels an ease that eludes him at all other times.
After stepping out of the shower, he goes in search of the promised toothbrush. Your bathroom is full of plants, much more alive than he would have expected, lush green against the clean white walls. It’s messy, so messy, but not dirty, just filled with all the things that make you, you. Stacks of make-up and lotions and potions, but also poetry books and music magazines and inexplicably, a giant lionfish statue. He resists the urge to use some of your unctuous looking night cream as he brushes his teeth.
You’re already in bed by the time he emerges in his underwear and slides into the bed, ready to studiously keep to his side. He’s fairly sure you’re going to treat him like an unwanted guest who has long outstayed his welcome and wonders if maybe he should have insisted he check you into a hotel instead, gone home to his own bed.
“Hey, do you mind if I put the radio on real quiet? I like to fall asleep listening to it. It’ll go off automatically after about half an hour?”
“No, it's fine.” He pauses, tries to think of something to smooth his awkwardness, “ I gotta be up early, so I’ll try to be out of your hair first thing, as soon as my guy arrives for the lock.”
You just sort of ‘mmhhmm’ in response and the sheets go taut against him as you lean over to the radio, they feel cool against his skin as he settles down into the bed on his back. Radiohead drifts into the air around him and he stares upwards and sees you’ve stuck little glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, like the ones his girls love. You flick the bedside lamp off and then there you are, unexpectedly, lips at his, pressing a kiss onto him, “Thanks for looking out for me, it’s sweet.”
His tongue searches out yours tentatively, so different from the frantic, needy kisses of earlier, instead slow, languid movements and the mingling of minty toothpaste. Feels good. Feels like home.
You stop, give him one last soft kiss with that divine mouth, the mouth he can’t stop thinking about, and pull away. As you do so, you take his arm and curl it around you. He doesn’t resist, his body is always yours to do with as you wish it seems, fluid under your touch, ready to do your bidding. You pull your knees up closer to your chest and he finds his legs follow yours, creating a cocoon around you. Your ass firmly against his groin, thighs against thighs, you’ve even poked your feet between his.
Of all the daydreams he’s had about you, all the lurid fantasies of fucking and sucking, this is more intimate than he could ever have imagined. The sweet sound of your breathing mixed with the gentle lull of the radio. Your hand reaching back behind you once again, so your fingers can play with the velvet of his ear, before stroking the back of his head gently, rhythmically, like a lullaby through touch.
He nuzzles, yeah that’s right, he fucking nuzzles, into the back of your neck and breaths you in, all of you. Your wildness and your contradictions, your sweetness and your fierceness, he wants it all. Never wants your fingers to leave his skin, never wants to exist again in a world where you wouldn’t want to be asleep in his arms.
Fuck, he realises, fuck.
All images from Pinterest. Thank you @saradika-graphics for the graphics!
Tagging in some peeps who might be interested, but let me know if you'd like to be taken off: @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape @magpiepills @thundermartini @sawymredfox
story summary: Facing immediate eviction you needed a roommate and you seem to have found the perfect choice in Max Phillips. He's charming, tidy, works nights at a marketing firm and even fixes things around the apartment. He's the perfect housemate. . . except for those strange scratching noises coming from his room at night...
a/n: Don't worry, I just forgot I had this chapter almost finished so I figured to celebrate my birthday month I'd release it today! Don't forget, REBLOGS and COMMENTS are what keep us authors going! love y'all!
series masterlist here
PART VI: P A R T A K E
Some days when you leave for work and Max waits to hear that telltale sound of your keys in the lock and your shoes padding away down the hall before he leaves his room.
He exits the room dressed for sleep in boxers and a t-shirt.
He walks to your bedroom, pressing the door open with the pads of his fingertips. If you've left the blinds closed he takes his time walking the small circumference of your bedroom, eyeing the trinkets you leave - the movie ticket stubs, the handful of loose change that dots your dresser.
He lets his bare feet trace the rug beside your bed before he slowly crawls over your plush coverlet.
He lays back on your bed, head moving into the subtle indent left by you in your pillow. He likes to bury his face in it, surrounding himself with the remnants of your perfume and your soft vanilla-scented skin.
On the days he's recently fed, he teases himself by trailing his fingers down his warm abdomen. He does this with his eyes closed languidly, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
His fingers trail over the front of his boxers, groaning lightly when he feels himself stiffening. When he can't hold himself back he flattens his palm, slipping it under his boxers where he's waiting and already dripping.
He strokes himself to memories of the night he saved you from Bryce.
The way he tasted your bloodied mouth, licking all remnants of your attack as you slept. You whimpered in your slumber, as if you knew what was happening.
And he couldn't help himself but linger on your lips, pressing them to his. They were so pliant, so plush and so fucking perfect. It made his body tingle. Your body was so soft and warm under the blankets that separated him from you he needed to pull himself away with force.
This scene, these memories of such feelings are potent. He often whines needfully to himself, hips jerking as he thrusts into his hand. He feels his cheeks flush, his heart thump, he feels alive.
"So fucking good," he'll hiss to himself, wrist snapping as he jerks himself off in your bed. "So fucking sweet for me, Sunshine."
And when he feels like he can't hold back he stops, face red and a creaking groan escaping him as he catches his breath. His cock throbs almost painfully between his legs.
He moves out of your room, sure to make it to the shower before he fists himself to completion, the memory of your blood on his tongue.
Then he crawls under his bed, snuggling into the warmth of his coffin and falls into a dreamless slumber.
At least that's what he used to do until that mangy little bastard Murray moved in.
Now every time Max walks by your door he can hear that little monster growling and once, he started swiping under the door for Max's foot.
It's been days since the agreement. Days since you've spoken to him.
He's given you your space, sure not to crowd you when you got home that first night. He doesn't want you afraid of him. Nothing needs to change between the two of you aside from this one little thing. He can live quite happily like this and if you weren't so stubborn you'd see that you can as well.
He has money; he'll pay all the rent. He'll keep you in good food and clothing and anything else you want. His family is loaded and he walked away with a healthy trust fund and a head for investments. But you don't want to hear him out on that. You agreed to his proposition that first night and then promptly flung yourself into your bedroom with Murray, hurriedly locking the door.
And it's been like that ever since. You coming home smelling of whatever dinner you ate on the way home. You creep into the apartment, leaving the lights off and then running for your bedroom.
He hears you crack open the door for Murray to relieve himself, eat and drink like a glutton and then trot back to your room where you lock the door for the remainder of the night.
After a few days Max is struck that he truly misses your company. He always found you amusing and sweet in your earnestness. Inviting him to games night, that had been sweet. Your appreciation for his cooking for you? Darling. He held affection for you like an owner with a beloved pet.
But now you skitter around in the mornings, letting Murray out while you shower and get ready for the day. Max gives you space, listens for you as you murmur to Murray before locking him up back in your room. And then you're gone and Max forces himself to sleep.
However by Wednesday he's had enough. When you come home from work the lights are on and Max is sitting at the table. A roast with mashed potatoes and green beans sits waiting for you smelling delicious. Your stomach grumbles, sick of the shitty street food you've been gobbling on the subway home.
Despite this you ignore him, eyes sweeping over his figure to the kitchen where you prepare a bowl of cereal. Max watches this with detached amusement as you add the milk.
You bring the cereal bowl to the table, moving the plate of home cooking out of your way before placing your bowl in its place. You eat sullenly, eyes casting around the room as if expecting an attack. He can't say that he blames you.
"How was your day?"
You ignore him, chewing quickly. You don't want to extend this waking nightmare. You'll go to bed the second this bowl is empty.
"You don't like roast?" Max asks curiously. He sees you scowl.
"I don't like you cooking for me."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not what this is," you tell him flatly, shoveling more cereal into your downturned mouth.
Max watches you eat for several minutes, fascinated. He misses eating real food. Misses drinking beer and tasting things like ice cream. You seem to feel his gaze on you because you shoot him a sneer.
"What do you want?"
"I want us to catch up," Max replies. "And before you snap back at me I'll just remind you what happens if you don't play nice."
He pulls out his cell phone, laying it between the two of you. You watch silently as Max presses a few buttons, accessing his voice mail. He presses the speaker button and you hear Lucy's voice coming through the phone, breathy and flirtatious.
"Hi Max. Haven't heard from you in a while and I was just wondering if you wanted to get together. We could go to a club or just stay in. I'll wait to hear from you. Okay, bye!"
Max turns off his phone, brow raised in your direction and the meaning is clear. Play ball or your friends get involved. You clench your teeth, exhaling through your nostrils angrily. You lean back in your chair, arms crossing angrily.
"What do you want to catch up on?"
"How's the plan going?"
"Disposal is on Fridays," you tell him. "Five pm. But I don't know how I'm supposed to access it."
"What do you mean?"
"Van is there to let them in. Plus we have security cameras; I don't know how to get the blood to you. I'm pretty sure it'll look suspicious if I bring a cooler to keep it fresh. And even more suspicious if I try to sneak it out when the guys are disposing of it. They keep meticulous logs of this stuff."
Max stares at you for a moment and you can see the wheels turning. For a brief moment you wonder if this was what he was like when he was alive; crafty, thinking on his feet. Or did turning into a vampire change that in him?
"I'll think of something."
///
"Any chance you two wanna grab dinner tonight?"
Mina and Lucy look at you over your lunch break the next afternoon. It's a nice day, the crisp of autumnal air surrounding you all. The three of you sit on the museum steps, greasy pizza in hand.
"How can you be thinking about dinner when we're just eating lunch?" Lucy laughs at you.
What's your other option? Go home to Max? Run into him just as he's waking up? Maybe if you delay your arrival home for a bit, he'll just head off. You shrug, laughing awkwardly.
"Guess I just miss you both."
The two of them wear matching looks of pity. Lucy reaches out and squeezes your kneecap fondly.
"Aw, babe I would, but I have Pilates and then that online course I told you about."
"Oh right," you nod, recalling her marketing classes. You turn your attention to the blonde woman, chewing. "What about you, Mina?"
Mina looks strangely uncomfortable glancing at the two of you before pretending something in the distance catches her eyes. She speaks casually as if what she says next isn't a big deal.
"Oh, well, I would, but I'm seeing Johnny tonight. Dinner and a movie n’ stuff."
You and Lucy exchange covert eyebrow waggles. Lucy shuffles closer to Mina, a smirk on her pouty lips.
"And how are things going with Johnny?"
"Uh, really good actually," Mina says with a girlish giggle. "He spent the night last night."
You and Lucy oooo at one another, smirking when Mina flushes pink from her cheeks to the tip of her ears.
"And?" You prompt, all thoughts of Max suddenly shoved from your mind. "How was it?"
