Loser [frankie Morales]

Loser [frankie morales]

Frankie Morales has always been a total fucking loser. Maybe, at least, you can teach him how a woman likes to be touched.

my masterlist!

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

word count: ~ 7k

tags/warnings: loser!frankie, frankie loving women so much he's terrified of them, inexperienced frankie, experienced reader, dry humping, premature ejaculation, subby!frankie, we’ll call him “takes directions well” frankie, pussy eating king frankie morales, overstimulation, oral sex (m and f receiving), body worship, dirty talk, frankie likes being called a good boy, begging!frankie, whimpering/whining, reader is pope’s sister, pining, lack of self-confidence, anxiety, affectionate brother-sister name-calling, birthday blowjob

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a/n: hi lovelies!! this has been a mini passion project of mine for a while - the phrase "loser frankie" hasn't stopped rattling around in my head since i thought of it. thank you to my besties @northernbluess and @tieronecrush for being so supportive and unhinged as always in your support of loser!frankie, and for beta'ing this silly little fic. i hope you enjoy, friends, and please tell me what you think!! xoxo

LOSER

Nobody ever decorates for a house party. Apparently, you thought it would be worth it. 

A holographic Dollar Tree paper banner strung from one wall to the opposite, HAPPY BIRTHDAY blaring bright red-green-blue-yellow in the entryway to Santiago’s home. Helium balloons swaying hello on either side of the makeshift archway, equally obnoxious and slightly less ugly. Foil-wrapped paperweights tether them to the ground, but it doesn’t matter because the second Benny arrives, he’s tossing a dart from the board in the next room through a balloon and letting the lonely string flutter, flaccid, to the ground. 

Fumbling their way through tone-deaf renditions of “Happy Birthday” are Will, Benny, and a handful of other friends. Beer pong tables are set up in the kitchen and the sharp crack! of pool balls echoes up the stairs. House music pounds through the shoddy Bluetooth speakers that aren't quite equipped to handle these volumes. It feels like he's back in college, dragged from frat house to frat house where his much-more-suave roommates chatted up pretty girls as he hid in the corner. 

You’re so beautiful. It's rare that he can be in the same room as you and retain any moisture in his mouth. Tonight’s no different. He can hear your enchanting laughter from every corner of the house as he quietly follows you from room to room without ever getting close enough to let you notice him. Sometimes you'll bring your manicured hand up onto someone’s shoulder and honey will drip from your tongue as you ask so sweetly: Have you seen Frankie?

It’s his birthday, after all. And he’s been avoiding you all night. 

Frankie sips his sweating beer as he watches you and Pope arm wrestle for the last Pilsner—or, more accurately, you're wrestling to decide who gets to not drink the last Pilsner. 

“I’m not gonna arm wrestle you. I’ll break your fuckin’ arm.” This from Pope, already half in the bag, the consonant-to-vowel slide a little slurred, knocking back the remainder of his (sixth? seventh?) Bud Light. 

And you, not-quite tipsy, in your tight Levis and your low-cut shirt, the picture of poise—if Frankie considers that nearly everyone else in the room is hammered apart from you. And himself. “What are you, a pussy? Put ‘er there, Santi Claus, and let me see what you've got.”

Pope sighed and placed his elbow on the table, locking his thumb around yours, as Benny slapped a “Three, two, one, fight!” on the surface of the table. 

Pope is victorious, slamming your hand down on the table and whooping along with Ironhead. Benny, who’d bet on you, smacks his brother upside the head. You take your loss like a champ and crack the Pilsner open on the edge of the table, gulping it down while the guys cheer your name. Your fist chugs in tandem with their cries. 

Frankie, rubbing his clammy palms along his thighs, swallows hard as he looks on from the couch. Some of the beer dribbles down your chin, pooling in the hollow of your throat, spilling over, waterfalling, between your tits. He downs the rest of his beer—not a fucking Pilsner—and flees to the front porch while patting his pockets for a cigarette. The music muffles to a distant cry. 

“You mind if I bum a light?”