Mina wipes her mouth with a napkin before crumpling it in her fist. She darts a glance to you and Lucy, her beautiful face cracking into a smile.
"Best I've ever had."
"Hell yeah!" Lucy says tapping her pizza slice to Mina's and yours for a greasy cheers as you make a whooping noise. Lucy grins over at you. "Our girl is finally getting some decent action!"
The three of you laugh, commiserating over bad boyfriends, dreadful dates and lackluster sex. For a moment you can pretend that your roommate isn’t a vampire blackmailing you. That you’re just a woman, eating pizza with her best friends and enjoying life.
It's getting close to head back to the office when Lucy shifts the conversation, picking imaginary lint from her skirt.
"Hey, do you know if Max is seeing anyone?" She's trying to play it cool but you can see her unease. "I just haven't heard from him in a while."
You can see the secret devastation on her face. No one ever turns Lucy down; she's the one that breaks hearts. But obviously her attraction to Max is stronger than you realized. But then you have to wonder if this is true affection or if this is simply a result of Max's feeding? Either way, you are not going to let your friend get caught up with his bloodlust and monstrous appetite.
"Yeah I think he is," you lie with ease, "and honestly even if he wasn't, Lucy, I don't think you should hang out with him. I don't think he's a good guy."
"Since when?"
"You said he was so great," Mina offers, nose wrinkled in confusion. "You invited him to games night. He seemed cool to me."
"Yeah, well, I've just learned some things about him that make me think he's not a good guy."
Lucy leans back against the museum steps you're all perched on. She looks like a model out of a fall catalogue.
"Like what?"
Like he's a fucking vampire. Like he could have killed you at any moment. Like he's dangerous.
"He has bad credit."
What the fuck kind of response was that? You want to shake yourself by the shoulders.
It's a pathetic answer but it's the only one innocuous enough for you to come up with spur of the moment. Something that doesn't set their internal danger alarms going off, but something that could still make Max seem suspicious.
“And he’s uh, he’s late on rent,” you add. “And he stays up really late blasting music.”
“That’s shitty,” Mina agrees.
"I've dated worse," Lucy laughs with Mina tittering beside her. You try to force a smile along with them, all the while grasping at straws.
"Plus Murray hates him. And animals are good judges of character."
"Who the fuck is Murray?" Lucy asks, stretching, her spine popping as she stands. She throws her paper plate in the trash as you and Mina finish your slices.
"The cat, remember?"
"Oh right."
"And I'm going to have to give him up,” you tell them. “I can't keep locking him up in my room all day. That's no life."
You deflate a little, imagining your sweet little friend gone. But you don't trust that Max won't do something to him.
"Maybe we can find a good family to adopt him," Mina offers gently at the three of you walk back to the office.
"I hope so," you say with a devastated look at the ground. "The cops say they've had no luck tracking down his kids."
"So who is Max seeing?"
You and Mina slant a glance at one another as Lucy asks this, digging around in her purse for a cigarette. Lucy is many things: beautiful, fierce, and intelligent: but she's also incredibly self involved at times. Like right now.
"Read the room Lucy," Mina says. "She's sad about the cat being displaced."
"Oh he'll be fine," Lucy insists, swinging an arm around your neck as you walk. "I'll help you find the best place for Martha."
You and Mina reply in unison.
"Murray!"
///
You stay after the clinic closes and Mina and Lucy give you a squeeze and say they'll text you later. Martha the other receptionist gives you a slight wave, deeply in conversation with Igor the new financial officer.
You stay until the sound of traffic outside lessens, hunched over your files writing. You feel pathetic for lingering around here at work. But thoughts of going home to Max have you feeling anxious.
"You're still here?"
You look up from the desk, seeing Van gazing at you and you feel warm all over. It’s like every time you see him he’s more and more handsome. He walks towards you, glancing over your shoulder to see the file you’re pouring over.
"Just finishing up with the Ramirez labels," you tell him. You feel flustered at his nearness.
"Don't work too hard," he tells you with a friendly pat to your shoulder. "I don't pay you that well."
You give a breathless laugh up at him as he shoots you a crooked smile, heading for his office directly down the hall. You try not to focus on how the spot where he touched your shoulder tingles.
You can hear Van typing away in his office shortly thereafter. It’s not uncommon for him to work late – he’s a successful surgeon. However if you stay any longer, you'll look like an inept employee who couldn't get her work done during the day.
You slide your purse over your shoulder and take a deep breath. You walk down the hallway to Vans office creaking his cracked door open a bit more.
"I'm heading home," you tell Van politely. "Did you need to lock the door after I leave?"
He pushes his glasses up his nose with a forefinger, licking his upper lip nervously. He so big and powerful looking, so seeing him awkward and shy amuses you secretly.
"So, uh I know we were supposed to do dinner Friday night..."
You feel your shoulders sink as you realize he's cancelling. Fuck. You were so excited and-
"...but seeing that you're here late, is there any chance you wanna grab it now?"
Your smile is so bright you're sure you're glowing.
"Let's go."
///
You're thankful that the restaurant he chooses isn't upscale. After changing out of your scrubs at work the only clothes you have are modest, not fancy at all. Van of course looks gorgeous in his jeans and sweater. His hair tousled perfectly, his glasses framing his gorgeous chocolate eyes.
"Thanks for being up for this," he says when the server returns with your drinks. "I know it was last minute-"
"I don't mind at all," you say before flinching. You sound so over eager. But Van doesn't seem to mind, he's grinning at you. You take the wine, swirling it absently as you feel Van’s eyes linger on your face.
“I just wanted to take you out as soon as possible.”
He's so fucking charming.
"So, uh, what made you ask me out in the first place?" You ask feeling emboldened with the wine glass at your bottom lip. "I've worked for you for a year or so. I never really got the vibe you were into me."
"I'd been thinking about it for a while but then I was worried that it was an overstep because I'm your boss," Van admits, eyes glancing from you to his glass and then back. "But when you asked me to the games night I thought maybe you felt the same so I took a chance."
You are going to kiss Mina for suggesting you invite Van to that games night. Hell, you’ll pay for her and Johnny’s next date.
"I did. I do."
"Good," Van chuckles. "That’s good."
The meals are brought out as you talk back and forth about work, about funny experiences, about how insanely expensive it is to live in New York. But soon it shifts to deeper topics as you both grow more comfortable.
"So, what's your family like?" You ask, curious to know all you can about the broad man across from you. “You close to your parents?”
Van spears a piece of broccoli, looking thoughtful and then tense.
"Erm, well, honestly I haven't spoken to them in decades."
"What?" Your eyes blow wide. "Really? Why?"
You catch yourself too late, realizing that this is an overstep to ask when he slightly grimaces.
"I... It's a long story."
"You don't have to share if you don't want to, but I mean, I'm in no rush."
You want to know more about Van, but you don't want him so uncomfortable that he forgoes any future date with you. But he shoots you a slight smile and you figure he's okay.
"So, my parents split up when my sister and I were pretty young. Mom went to live with her new asshole boyfriend in California, my dad kept us here in New York."
You nod, taking small bites of your pasta.
"It was a weird childhood I guess. My sister and I were really close but our Dad... I dunno," he trails off, glancing around the semi populated restaurant. Your interest is piqued.
"What's your dad like?"
"A little eccentric. Stubborn. He and I got into fights constantly. When my sister died things got way worse."
"I'm so sorry," you say, sympathy flooding you. You knew better than most how loss could change a person.
"It was a long time ago," Van says, obviously eager to skim over the bad memory. "But after that my Dad just got obsessive about work. I moved out and he never really respected what I do for a living."
You almost drop your fork in surprise.
"How could he not respect you becoming a doctor? Isn't that, like, every parent's dream?"
"Right?" Van grins at you, shrugging. "He wanted me to take over the family business and I didn't."
"How come?"
"I didn't see any value in it," Van sticks out his lower lip in thought. "I wanted to make the world better. And I like to think I do. I give kids their smiles, I give people confidence, I like to think I give them their lives back."
"You do," you agree, heart swelling for this man across from you. You watch his cheeks dust pink, pressing his glasses up his nose embarrassed.
You want to ask him more about his family business, about his sister, about his mom but he's inhaling deeply.
"Anyway, I'm sick of talking about me. How about you? I know so little about you aside from what you had on your CV."
You tense up in your seat having forgotten that asking Van about his history, would in turn entitle him to ask about yours.
"My life is pretty boring."
Van, not unfamiliar with this evasive tactic gives you a pointed look, mouth curling into a soft smirk.
"Try me."
You don't want to tell him anything, really. Surely like him and his sister. You don't really like to dwell over the things in your past. But he was honest and forthright with you and in return you feel you have to be the same.
"Okay, well, my parents died in a car crash when I was young," you say looking at the ring of his wineglass. "So I went to live with my grandparents in Romania until I came back here for college."
This interests him enough into looking at you with a drawn brow as he chews his steak slowly.
"Romania?"
"Only living relatives. It was hard learning a new language, making new friends. But I did okay. I wanted to come back though to do school and then to live."
"So you speak Romanian?"
"Not very well," you admit with a laugh. "It’s been years. I never really kept up with it."
"That's quite a life," Van says, eyeing you. "You must miss your parents."
"Every single day." Your fingers trace the necklace you wear. "But they're close by."
Van watches you move your hands to the back of your neck, unclasping it. You bring it in between the two of you and open the locket, showcasing the grainy photos of your parents on either side.
"You look a lot like your mom," Van murmurs as he looks at them. "Pretty."
You swallow the nervous grin at that. Did he just call you pretty? Van lingers on the photos a little longer before you close the locket, returning it around your neck. You take a moment to look him over, something in your mind you feel compelled to share.
"Van I don't want to tell you what to do but, if I had the chance for even one more day with my father I would take it," you say quietly. "You never know when it's the last time you'll ever speak to them."
Van blinks but doesn't reply, his thumb circling the side of his wineglass. There's a heavy moment as you recall your parents. The people whose blood runs through your veins and yet you'll never see again. Sometimes if you focus on that fact too much you find it hard to breathe.
"I think you owe me a photo now," you say breaking the awkward tension.
"Fair," Van says pulling out his phone, eager to help change the subject away from your parents. "This is Abe. He's gotta be about eight now."
He thumbs over the screen a few times before smiling to himself and turning the phone to face you. It's a photograph of Van sitting in front of a fireplace with a snoozing tabby cat perched on his lap.
"My ex took him when we broke up," Van says quietly, eyes on the photo. "I miss him every day."
You feel a strange discomfort knowing that Van both had an ex and that they were together long enough to have a pet.
"Why did she take Abe?"
"He has a lot of health issues and needed more attention than I could give him. Didn't seem fair to keep him just to prove a point."
"When was this?"
"Hmm, around the time you started working in the office I think," Van replies, shoving the phone back into his jacket pocket.
You think of how you always considered Van a moody and withdrawn perfectionist at work. Is it possible what you consider to be moody was just him depressed at losing the one constant piece of family he had? And that he wasn't withdrawn he was just shy?
"Sometimes I wish I had a pet or something again," Van says looking at the table with glossy eyes. "It can get lonely in the apartment."
"Really?" You lean back in the creaking chair, surveying him with mirth. "How do you feel about a very independent very ancient cat who eats his weight in fancy feast every day?"
"You have a cat?"
"Kind of," you explain. "He belonged to my landlord. And he came to my place the day after... You know."
Van sobers. "Oh."
"I couldn't leave him out there," you explain. "He looked so lost without Mister Morris around. I was terrified he'd be put in the pound, or worse, euthanized."
Van is nodding in understanding, empathy in his dark eyes. "I totally get it."
"But now my roommate hates him and so he stays locked up in my room all day. It's not much of a life for a cat, especially not one that used to like having more space. I feel selfish keeping him," you explain before pausing, concerned. "Speaking of which I should actually get back soon so I can let him out."
Van nods and the two of you finish up dinner as you continue talking about the cat.
"So I'm looking at having to take Murray to the pound or..." You trail off with hopeful look in Van's direction. "Or I could find a great person to adopt him."
Van flashes that sweet, genuine smile at you.
"Really?" He seems to seriously consider this. "I mean, it would be nice to have something to come home to..."
Van pays for the meals, waving off your offer to chip in. Excited at the possibility of finding Murray an actually decent home, you jump on it his previous consideration.
"You could come by to my place tomorrow night if you felt like it? You could check Murray out; see if you guys get along. If you do, then he's yours. Plus, you got dinner tonight; I'll make us something tomorrow."
"Okay, cool," Van says with a grin as he places his wallet back in his pocket. "Let's do it."
The two of you rise and as you exit the restaurant to the sight of the moon hung high in the sky. You bid him a farewell but he insists on walking you down to the subway and even though he's never given you any doubts, and even though the subway tunnel is full of people, memories of what happened last time make you wince.
But Van isn't Bryce. He doesn't paw at you. He doesn't try to touch you at all, aside from a graze of pinkies as you wait for the train. You turn to him when it arrives.
"This is me. Thank you so much for dinner.”
“My pleasure.”
Then it seems like he's eternally debating something, his eyes flicking around your face before he tilts forward.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he breathes, pressing a light kiss against your cheek. "Get home safe."
You wish he'd move those plump, luscious lips of his over yours. You're aching to kiss him. But instead you look up at him, smile gently and tell him you'll see him tomorrow.
The entire ride home you can't help but feel a strange frisson of excitement mixed with dread. It lasts as you walk to the stairs to your apartment fading only as you open the door to your apartment and are greeted with pitch black darkness.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
You nearly jump out of your skin at the disembodied voice inside. A light is turned on dramatically across the room and you see that Max sits on the couch looking furious. You sneer at him.
"Have you just been waiting for me in the dark?"
"Answer the question."
You give a sigh, hanging up your coat and purse before making your way to the kitchen to grab a bag of chips, pouring them nosily into a bowl. You slide by an irritated Max to let an equally irritated Murray out of your bedroom to eat and hit the litter box. He hisses at Max as he trots by.
"Aren't you supposed to be at work, Max? Or are we dropping that charade now that I know what you are?"
The drinks at dinner have you feeling bolder. Max isn't amused, glaring at you through his lashes.
"You were supposed to be home hours ago."
You take a seat on the couch opposite him, facing him with your legs crossed. You take a bite of your chips, ignoring his withering gaze. His eyes trail over your face and shoulders, inhaling slightly before looking repulsed.
"You were with that boss of yours," Max snipes. "I can smell him on you."
You try to school your features, not wanting Max to know who you spend time with. It seems anyone in your life is a potential pawn for Max.
"I worked with him all day."
"No, it's strong," Max says cutting through your lies with ease. "Recent."
"We were talking about Murray," you say motioning to the eating animal in the corner. "I'm trying to get him relocated."
Max relaxes into the couch a bit. "Good. I'm sick of him."
"I'm not doing it for your benefit," you tell him. "I'm doing it because I don't trust you with him."
Max gives you a stern gaze before shrugging his shoulders.
"Whatever gets the little fucker out of here."
"Van is coming by tomorrow after work to see him."
You stand, throwing the empty chip bowl into the sink. Max follows you to the kitchen, his tone serious as you grab a water glass from the cupboard.
"No."
"What do you mean no?"
"I don't want that guy in here," Max says quickly averting his eyes. "He's... I don't like him."
You know that if you continue this line of conversation, it's only going to put Van on Max's radar. Instead you change tact, hoping that Max move on from being irritated at your late arrival.
"You don't even know him and it's either Van comes here tomorrow or you're stuck living with Murray even longer. Your choice."
Max is close to you, dark orbs scanning your flushed face, eyes bright with anger. Sometimes you wish you knew what he was thinking. His gaze is locked on your mouth, slowly trailing down the column of your neck and then all of a sudden, his voice is in your head.
Need to taste you. Fuck, just a little I just-
You step back, eyes blinking furiously as the connection is lost. Max furrows his brows, confused at your reaction.
"What?"
"Nothing," you reply shakily, needing to fill the air with something other than your suddenly shallow breathing. "Anyway, did you come up with a plan for Friday?"
Max's bad mood fades in an instant, replaced by that cocky confidence you're all too familiar with.
I am such a greedy reader because I devour these chapters and my brain is going MORE MORE MORE. Ugh this whole story is so engrossing and has lots of turns and stakes. It so much fun to read! I never quite know where the plot is heading. It's like being on a fun ride.
story summary: Facing immediate eviction you needed a roommate and you seem to have found the perfect choice in Max Phillips. He's charming, tidy, works nights at a marketing firm and even fixes things around the apartment. He's the perfect housemate. . . except for those strange scratching noises coming from his room at night...
a/n: The chapter I was most eager to write so far! Hope you like it, I gotta know what you think in the comments y'all!
series masterlist here
PART VI: S W I G
A creak sounds out behind you and you start, whirling around to see Max standing at the doorframe, staring at you standing in the middle of his bedroom.
"What are you doing in there?"
His customary bemused air is gone and he isn't smiling at you. Even the way he holds himself is different, more intimidating.
"Oh, uh, hi," you sputter, heart pounding. "I thought I heard something."
You rush out of the bedroom, socks slipping over the wood floors. He turns sideways, allowing you to slip past him into the main space of the apartment. He follows you out of his room, closing the door.
His suitcase is at the front door, along with his jacket. You glance at both, eyes lingering on the locked entrance.
Could you run? Would you make it out in time? No, Max has long legs. He'd overtake you in no time.
The quiet that looms between you both is the kind that somehow announces itself. It makes the air feel thick with tension.
Max doesn't say anything to alleviate the moment, No funny quip or smart remark. He just continues to stand there with a hollow look in his eyes.
"I'm really sorry," you say, fighting to keep your voice even. "I know you asked for privacy. I swear I've never gone in your room before. It's just I thought I heard something and Murray ran in there and I was just trying to get him out."
Max still isn't smiling as he nods at you, his dark eyes surveying you seriously as he saunters towards you. The old floorboards creak under his leather shoes.
You hold your breath, feeling lightheaded. Why is Max just staring at you? Why isn't he going to work?
"Forget something else?" You ask, trying to appear nonchalant, even irritated at his intrusion.
Max's mouth curls ever so slightly at one side. He slowly shakes his head back and forth, eyes never leaving yours.
"Nope. But you did."
You feel your brow begin to bead with sweat. You back up slowly, concerned when with every step back you take, he takes one forward.
"What do you mean?"
"Missed a screw," Max says without humor. "Noticed it when I was opening my briefcase."
The briefcase that holds nothing but blank pages and cartoons. The briefcase that confirms he's a phony.
His entire countenance is dark as he stares you down. He's so close you can see that his eyes are almost completely black.
He knows.
His face contorts strangely, rippling at the forehead to him a more menacing air. You feel your heart slam into your chest and when he advances you jump back, lower back hitting the edge of the table.
"You don't need to be afraid of me," Max insists, his voice a sweet syrupy murmur. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Yeah right.
Your hand gropes behind you along the table, desperate for anything to defend yourself with. Your fingers brush the edge of the knife that you were using earlier and you clasp it tightly in your shaking hand.
"Get away," you say, brandishing the knife in front of you. "You're a fucking murderer!"
You can't help but feel it would be more effective if you weren't shaking so hard that the knife trembles.
"I mean, you're not wrong," Max shrugs, amused.
What the fuck does that mean?
Your brow furrows as he advances. You stagger backwards, waving the knife wildly.
"Get away," you say, knife still raised. You don't know why, but it feels safer this way. "You need to get the fuck out of here right now.”
"Or what?" Max smiles, baring his teeth. Is it just you or are the incisors longer?
"I'll call the police."
"No you won't," Max says with a shark-like grin. "Because you and I both know that's not a concern for me."
Don't listen to him. It's a joke. A trick.
"Maybe a better threat is that you'll put a stake through my heart? Force feed me garlic?" He laughs with genuine amusement, scanning you briefly. "Nah you don't have it in you."
You hold the knife more steadily as you glare at him.
"The same woman who cowered in the subway from some soy boy?" He tilts forward. His eyes are that normal dark brown again, glinting in amusement. “You couldn’t even if you wanted to.”
You force yourself to remain in control, but surprise makes you falter.
"How did you know about Bryce?"
"Who do you think took him out?"
Your mouth drops. "You killed him?"
"He was beating the shit out of you," Max sneers. "He's lucky I didn't do worse."
"So you are a murderer," you say through gritted teeth, trying to hear him over the roar blood in your ears.
"If you leave right now I won't turn you in."
"You think I'd let you turn me in?"
Max is so relaxed as he speaks and you realize he's a completely different person to the sweet-natured and helpful roommate you've been living with. Now he seems like everything you thought when you first saw him at your apartment door; arrogant, brash, smug.
"I thought you said you wouldn't hurt me."
"And I meant that," Max says smoothly. "I'd make your death entirely painless. Over in less than a second."
He sees you go pale and chuckles.
"But you don't have to worry about that. I have no desire to kill you, Sunshine. It wouldn't be to my advantage."
You need to keep him talking; you need to figure out a way to get out of the apartment and to the police station. You swallow, never taking your eyes away from his.
"And what advantage is that?"