Frankie feels a distinct sting in the nape of his neck as he jolts in the direction of your voice. He whirls on you and sheepishly scrapes his hand through his hair. His muscles still twinge. 

“Uh, I—yeah. No. Don't mind.” He fumbles around in his back pocket and gives you his lighter because he doesn't trust his trembling fingers not to drop it. You smile at him graciously and light your cigarette, turning the flame on his own. 

“Thank you, Cat.” You rest your elbows on the porch railing and blow your smoke through the pinhole of your parted lips. It dissipates into the dark sky with his own. “Are you enjoying the party?”

He’s rigid, his hands white-knuckling the railing, lips suctioned around the filter. The sticky-hot flush of anticipatory humiliation lingers high on his cheeks. Your expensive perfume sticks to the inside of his nasal passages. He thinks this is what drowning feels like. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, disgusted by the sound of his own voice. He clears his throat and takes another drag. “Yeah, it's great. You did a good job.”

Your lips twist in self-reproach. “You’re very sweet, Frankie, but I spent a whole of twenty bucks on the décor. You deserved better than the Dollar Tree.”

He shakes his head, scratching his beard. “Nah. Don't need much. ‘n you were away ‘til yesterday, and—”

“And my brother is an idiot who wouldn’t remember the date if a calendar gave him a colonoscopy.” Frankie snorts his agreement. He can't meet your eye. If he does, he’ll see distant lamplight gleaming in them and turn to stone. “So, if you see him around before he passes out drunk, give him a slap for me, will you?”

He dips his head in subservience to your wishes. He has no problem smacking Pope around a little. “How was your trip?”

You sidle up a little closer to him and his cheeks burn. “Cat, honey, I can't hear you.”

He clears his throat and meets your eye only to drop his gaze again. His ears are scorching. “How was your trip?” he says louder. 

You hum sweetly and he feels his shoulders drop. “It was relaxing. Got a little too much sun, drank a few too many margaritas, but it was nice. Kel and Valerie told me all about their new relationships and that only made me drink some more.”

Frankie didn't know you were single. Last he heard, you'd found some asshole at the bar. Frankie had spent too many hours subject to Will and Benny’s teasing about how he didn't get in on time and would never have a piece of that ass. He’d watched the guy, Eric, drop you off at Frankie’s shop so you could get the car he’d been fixing up. 

He tries to smile but it feels like pinching a nerve. “That’s good.”

“I was excited to come back and see you.”

He blinks at you. Swirling ribbons of smoke dance away on the slight breeze. 

“What?”

“Imagine my disappointment”—your lower lip juts out as you prowl toward him and he isn’t sure why you’ve ever called him Cat when it’s you who stalks so silently after your prey—“when the birthday boy doesn’t even give me the time of day.”

His mouth feels like chewing cotton, and he’s grinding his teeth for another cigarette. You beam across the room at him, producing something from the back of your waistband. 

His cap.

“Forgot this,” you tell him, reaching up and fitting the hat back over his head. 

Fuck. You’re so fucking close. He can smell your perfume and the cloying scent of beer you haven’t yet cleaned from your chest and he’s fairly fucking sure you’d feel his erection through his jeans if you stepped any closer. 

You always know how to get under his skin. And he always lets you because every first glance, first syllable, first touch, feels like the first descent of morning sunlight through the window. You've always warmed his skin a touch too hot. But he burns up in it. You smell so sweet. 

“I… uh…” Frankie swallows, floundering, instinctively tucking his curls behind his ears. “Thanks. For the hat.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Morales. In your fucking forties and you still don't know how to talk to a woman. 

Stop looking at her tits. Fucking hell, man.

Stop. Fucking. Looking. 

“Frankie, honey.” Your soothing lilt draws his eyes back up to your mouth, and he feels bone-tired, molten, fairly sweaty. Your brows are drawn together in the middle. “Are you okay?”

He licks his lips. “Wh—what?”

You sidle up a little closer, your fingers playing along the rim of his cap. “You're quiet tonight,” you say softly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Funny. Frankie can't recall a single moment in his years of knowing you when he was able to string together a coherent sentence. Sure, he fixed up your car over the summer while you were away on a work trip and he set up your new phone after you broke the last one partying. He's happily lapped at your heels and fixed what was broken and done everything you never asked him to. 