Max takes another step only to jump back, shouting as Murray leaps from the couch onto his back. You watch dumbfounded as Murray sinks his teeth into Max's shoulder, claws sharp and dragging through his skin.
"Little bastard!"
You raise the knife as you slide past Max, running to the front door. Your fingers tremble with the lock and you’re about to tug open the door when you hear the sound of Murray yelping. You turn to see Max gripping the cat by the scruff of his neck.
“You little fucker.”
Murray continues hissing and sweeping his paws at Max's face. Max just hisses right back at the cat, his teeth sharp. You reach a hand towards them, helpless.
"Max, stop!"
But Max doesn't stop; he's looking at the cat with a dark fascination. The look of someone who has every intent to harm.
You just know he's going to hurt Murray. Murray who has no one else in the world, Murray who tried to save your life.
"Put him down, Max and I’ll stay. I’ll listen."
Max pauses his staring contest with the cat to look over at you. He regards your offer and goes to your bedroom. You watch as Max opens the door, makes a flicking motion with his hand. The growling cat goes sailing into your bedroom with Max slamming the door behind him.
He’s thoughtless. Careless. A monster.
Angry tears well up in you and without another thought you lurch towards him, knife raised. Max turns as you approach, raising a large hand in front of himself. He rolls his eyes at you when he spots the knife.
"Don't bother."
You ignore him and slice forward aggressively, feeling the blade slide through his open palm. You cringe at the sensation; you’ve never hurt another living thing in your life. You tense, waiting for the spurt of blood, the howl of pain as you pull the blade from his flesh.
Neither happen.
Instead you watch in horrified fascination as the wound begins to repair itself before your very eyes. The skin slides back together, the flesh knitting itself back until it's like nothing ever happened. It doesn't even leave a scar.
Something is terribly wrong. And you're going to be killed if you don't act quickly. Max advances towards you slowly; the click of his shoes the only sound above your rapid breathing.
"Put down the knife, Sunshine," Max croons. "We both know you're not the murdering kind."
"Get away from me," you shout, feeling like Shelly Duvall in The Shining waving a baseball about wildly at Jack Nicholson.
"Sorry babe, no can do."
"If you come any closer I'll kill you."
"Not possible."
He’s inches from you, the black edging the brown from his eyes. He looks hungry and unhinged and you think that this may be your last moment alive. He’s bigger, he could snap your neck and you wouldn’t even be able to scream.
You've never been a violent person but this seems necessary for survival. The knife is still heavy in your grip. With a fluid motion you raise it and bury it in his chest. Or, at least you try to. He's scarily fast and he moves swiftly so the sharp blade punctures his shoulder instead.
The sensation of it sliding through his flesh makes you gag. But Max doesn't look like he's in pain. If anything he acts as if you've just brushed him with a feather. You stumble back to see the blade buried in his shoulder, standing there looking at you with surprise.
"Shit, I guess I misjudged you," Max says almost proudly as he removes the blade with a grunt. "Didn't think you had it in you."
You watch in horror as he tosses it to the side with a clatter. No blood drips from the wound, no warm spurt of life, nothing.
He's really undead.
"Zero for two, babe," Max sighs almost as if he's bored. "This shit doesn't hurt me, keep up."
"What are you?"
"Are we really gonna do this?" Max groans, disappointed. "I figured you knew. Weren't all those little tests you pulled because you know exactly what I am?"
You shake your head. "It's not possible."
"Isn't it?" Max pouts condescendingly as he tilts his head.
You feel lightheaded, and your knees feel too weak to support you. Max notices this, motioning to the chair at the table.
"Here, take a seat."
When you hesitate he urges you into one of the chairs with a hand on your shoulder and you want to laugh at his concern. You're pretty sure he's going to murder you in a second, why waste time on being polite?
He takes a seat across from you, amusement lingering on his handsome face. He folds his hands in front of him on the table, like the two of you are in a business meeting before his brows raise.
"Go ahead and ask me."
"Ask you what?
"What you’ve been wondering for days.”
You lean back in the chair, fingers coming to the edge of the table to ground yourself. You still don't totally believe what's happening. But you have so many questions.
"Mister Morris-"
"Tasted disgusting," Max interrupts, making a face. "Fucker must have gorged himself on garlic all day."
Your mind flies back to all the vampire movies you've ever watched, the lore that surrounds it.
"It doesn't ... Garlic doesn't kill you?"
"Garlic?" Max laughs. "No. It makes me feel like shit though. Like being lactose intolerant after a dairy festival."
You think back to the book from Mister Morris' apartment. The one with the checklist with items marked off.
"The photographs? Why didn’t you show up in them?"
"In the old days silver was in photographs," Max explains to you as if you're a child. "They used silver press plates and shit like that. Your friend Morris had one fashioned the same way but modern hence why I didn't show up in his photos."
You think of the strange device in Mister Morris room, the one with an accordion middle and lenses.
"But if it doesn't work with modern phones why do you care if your photo is taken?"
"I just don't want people to have photos of me. Not when I don't age and I tend to move around a lot."
You want to laugh. You can't believe you're having this conversation. You're sitting in your kitchen talking to a fucking vampire. Then you sober, your pulse ticking as you bring your eyes to his face, wincing.
"Are you going to kill me?"
"Nah."
You blink at him, confused but Max is stretching like he just woke up before moving into the kitchenette.
"I need a drink," he says with a sigh.
He returns to the table with a bottle of red wine and two wine glasses. He pours the wine into one glass, sliding it to you across the table. You don't take it, not even coming close to touching the wineglass.
“I’m not thirsty.”
"Suit yourself," he shrugs nonplussed when you don't take the drink.
You watch as he removes a flask from his inner suit pocket. You hold in a gag when he tilts it over a second wine glass and blood sluggishly coats the sides. His dark eyes go to your green face and he chuckles.
"Better get used to it, babe."
You flinch, your fingers now gripping your wine glass nervously. You still don’t drink it, but holding onto it makes you feel safer.
"Why aren't you going to kill me?"
"Because I wanna offer you a job."
"A job?"
Max nods.
"I need an assistant. A Renfield to my Dracula you know? And you're perfect for the position."
Your face darkens.
"How do you know I won't just kill you when you sleep?"
This amuses Max greatly because he chuckles to himself.
"You think I'm the only bloodsucking bastard in this town? That my co-workers won't notice if one of their own gets picked off?" He grins widely. "It's like my own little insurance policy."
If Max is a vampire it’s only a matter of time before he takes you out. Before he gets hungry and doesn’t want to go out for dinner. You’ll be his very own in-house charcuterie board. So why deny the inevitable? Just have him kill you now. At least then you won’t have to be his henchman
Max can see you weighing the pros and cons of this decision and his expression becomes smug.
"Oh and there is the matter of Lucy."
"What about her?"
Max cocks his head at you, as if you're a little puppy he finds impossibly amusing.
"C'mon, you're telling me you haven't noticed the changes in your friend?" He croons, lowering his face until it's aligned with yours. "A little more tired, a little paler... One might say she's been absolutely drained of life."
Your wine glass smashes to the ground as you stand, furiously. Max doesn't flinch, just sighs.
"You killed Lucy?"
"Hardly," Max rolls his eyes. "She was all over me since she met me, practically begging me to bite her. She's a firecracker."
You wince.
"So of course I did. Just a little appetizer. A few sips isn't enough to turn someone, just a little at a time if you have enough self control," Max explains as if this is commonplace. "But Lucy was insatiable, begging me, always wanting more and I mean, I'm just a man."
He shrugs his broad shoulders as if to say what can you do?
"I don't believe you," you say. "Lucy wouldn't ask for you to do that, to drain her blood."
"Of course she wouldn't," Max rolls his eyes, bored. "But she did beg me for little love bites as she called them."
"You're a liar, Lucy freaks out if she gets a paper cut. There's no way she would want to be bit by you."
"She would if it was the best feeling in the world."
Max drains his glass before pouring another. You close your eyes, not wanting to see it. The metallic scent wafts in your direction, making you swallow a gag. He swirls the liquid in the glass like a seasoned sommelier before bringing it to his lips and drinking quickly.
"When you get bit it's not like you just stand there and feel yourself getting drained," Max says, swallowing. "A person would never let you bite them again."
Your eyes open to see Max with a bemused look on his face.
"I don't understand."
"Vampires are like any creature, we evolve to survive. Just like the bugs who paralyze their victims, we do the same."
Your face contorts into horror. "You paralyze people?"
Max squints one eye, holding a palm up and tilting it back and forth as if to say not quite.
"What they feel the second my teeth break the skin is absolute bliss. Like a hit of heroin but stronger. Better than anything you can imagine. They just go slack, don't fight back, just surrender to it, going limp in my arms."
He takes his time to survey your face, the slight tick to your heartbeat, the flush to your cheeks.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to feel ecstasy like that?” Max continues his voice low velvet. “Don’t you ever just desire to give yourself over to someone who can give you pleasure the likes of which you’ve never experienced?”
You're ashamed when for just a split second you can't help but imagine that sensation. Absolute bliss. Pleasure. Ecstacy. You've always worked hard, been busy; you've needed to so you could survive life. Thinking of letting all that go makes you pause. Max capitalizes on this, leaning forward on the table.
“I think you do,” he croons as he eyes your neck. "Pop off that necklace and I can show you."
Your fingers trail to your necklace, the one you wear every day, the one Max asked about. It's solid silver. He can't touch your neck without hurting himself.
Thank goodness.
And then suddenly you're furious at how casual he's being, how arrogantly he sits there smirking at you as if your life isn't ending. As if he hasn’t threatened you and your friends. Anger, red hot and powerful sears through you. You stand, chair knocking over as you raise a hand to slap him harshly.
It's hardly a surprise when his large palm shoots out at alarming speed, fingers coming to wrap around your wrist and hold you in place as he stands.
"Nah, you're right," he says with a nod. "Shouldn't mix business with pleasure."
You struggle, feeling fury overtaking you. You want to smash his smug face in. You want to throttle him for giving you a walking death sentence.
"Tsk tsk come on now, Sunshine," Max says with an oily smile as he begins dragging your protesting form towards his. "You don't wanna hurt me."
Your chest bumps against his and you try to wrestle out of his grip but he doesn't let go of you. His grip is iron, like trying to escape metal shackles.
"You're right I don't want to hurt you,” you spit. “I want to kill you."
Max surveys you with a teasing little smile on his face.
"You're so sexy when you're threatening manslaughter"
"Fuck you."
Max exhales through his nose like he's getting tired of the back and forth banter.
"You know why you don't wanna kill me, babe? Because if I fail to make it to one of my weekly meetings, they'll send someone to find out what happened. And they know where we live. They’ll come for revenge."
You grind your teeth, almost shaking with how furious you are and how helpless you feel.
"And if that's not enough to keep you from taking me out,' Max teases, "just keep in mind that our mutual friend Lucy might just have to take over my spot at the meetings. I know she's thinking of going vegan but that might change..."
His smile deepens as horror crosses your features.
"And after her? I think Mina would do just nicely, don't you? After all, Lucy should have a friend to keep her company."
He drops your wrist and you stagger backwards shaking your head, turning away from him. You lean against the kitchen counter, head dropped between your shoulders. Max has you between a rock and a hard place and he knows it.
Tears begin along your waterline, quickly blinked away when you feel the presence of Max's body behind yours.
If you kill him, Lucy and Mina will be killed as well, or worse, turned into creatures like Max. You can't let that happen. You need to come up with a plan.
But you need to buy yourself some time.
You feel the gentle pull of Max's fingers curling at the ends of your hair before tugging tugging playfully.
"So what do you say, Sunshine?" He murmurs to the back of your head. "Do we have a deal?"
You swallow harshly, exhaling slowly through your nose and turning. Max is impossibly close, his dark hypnotic.
"How can I trust you won't kill me?" You motion to the knitting wound at his shoulder. "I mean I just tried to kill you."
"There's no benefit to killing you," he replies with a shrug. "Would raise too much suspicion. And I like New York; I don't feel like moving again."
You're confused when his large hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer to him. You give a brief sound of displeasure before Max's voice falls over you, lulling you into submission.
"And besides, I like your company."
His body is pressed against yours, firm and heated. This surprises you, he’s always so cold.
"You're warm," you blurt, confused.
"Always happens when I've just eaten," Max murmurs back, dark eyes swimming over your features. You're confused that he just drank blood but he smells so good, his breath like peppermint.
"I know what I said earlier, but it doesn't have to be all work between us you know," he offers, his tongue teasing his back teeth. "We could have fun too."
You push at his chest, revolted. He releases you, watching you as you collapse into the nearby chair.
"What do you really need from me, Max?"
Max paces back and forth in front of you as he talks.
"Someone to protect my sleep. Someone to make sure that I don't go hungry for too long."
You jerk up in your seat.
"I'm not going to help you kill people, Max."
"Obviously," he says with a roll of his eyes. "Especially when you already work somewhere with access to my favorite snack."
Your eyebrows knit, unsure at what he's getting at.
"The whole living forever, staying young, superpower shit I like," Max explains. "The whole killing people thing? Gets old fast. Makes things messy and complicated. I don't wanna do it anymore. But I also don't want to starve."
"That's why you wanted to be my roommate," you say, realization dawning on you.
"Bingo," Max grins. "I'd seen you and your friends for weeks. That pub is the perfect hunting ground. When I overheard you talking that day about a roommate I knew you were the perfect choice."
You think back to the almost too perfect way he swooped in and saved you by beconing your roommate. In your fear you were so blind.
"How am I supposed to sneak blood out of my job?" You snarl. "I think they might notice if I start bringing a backpack full of blood bags out of the office."
"I'll help with that."
"How?"
Max leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his thighs as he flashes a smile at you.
"If you're asking that, that means you're considering it."
"Well I don't have much of a choice do I?"
Max looks delighted, raising his hand between the two of you like you've just agreed on some business merger.
"Does that mean we have a deal?"
You look at his outstretched hand and all you can think is that you're making a deal with the devil. Finally you grip it, marveling at its size and warmth. A strange look overtakes Max's face as you pump his hand.
"Deal."
///
"You look like shit."
"Thanks, Luce."
At work the following day you're a sight. You barely slept last night. Even with the lock you put on your door and the crucifix you nailed above your bed after Max left for "work". You tossed and turned all night, terrified he'd get in your window.
But the morning arrived and Max's door was locked. He was home and you were still alive.
Now you sit with Mina and Lucy at the front desk before work starts. It was your day to bring coffee and yours is a triple shot of espresso.
"Honestly is this because of your landlord?" Mina asks gently. "Because if it is-"
"It's not that. I'm just... " you trail off, trying to think of a good reason. "I took in his cat, Murray, while the cops try to track down his kids. It was either that or I had to put him in a shelter. So I’m just not getting much sleep."
Your friends sympathize, tsk-ing lowly before Van sails in looking impossibly handsome. He offers a gruff morning to you all. He pushes his glasses up his nose when he notices you, flashing a grin your way.
You can't help but feel your heart pound at the brief interaction. Despite everything that's going on at home with Max, you can't turn off the emotions you feel when you see your boss.
"Everything okay at the apartment?" Van says, his eyes warm.
"Yeah, cops told me it looks like just a random attack. They're closing the case for now."
Oh and I can rest easy about that now because I know my vampire roommate killed him.
"Well I'm glad you're feeling better." He turns his attention to your co-workers, giving them a brief nod. "Lucy what's up for me today?"
Lucy is office admin. She organizes Dr Helsing's schedule, buys supplies, deals with client bookings, etc. She scans through the computer, eyes narrowed as she looks at his busy schedule.
"A consult today at ten with a cleft palate, a lunch meeting with Dr. Seward and then you're in surgery the rest of the day."
"Great. Thanks."
He sneaks a look at you before he goes into his office, closing the door. You watch after him and you feel like you pupils are heart-shaped.
"You so like him," Mina giggles as Lucy waggles her brows. You scowl at them before preparing to head to your work station.
"Shut up."
///
Later that day the office is closed for lunch. Van is scheduled for a meeting off -site which means the office will be empty. A perfect time for you to do some research without being disturbed.
"Let's do sushi," Lucy decides as the three of you walk out the door, locking it behind you. You make it just around the block before patting your pockets dramatically.
"Oh shit, I forgot my wallet. I'll meet you two there!" You look at Lucy, brows raised. "Can I grab your key?"
Lucy nods, passing you her key to the office. It's strung on a keychain in the shape of a bat. You've never noticed it before, but now you do and you feel your stomach jump. Everything reminds you of Max in the worst way.
"Don't lose it," Lucy warns.
The girls move on ahead of you as you trot back to the office. Unlocking it with shaking fingers you move into the quiet space. You move to the back, bringing out your key card and pressing it to the large door, slipping inside.
It’s the back freezer room and this space shouldn't creep you out. You come here at least once a day to place samples inside. And yet now it makes your flesh crawl.
You've never had to worry yourself with disposal of it from the premises. You take blood, you test it and if need be, it goes in the fridge. You need to keep that level headed sense of focus if you’re going to keep you and your friends alive.
With a determined roll of your shoulders you tug open the industrial refrigerator door open. It’s set to 4 degrees and you scan the shelves, looking at familiar names written on vials and bags before stepping out and closing the fridge door.
You check the info sheet on the front of the fridge, looking at your notes. Which ones need to be sent for further testing, which can be destroyed.
"When is the fucking disposal?" you murmur to yourself.
You could have asked Lucy. Could have broken into her computer to see this information but that feels like a step too far. You don't want your friends involved at all. After Max's threat you're terrified they'll be pulled into this horror along with you. The thought causes your stomach to tighten.
"No lunch today?"
You yelp at the deep voice, spinning around to see Van standing there with a curious look on his face. He's got his lab coat off, wearing just black dress pants and a white lawn shirt rolled up at the sleeves. You shouldn't be ogling him at a time like this but you can't help yourself.
"I-i thought you were at a meeting."
"Seward cancelled." Van surveys you a little closer. "You okay? You seem a bit pale."
You want to laugh. "Just tired."
"Ah, I see." He smiles before he seems to realize where he's found you. "What are you doing in here?"
"Checking a vial," you say, thinking on your feet. "I panicked that I didn't label Miss Balcombe's sample correctly this morning."
"Did you?"
"Turns out yeah, I did," you say with an over the top and exaggerated wipe of your forehead. "Whew. I was worried maybe it'd been destroyed already."
"Nope that's Friday evenings," Van informs you. "I make sure it's done when everyone's out of the office."
You have your answer. Friday evenings. That's when you need to get back here and pack up some Max-themed snacks. But how the fuck are you going to manage that? You have your first step. You're going to get this key copied before lunch is over. You've got access to the refrigerator. But how are you going to get it out without being seen?
Van narrows his dark eyes on you. Looking over your face for a moment as if deciding something.
"I know why you're in here."
Your body goes cold with panic, your eyes widening. How could he possibly know?
"You're still reeling from this weekend," he offers, mouth thinned. "Aren't you?"
Buddy, you have no idea.
"I think so. Yeah."
Van nods sagely, as if he's puzzled out all your problems.
"I told you that you could take a few days off-"
"No!" You practically scream.
Thoughts of being trapped in your apartment with Max sleeping the sleep of the undead only feet from you makes you want to throw up.
"I mean, I like being here. It distracts me."
"I get that," Van nods. "I moved out the second I could, so eager to start a life of my own but trust me, it’s a slippery slope between enjoying work and being obsessed by it.”
"Your work is saving lives," you offer with a grim smile. "I just poke people with needles."
"Don't underestimate your importance in the world," Van tells you with a voice of pure honesty and an expression to match. Does he have to be so dreamy?
"Okay Doc," you say, attempting to break the tension of his serious remark. "I'll keep that in mind."
He slides his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels a moment. You think he looks kind of forlorn until he meets your eyes again.
"Is there any chance you'd like to get dinner after work on Friday?" He says it in a rush, cheeks lightly flushed.
Friday, the day of disposal. Friday the day you're supposed to be with Max helping him "feed". He must see your reluctance because he looks worried, clearing his throat.
"And, uh, if you think this is inappropriate I completely understand. I don't want you feeling like you have to do this," he says nervously. "There'll be no ramifications if you say no, I just-"
Friday is the worst possible day for this yet all that is wiped from your mind as you shoot a crooked grin up at him.
Ooohhhh this chapter was so good! I loved the tension. I was trying to read faster bc I wanted to know what happened faster hahaha ended up lookin like that one Spongebob meme
Frankie's head is smushed between your thighs, his face buried in your cunt. Ezra lies next to you on his side and your arms are wrapped around his shoulders.
"Does that feel good, my love?" Ezra’s voice surrounds you. "Do you like it?"
"Yeah," you pant out through heaving breaths.
Ezra reaches down and runs his fingernails across Frankie's scalp. "He's got a talented mouth, doesn't he?"
You moan in affirmation. Frankie's dedication to your pleasure is always more than you expect.
"Frankie's our good boy, isn't he? Making us come whenever we need. Filling our empty holes when we hunger." Ezra grins as Frankie tries to lift his head up--Frankie doesn't exactly like being called a 'boy'--but Ezra’s hand keeps him firm in place. "Figured our good little boy here deserved time with his favorite meal."
Your eyes are barely open as Frankie continues to fuck you with his tongue. His lips suck and toy with your folds and clit. And Ezra’s right. Frankie's ravenous when he gets between your legs. He'll lick you raw if you let him.
"Does he eat you good, angel?" Ezra asks and you whimper in response. He presses his forehead against yours. "I wish I had a cunt like yours so I could feel what you feel." He sighs. "I suppose my cock will suffice." He gently taps Frankie's head. "Alright, man. My turn."
Frankie nods with a bleary expression, his mouth agape. He moves from between your legs to Ezra’s. His wet mouth quickly engulfs Ezra’s cock.
Ezra beams with glee. "Our boy is versatile, too."
You're dripping between your thighs with Frankie's saliva and your own slick. Your heart is driven by Frankie's desperate eyes. You crawl down the bed and climb on Frankie's back while he sucks off Ezra. Your hand slides around his hips and you grip his cock. You murmur in Frankie's ear. "You're so good to us, baby. We never want anyone else. You're so perfect. We got you, baby." You jerk him off in a loose grip. "We don't want nobody else but you."
"She's right about that, man," Ezra says casually with a smirk on his face. He watches Frankie's bleary eyes as his head moves up and down. "If you ever leave, there's no replacing you." Ezra grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, torn between the pleasure of his body and the tight twist in his chest as he speaks. "You're everything we could ever ask for."
Frankie pulls away from Ezra so fast you nearly fly off his back. "Stop!! Stop it!!" Frankie covers his face and starts crying. "You can't say that shit, man! You can't say that shit to me!" He shrieks.
Ezra leans forward slowly. "I mean it, Frankie," His voice steady and even.
You move to Frankie's side to not overwhelm him. "I mean it, too, Frankie." You kiss him on his crown. You kiss his hand, his sweaty forehead.
He sobs harder. "You can't!! You can't!!" He shouts into his hands.
"We love you, Frankie," says Ezra, who joins you in smattering kisses on Frankie's skin.
"We love you so much," you add.
Frankie curls up even more, his entire body burning bright red from exertion, but you and Ezra stay close. Your hands petting his arms and back. You rest your head on his shoulder and Ezra rests his head against his cheek.
"I want you here always, but I understand if you gotta go."
"Where else would I even go, man?" Frankie chokes out through his tears. "Nobody fuckin wants me. I'm fuckin shit, man."
"No, you're not, Frankie," you say. "You're not shit. You're everything."
Ezra kisses Frankie on the cheek. "We want you, Frankie. We want you here."
Frankie climbs up to the center of the bed and covers his eyes, still crying. You follow behind and spoon him. Ezra lies on his side and faces Frankie's front. The three of you are sweaty, naked, and growing tired. Ezra does what he can to make his arousal go down and you've long forgotten yall were having sex in the first place.
All you care about is Frankie and doing and thinking and feeling what you can to make him feel safe and welcome. You try to reach out through your gut to soothe his soul. You peck kisses on his shoulders and the back of his head. Ezra, on the other side of him, his speaking to him in what sounds like tongues. But there was always a bond between the two men that didn't quite involve you. Something that almost seemed exclusive to them as men. You were happy as long as they were happy.
Frankie was never really happy, though. But he was getting better. His shoulders were lighter. His heart beating little easier day by day. And while you did want him to stay with you and Ezra until the end of time, you also wanted him to be free to live whatever kind of life he wanted. Even if you and Ezra weren't involved at all--not that it wouldn't pain you greatly for him to leave.
But because it's Frankie. And you love him. And you know he deserves it.
--------
A/n: idk what's going on. Living out my dream throuple rn I guess.
RATING: Explicit (18+)
PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader
WORD COUNT: 3.4k
CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.
SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.
read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist
You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is.
For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun.
In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation.
Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.
It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.
He must know you do it for him.
It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight?
And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.
Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.
No, honey.
Honey.
Honey.
Not tonight.
Tonight.
Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.
Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.
Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below.
You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?
And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands.
When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”
You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.
Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs.
“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.
Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”
Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
You don’t budge. Don’t move.
“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.
Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.
“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”
“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”
Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”
You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.
One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.
“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”
He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.
Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.
Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.
Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.
Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze.
You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.
“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”
You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.
At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring.
Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.
Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”
You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.
“Good girl.”
You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin.
“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”
Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word.
“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”
“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”
Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.
“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.
You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.
It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.
He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.
As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.
As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.
He grins, wicked.
Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.
So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”
The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.
“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”
His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.
You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.
How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.
How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”
His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.
“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”
How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.
The snarl of his upper lip.
His knotted jaw.
Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.
The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take.
“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”
You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe.
That can make you sparkle now, to remember.
“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”
Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on.
Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.
dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3
QZ!Joel Miller x You | Explicit 18+ MDNI | 1k WC | AO3
Summary: In the Boston Quarantine Zone, you and Joel both find a way to get what you want.
Warnings: This is just smut and filth. Reader age undefined. Written as a female reader but could be anyone. Oral. Cum eating. Drugs. Not beta'd.
M A S T E R L I S T | A O 3
The satisfying sound of Joel moaning under your tongues handiwork should be payment enough, but you would never let him know that.
His grip on your hair is fierce. His right hand tangles into your locks. His fingernails claw into you each time you do that thing he loves.
Hearing his low growl as he tenses was a tonic for your ears. Inspiring you to do your worst.
He leans back on his couch and places his forearm across his brow, mouth agape, panting as you hollow your cheeks.
Joel was always so quiet, and you loved the challenge of getting him to vocalize when you had him in your mouth.
His dark and mysterious facade was eroding. Just a man after all. Much less intimidating when he was at your mercy. The only time he ever was vulnerable and it turned you on to orchestrate it.
Your hands were pressing his thighs wide open for you, but you shifted between his legs to access more of him. You reach a hand to hold him at his base. Your pathetic fingers can barely wrap around his cock. The other hand cups around his balls and you make him groan as you massage him in his most tender spots, hitting the areas you know make him come undone. He twitches in your grasp as you work him just how he likes.
You bob your head on the end of his cock, sucking with restraint at first. Behaving yourself. Relishing his skin getting taught. You can feel it stiffen more and more the harder you inhale him. You ease up and swirl your tongue around his tip and he moans as you lap up the drops of precum beading. Tasting his sweetness while you breathe in his musky scent. It was intoxicating.
You loosen your neck and let him thrust into you. He tries to conceal his whimper as the tip of his cock nestles into your throat.
You don’t let him get too carried away and you know how much it turns you on to edge him.
“Fuck..” he mumbles to himself under his breath. He was losing control and you didn’t want him to come just yet.
You pull back and let his length slide out of you, sucking on the tip before letting it pop out of your mouth with a wet squelch. He stifles another whimper and grits his teeth as he stares down at you with needy eyes.
“Relax, Miller.” You scold him with a cunning tone, knowing full well you have him right where you want him.
You drag a finger playfully down his shaft, tracing the pulsing vein. His cock was gorgeous. Girthy and commanding. He was getting impatient with you riling him up.
He restlessly repositions his grip in your hair and takes his other hand to grab at the side of your neck, urging you back to his cock. Pleading without words.
He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes as you lick a stripe up the underside of his cock. When you press your lips back to the head you rip out a guttural sound from within him as you take him back in your throat. A crescendo praising your work and you smile wickedly at his coming undone.
He bucks into you, writhing and groaning. His beautiful, incoherent sounds getting louder and more desperate. You feel his body tense all over. He goes to pull out of your mouth but you lock onto him and take him deeper. Your warm, wet mouth and tongue lulling him into a moment of ecstasy as he spills into you. The taste of his hot cum on the back of your tongue sends you into a frenzy as you drink him down. His spent body thrusts weakly as you empty him and then he stills. Finally at peace. Finally relaxed.
He drags his cock slowly out of your mouth and winces when you kiss his sensitive tip. Still overstimulated by your doing. You drag your finger under your lip and wipe the cum and saliva that trailed out behind his cock. You lick it off your finger as you stare at him down, knowing full well how filthy he likes it. You catch the corner of his lip pull up just slightly. Pleased with your obscene display of satisfaction. You loved the taste of Joel.
He loosens his grip in your hair and holds you tenderly against his thigh while he catches his breath. He brushes your hair behind your ear. His comforting and intimate touch juxtaposes the reality of the world you live in. There is no room for weakness or getting soft.
This calm and fleeting moment of respite was such a rarity in the QZ. A Joel Miller at peace and unvigilant. A sight you never got tired of seeing and a sight you promised not to get used to.
Too quickly the moment is over. He shifts his legs as you raise to your feet and adjust yourself.
He zips up his jeans and groans as he stands up. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a tiny bag with white pills in it. He hands it over to you and you grab it casually, pleased with your compensation.
You turn around to examine the pills and stow them away into your pocket. You feel him watching you, following you through the living room.
“Need the baggie back.” He reminds you gruffly, looming over you with his arms crossed as he leans against the open door frame.
And you remind him that you know the drill. You wave the empty baggie between your two fingers and hand it over to him with a slyness.
“See you later, Miller.”
Tagging Friends / Mutuals / Joel People I hope will enjoy this <3
"Hey, get in here," yells Frankie over his shoulder. "I'm fuckin your girlfriend."
You hear Ezra’s laugh echo down the hallway, followed by booted footsteps.
Frankie thrusts into you lazily, still wearing an undershirt, but his pants are long gone. You're naked beneath him on the bed with your legs spread wide. You're wearing gray wool socks to keep your toes warm.
Ezra purses his lips when he enters the doorway. "It seems as though you are fucking my girlfriend, comrade," he says with a sly grin and kicks off his shoes. He takes two lazy steps forward and pats Frankie on the shoulder, punctuating the gesture with the squeeze of his hand. "And how is she taking it?" He asks as if he can't see for himself.
"Real good, brother," groans Frankie. "God, she knows how to take it." His thrusts speed up.
Ezra chuckles and kneels on the bed. "Yeah? You taking it good, starlette?" His eyes are on yours now.
"Mm-hmm," you moan with your face tense with pleasure. You reach for him with your left arm.
"Aww, what's wrong, baby? One cock ain't enough?" Drawls Ezra.
That's not quite what you were looking for, but as soon as he says it, you know that's what you need. You shake your head in response. "Come feed me, baby," you pout.
Ezra and Frankie hiss at the same time.
"Well, if the lady insists," says Ezra as he walks on his knees up the bed. He tucks the waistband of his longjohns beneath his balls and grabs his cock. "I wouldn't dream of allowing my woman to hunger."
Oh my god the way you write Dieter is so fucking correct. You capture all the messy, electric charm that makes him him. This was so silly and hot and PERFECT.
You receive a pleasurable massage from Ezra. (4.1k)
Tags - smut, massages, unethical!ezra, softest of soft!dom, wax play, hands in places hands shouldn't be, teasing, fingering, oral (f! receiving) masturbation, ezra creams his pants #creamernation, slight dom vibes from ezra, chamomille tea, ezra is a silvertongued menace, light foot action - assume reader has clean tootsies.
Fic help - @endlessthxxghts and @beefrobeefcal thank you both for holding my hand through this!!! and for hyping me up, and for being the best part of my day!!! LOVE YOU!!!
A/N - hey hey motherfuckers 😛 I hope you enjoy! First time writing Ezra and it’s for my beautiful @noxturnalpascal’s birthday that was a couple weeks ago 🩷 patti i'm not sorry for what i've done. also i love you.
After a sixteen hour drive back home from visiting your family, you’re in nothing but pain. There’s an awful, pinching feeling at your lower back, your hips and knees ache, and your neck is sore. Even laying down in your bed hurts.
You try a couple of different solutions to remedy yourself. Ice pack, heating pad - you never know when you’re supposed to use one or the other. You try stretching, yoga, and increasing your water intake. But after four days of agony, you’ve had it.
There’s a light-purple colored piece of cardstock that’s been hung up on your fridge by a magnet for the last few months. It’s a gift certificate to a spa called Lavender, you won it in a raffle at a charity drag show.
Call (212) 929-5804 to schedule a 90 minute massage of your choice, and please bring this voucher with you to your appointment.
I look forward to pleasuring you.
-Ezra
You feel a flutter in your gut as you read those words: pleasuring you. Fuck, you’re so touch starved, and you begin to imagine what this Ezra could look like. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Before you get lost in your dirty thoughts about a massage therapist you’ve never even met before, you need to book an appointment. When you flip the card over, you see a list of services offered by Ezra. Massages of all kinds - chakra balancing, prenatal, PMS, stress-relief, hot stone, cupping, deep tissue. You’re not really sure what you’re looking for, but you schedule your appointment anyway.
-
Friday at 6:40pm, you leave your apartment and begin walking to Lavender. It’s only about a fifteen minute walk away, which you don’t mind because the weather is cooling down and the leaves are beginning to change color. You enjoy the scenery. At 6:57, you walk into the small office for your appointment, a bell jingling as you push open the door. The shades are drawn over the windows, blocking out what little light is cast by the setting sun in the overcast sky. It smells smokey, like incense. Gentle music plays as you wait at the front desk for someone to help you.
After a moment, a man comes out through a door behind the desk. He’s taller, his face is handsome under the low light. His hair is dark apart from a very prominent streak of white in his hairline, his beard and mustache are neatly trimmed and graying. And as he makes his way closer to you, you make out a peculiar curved scar on his cheek, right next to a sharp, aquiline nose. The man smiles warmly at you and you silently pray to any god that’ll listen that he’s your massage therapist, and not just the person working the front desk.
“I believe you must be my 7 o’clock, yes?”
Hallelujah.
“Yes, that’s my appointment.”
“Your name, my dove?”
You’re going weak in the knees. He speaks in a low voice, a syrupy thick southern accent pouring from his pouty lips. You tell him your name, tripping over your syllables. The man chuckles, “I’m Ezra. Pleased to meet you,” he says, taking your hand in his before pressing a gentle kiss to your trembling knuckles. “I sense anxiety, my dove. Would I be correct in that assumption?”
You nod. “A little, yeah. Sorry. It’s my first massage.” Ezra’s warm, chocolatey eyes roam your body and you feel flustered, “I uh - I have this…” you dig out the gift certificate from your purse, slightly crumpled now. “From the raffle at that drag show.”
“Ah, yes,” Ezra smiles, taking the certificate from you. “Thank you,” he says, smoothing out the crinkles in the paper. He notices you tapping your fingers rhythmically on his desk, and covers your hand with his own. “There’s no need for anxiety, darlin’. You’re in good hands with me. Perhaps a cup of tea to soothe those nerves of yours before I get started with you?”
“That’d be great, yeah,” you reply.
Ezra opens a nearby cabinet. “What are you in the mood for this evening?”
“Not really sure,” you answer, humming as you think. “Do you have suggestions?”
“That I do,” he says. “I’d suggest somethin’ herbal, no need for caffeine so late. I’ve got peach, I’ve got chamomile vanilla…” Ezra trails off, moving various boxes in the cabinet. “Hot chocolate too, f’ya want.”
“The vanilla one. Please.”
“The vanilla one it shall be, then.”
Ezra makes you a small cup of tea, sweetening it with a bit of honey per your request. He sits you down in a comfortable chair and carefully places the warm mug on an end table next to you, then hands you a clipboard.
“Just some routine paperwork I’d appreciate if you’d fill out for me as I get your room situated. Hope that’s not an issue.”
“Not at all.”
Ezra thanks you and exits the room, leaving you to fill out the paperwork. It’s all the usual questions: Name, date of birth, email, phone number, emergency contact. After that it asks of any allergies, medical conditions, or major surgeries to be aware of. You answer each question accordingly, and then the last section is made up of questions about your massage preferences.
Massage type? (Chakra balancing, prenatal, PMS, stress-relief, hot stone, cupping, deep tissue) - Unsure.
Any areas of the body that need to be focused on or avoided? - Unsure.
Any other preferences or details you’d like to add? - Unsure.
You click the pen and lay it on the completed paperwork, then sip your steaming tea. You wiggle your foot as you anxiously await Ezra’s return.
“I’m ready for you, sweet dove.”
Ezra’s waiting by the door behind the front desk. You drink the last of your tea and follow Ezra into the room, where he takes his clipboard back from you. The room is dark, darker than the waiting area. It’s lit by a couple of plain candles, warm light flickering against the walls as soft piano music plays from a speaker. “Your purse,” Ezra motions for you to remove your bag, then hangs it over a hook on the door. “And your jacket, if I may,” he murmurs from behind you, hooking his fingers between the collar of your jacket and your body, waiting for you to unzip it before he pulls it off of your shoulders and hangs it up. Your skin tingles as his fingers brush over you, just a taste of what’s to come.
“Undress for me as I go over your paperwork outside. I’ll knock on the door and wait for your word before re-entering.”
“How much? How…” you trail off, bashful as you try to complete the sentence. Ezra knows what you’re trying to ask, though. “To your leisure, darlin’, though my suggestion would be to the nude, jewelry and all. The choice is yours. And once you’re done, lie on the table for me. You may protect your modesty with the towel I’ve provided for you right here.” Ezra pats a white towel that sits folded on the counter, next to a little crystal jewelry dish.
Ezra leaves, gently shutting the door behind himself. He examines your paperwork behind the closed door as he hears rustling on the other side, the sound of you undressing. You leave your clothes in a pile on a chair, then cover your body with the towel. You lay on the massage table, pleasantly surprised that Ezra’s been warming it for you. You’re still a little nervous, so you focus on breathing deeply and calming yourself down as you wait to hear Ezra’s knock. You listen to the gentle piano playing, trying to place where you’ve heard this song before.
Knock knock.
“Come in,” you call out, and Ezra opens the door. He closes it again softly and stands by the counter, readying some supplies. “What’s this song?”
“S’a piano cover of The Cure,” Ezra answers. “Last Day of Summer.”
“Mmm. I never really liked them,” you admit.
Ezra chuckles softly. “To each their own, I ‘spose. But I must inform you that you’re missin’ out, my dove.”
You’re grateful Ezra can’t see your smile or your bashful expression at the pet name as you rest your face in the cradle of the table. “I do like this,” you tell him. “The piano cover.”
“I do too. Relaxing, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, it is. Very.”
“Indeed. Now, I’d like to go over a couple of items on your paperwork before we commence. I believe you had stated that you’ve never received a massage before, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you’re unsure of your preferences or areas of your body I should pay special attention to or avoid.”
“That’s right, yeah.” Ezra hums in response, then goes quiet. “...I hope that’s not a problem?”
“Worry not, dove, s’not a problem at all. Jus’ means I’ll be takin’ a more…experimental approach to massagin’ your body, s’all.”
“Oh. Uh…experimental how?”
“Your massage will entail the utilization of a variety of techniques, to thoroughly explore all parts of your body. By my listenin’ to both your verbal and nonverbal cues, and by checkin’ in, askin’ you questions about how you’re feelin’,” Ezra explains, “I’ll get to know your body and how best to please you. It’ll make things run nice an’ creamy for us both.”
“O-okay. That sounds good.”
You’re in trouble. Each of Ezra’s words, spoken through a honey-sweet tone, goes straight to your core. You wonder how slick you are between your thighs, if Ezra’ll notice.
“I believe we’re ready to begin, then, dove.”
Ezra lights some dragon’s blood scented incense, then washes his hands with hot water. Best not to startle you with cold hands. He approaches you on the massage table, you can smell him even through the smokey scent of the incense. He’s clean and citrusy, you wonder what cologne he wears. He places something on a rolling table and then reaches for your towel, gently tugging the tucked in ends from beneath your body. “Lift up a little for me, my dove. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You hoist yourself up, lifting your torso into the air so Ezra can pull the ends of the towel from under you. Cool air hits the skin of your exposed breasts, though your nipples are already hardened by your arousal. Once you lie back down, Ezra folds the towel down your torso so that only your ass and legs remain covered. “And I’ll be talkin’ you through my process, so nothin’ comes as a surprise.”
“Mm.”
“Gonna begin by drizzling some oil over your back, to keep your skin nice and properly lubricated as I massage you. Ready?”
“Ready,” you mumble.
“But first…It seems you’ve forgotten to remove your jewelry,” he whispers, unclasping the necklace you wear. You lift slightly so that he can carefully remove the chain and pendant, then sets it down. Ezra takes the item he set on the rolling table, a massage candle that’s been burning for a while, the oil completely liquified. He holds it a couple inches above your back and then tilts it, hot oil dripping down your skin and surprising you. “My apologies, dove. I didn’t intend to startle you. You’ll get used to the warmth, I promise.”
Ezra drips a bit more oil on your body, then sets it back down on the rolling table. “Gonna touch you, now,” he whispers. You sigh as you feel his hands finally touch your skin, calloused palms rubbing the oil from your shoulders down to your lower back. He begins by massaging your neck, thumbs sliding down your skin, over and over and over before traveling lower, massaging your traps and shoulders, the backs of your arms a little bit. His hands travel back up your shoulders where the skin meets your neck and massages with a firm pressure, causing you to wince. “Ohh, I know, I know. You’re quite tender, there, my dove. If you’d so kindly allow me to work out this tightness, I think it’d benefit you tremendously.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Ezra massages you by pressing firmly into your skin, thumbs moving in circles, back and forth. “Relax,” he whispers. “Soften yourself. I’ve got you. Breathe in…”
You draw in a deep breath, Ezra’s movements momentarily pausing.
“...And out.”
On your exhale, he massages the tense part of your neck, satisfied at how you’ve relaxed your body for him. He works out the tension, “Good, attagirl,” he praises, hands sliding down the rest of your back. He uses long strokes to massage up and down your spine, then your sides. You let out soft noises, noises indicating pleasure, not pain. Ezra notices how you quiet yourself, voiceless exhales instead of moans. “You don’t have to quiet yourself on my account, dove. I encourage any vocal or physical manifestation of your pleasure.”
Ezra’s hands feel like magic as they travel up and down your back, squeezing and sliding over your oiled skin. He walks his hands down your arms, down your palms, pausing when he reaches your fingers, “I believe you’ve forgotten to remove some more jewelry, darlin’. May I take these rings off of your fingers?”
“Yeah, please.”
Ezra wiggles your rings off of the fingers of your right hand, then the left. They make soft, metallic noises as they clink against each other in Ezra’s palm. “Beautiful rings, my dear,” he murmurs before setting them down on the rolling cart, next to the necklace he’d taken off for you. Ezra massages your forearms, your wrists, your palms and fingers, first one hand and then the other. When he’s done, you hear the soft shuffle of fabric as he moves to the end of the massage table, rolling his cart with him. “I’d like to ask for consent before massaging your feet, my dove, as I’ve been kicked before by some rather ticklish clients.”
“I’m a little ticklish, too” you admit shyly. “I can never get pedicures because of it. Have to do my toes at home.”
Ezra chuckles. “I find that firm pressure is most effective in preventing that sensation. May I try?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
Ezra pours a bit of oil in his hands and rubs them together before reaching for one of your feet, your toes wiggling and curling at his touch. “Shh, jus’ relax,” he coos softly, smirking at your sensitivity. With a steady, hard pressure, Ezra massages your foot. “Focus on your breathin’. It’s ‘sposed to feel good, I ain’t tryin’ to play a dirty trick on you.”
The tickling sensation is there, but with steady, deep breaths, you’re able to control it and allow yourself the pleasure of having your feet massaged. You stretch out the way a cat does when it relaxes, and Ezra smiles in satisfaction. “There it is. Feel good?”
“S’good,” you sigh.
Ezra massages from your feet to your ankles, then folds the towel up and over your ass to expose your legs fully. He massages from your ankles up your calves, and oh - it feels incredible. You moan freely, feeling more confident to do so after his kind encouragement. You melt under his touch, arching into it as he works up your thighs, drizzling more oil before rubbing your skin. His hands are kneading the plump flesh of your ass now, one hand on each cheek, his thumbs close to your pussy. He admires that pretty diamond shape of your ass and thighs framing your bare pussy, and he notices how you drip for him. “Ezra,” his name slips from your lips in a whimper as he spreads your cheeks, rubbing his thumbs over the coarse hair that surrounds your cunt.
“You seem quite enthused, little dove,” Ezra smirks.
“Yeah…feel - feels good. So good, s-so…”
“I’m pleased to hear it, my darlin’.”
“Ezra,” you whine in betrayal when you feel Ezra’s hands leave your body, the pressure of his touch lingering on your skin.
“My, such an ardent complaint,” Ezra remarks. “I hate to disappoint, but I implore you to trust my process. I won’t leave you dissatisfied, sweetheart.” Ezra unfolds the towel back over your body, then lifts it slightly, “Now, on your back for me.”
You flip yourself onto your back, and once settled, Ezra folds the towel down to cover your lower half, leaving your breasts exposed. He keeps the temperature of the air in the room warm, but your nipples are hardened anyway, hardened by your arousal. Your heart pounds as you watch him, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths. You turn your head to watch him reach for his massage oil candle, your breath hitching when you see his pants visibly tented by his erection. He doesn’t bother hiding it.
Ezra watches you with dark, sparkling eyes as he drips the oil on your body, the candlelight flickering, illuminating his handsome features with a warm glow. He massages your shoulders and your chest, hands gliding over your breasts and abdomen, then back up again. You gasp when his thumb catches your nipple, and Ezra raises an eyebrow. He circles your areola with his thumb, pinching and twisting your other nipple gently, teasing you. “Fuck,” you cry out, raising your hand to hold Ezra’s strong, muscular, veiny forearm.
“You’re doin’ so good,” he whispers, then places your hand down at your side. He pulls the towel down your body some more as he massages down your sides and your hips, lifting one of your legs so he can massage both sides of your thigh. Your legs are spread for him, pussy on display and glistening with your arousal. “Oh, little dove. Such a mess you’re makin’ of my table.”
You bite your lip and whine as Ezra’s fingers just barely touch your lips, achingly close to where you need his touch the most. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“I don’t wanna hear you apologizin’, sweetheart. I won’t stand for it,” Ezra lays your bent leg back down, then rounds the table and lifts your other leg. “‘Sides,” he says, “S’only natural, how your body reacts to my touch. Nothin’ to be ashamed of.”
You smile shyly as Ezra massages up and down your thigh, teasing you just how he did before. You tilt yourself into his touch, moaning as he approaches your wet cunt, waiting to feel his fingers between your folds. But you never do.
“We’re comin’ up on the end of our appointment,” Ezra warns. “If there’s an area of your body that you feel needs special attention before we conclude, let me know.”
“Ezra–” You reach for his wrist and urge him to touch you between your thighs.
“Something that still needs tending to, my dove?”
You nod frantically. “Please–”
“Use your words,” he interrupts, his voice low. “You have to ask me for what you want. I’m unable to alleviate your discomfort if you don’t tell me what you need, sweetheart.” Ezra’s fingers hover over your core, feeling the heat radiating from you. You stutter out something incoherent, and Ezra dips his fingers lower, ever so gently touching you. He traces your folds, waiting for your answer. “Ask me.”
“I want you to make me come, Ezra,” you beg, “Please.”
“I can do that in many ways. Tell me how, little dove. Tell me where you need me to touch you.”
Ezra wears a crooked smile. This, this is his loophole. He knows that technically, as a professional, this is a line he shouldn’t cross. But he can’t help himself, you moan so sweetly for him even without his fingers buried in your cunt. Sensation is subjective, so you can’t say his teasing is intentional, deliberate. It’s your own reaction, and not Ezra’s fault if you feel aroused during massage - after all, it’s a completely natural response to physical stimulation. By making you ask - beg - for what he’s coaxed you to want from him, Ezra evades responsibility. This is on you.
“I want your fingers in my pussy,” you breathe, pressing his thick fingers against your slick center. “Please.”
Ezra inserts his middle and ring fingers into your dripping hole, feeling your muscles tense around his digits as he gathers your arousal. He pulls his fingers back out and then traces up and down your pussy, loving the way his fingers slip and slide through your slick folds. He circles your clit once, twice, then explores the feeling of your lips again. “Check in with me, darlin’, how are you feeling?”
You answer Ezra’s question with a mess of breathy moans, and he chuckles at that. He paints steady circles around your clit and glides his other hand over your oiled body, fingers catching your pebbled nipples. Ezra leans over and keeps his face close to yours, grinning proudly when you gasp as he pushes those two fingers of his back inside you. Your legs clamp shut around his arm as he curls his fingers rhythmically, stroking that spongy, sweet spot inside of you that makes you squirm. “Ezra, Ezra,” you cry.
“Shhhh,” he hushes you, “Open up for me.” Ezra traces your face with his sharp nose, his hot, minty breath fanning over your skin. As you spread your legs, he bites your earlobe gently. “Stay like this now, little dove. Let me please you.”
Ezra stands up straight again, his warm, masculine hand sliding down your sternum and your stomach, fingers reaching for that tight bundle of nerves between your thighs. As he works his fingers inside you, he circles your clit, using both hands to pleasure you. You’re close, and it’s taken no time at all. Arching your back, you tilt your head and close your eyes as you lean into his touch, focusing on your impending release. “Look at me when you come,” he commands. “Eyes on me.”
“Fuck, Ezra–”
“I know, little dove, I know,” he coos.
He replaces his fingers with his tongue, knees cracking as he kneels before you. By pressing a button beneath the table he lowers it, bringing you to a comfortable height for himself. You don’t notice him dipping his fingers into the candle, then shoving his hand beneath the waistband of his linen pants. He toys with his hard cock, stiff member aching, leaking just for you.
All you can focus on is the pleasure building deep in your gut. You watch Ezra, he’s gazing upon you with hooded eyes. He seems entranced by it all, the sensation of your pulsing cunt, the slick noises his fingers make while inside you. He hums at your taste, that sweet, musky flavor of your pussy. You tug his dark hair as he circles your clit with his tongue, “Fuck, right there,” you gasp. “Right there, Ezra, please.”
As Ezra’s tongue slides over your clit, fingers steadily curling inside you, he pumps himself. His big hand slides up and down his shaft, he can feel each of his swollen, prominent veins under his palm. He grips himself tightly, fucking his fist with fervor.
“I’m there, I’m there,” you cry. You come on his tongue with loud, frantic moans, maintaining eye contact, just like he told you to do. He works you through it, your pussy soaking his fingers, his nose, arousal dripping all the way down into his palm. Moans of pleasure shifting to noises of overstimulation, Ezra continuing to fuck you on his fingers as he fucks his fist. He groans against your cunt as he comes, painting his own hand with hot, milky ropes of his come. He drags his release out, teasing both himself and you as he comes down.
Gently, Ezra pulls his fingers from your core, then pulls his own hand out of his pants. He turns to wash his hands at the sink but you stop him, reaching for his wrist. “N-need to taste you,” you breathe. “Let me taste you, Ezra.”
Ezra smiles warmly. “I’m flattered by your enthusiasm to reciprocate the pleasure, little dove, but I must confess I’ve taken care of my arousal already. This is your time to relax and to immerse yourself in pleasure, not mine.”
You pout.
“But if you desire to taste me…”
Ezra holds his hand in front of your face, fingers glistening with silky ribbons of his come. You bring his palm to your lips, then lick and suck his fingers clean of his spend, humming at the salty, heady taste.
When done, Ezra helps you sit up. “I’ll wait out front for you to get dressed, and then we can schedule a follow-up appointment,” he says, a mischievous look in his eye. “Don’t forget your jewelry on my cart, little dove.”
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