Every platonic touch met with blushing aversion, a couple days’ retreat to the garage, going dark, no-contact, fixing up more cars and bikes and choppers. Every Thank you, Frankie met with relative silence, a tight nod, a tactical drag of his cigarette. 

“Is it because he’s my brother?”

Frankie’s jaw ticks. 

You've always been untouchable—the goddamn Venus de Milo. Yeah, Pope would rip him a new one if he knew the things Frankie dreamed about his sister. But you’re the one touching him. You’re the one whose hand drifts slowly down his face, cupping his jaw in your hand, eyes warm and gooey, making a choice with every inch your soft hands explore.

“I like you, Frankie,” you tell him. “Do you like me, too?”

He nods frantically, his hands flexing at his sides. “Mhm,” he manages, tight-lipped, his voice breaking.

Like is such a plain word. How does one merely watch the sunrise? How does someone walk past you on the street? You’re meant for indulging, for pleasing, for theses and soapboxes and megaphones. You’re more than idle like. He nods anyway. Coward. 

“Then Santi shouldn’t matter,” you whisper. “None of it should matter. I threw this party for you. I wanna know you’re having fun.”

“I am,” he says hurriedly. “Fuck, I am. It’s fun. You—you did everything right.” 

You’re such a fucking moron, Morales. Tell her how you feel. 

You smile, brushing the pad of your thumb under his bearded chin. “Good. Will you stay for a while afterward to help me clean up?”

Frankie nods again, and you pull him in for a tight embrace. He stiffens, his eyes instinctively shuddering closed as your body presses up against him. Your nails scratch at the nape of his neck and he feels his cock twitch, filling his boxers against your thigh. He should be panicking, scrambling to escape your grasp before you can feel the thick weight of his desire for you, but he’s frozen, immobile, his brain poisoned by the heady smell of your shampoo and perfume. His hands are pressed firm to his sides, blunt fingernails biting his palms. 

“Happy birthday, Francisco.”

He barely registers that you’ve spoken, his lips absently parting in to inhale the warmth radiating from your throat as he begins to lower his head, and fuck—he’s never been touched this way. Instinct begins to snap and growl when you pull away, but you’re beaming up at him, soothing the animal, and pressing a kiss to his patchy beard.

“Thank you,” he says, the newborn deer on trembling legs. You disappear inside the house, leaving him alone on the porch, throbbing house music reverberating through his chest. Frankie staggers on his feet, bracing himself on the railing. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ Christ.”

Around two o’clock in the morning, he's stuffing beer-soaked tablecloths and balloon weights and banners into a garbage bag. The faint clinking of glass echoes from the kitchen as you gather empty bottles into the recycling bin. Frankie has been sporting a hard-on all night, and he’s two minutes away from jerking himself off in Santiago’s bathroom. 

Pope himself is upstairs, passed out drunk on his bed, thanks to you. Apart from him, you and Frankie are alone in the house. It's getting harder to ignore the pull of arousal in his belly, the cloudy haze in the back of his head that makes his hands lag behind on simple tasks. 

He thinks of all the times he locked himself in the bathroom at a bar because you wore a tight shirt or a short dress, fucking his hips into his fist until he came with a quiet shudder into his palm. He thinks of all the words he wants to give to you. He thinks of the blood-red ribbon tied taut around all the jumbled syllables and he thinks of all the men you’ll date because he can't even ask you for one. 

His chest is a wick pinched between two fingers. He will never know you the way he burns to. 

“All done,” you sing as you emerge, dropping the bin by the front door. “How’s it coming, Cat?”

He groans as he stands, hauling the garbage bags to the front door. Brushing past you on the way outside, he feels your body heat course through him. 

Frankie stumbles for only a moment as the fog settles lower. You're waiting for him in the foyer. 

“Come on, Frankie,” you purr, winking as you pass him, your hips swaying as you make your way into the kitchen. He follows you eagerly into the next room, tail wagging. 

You’re rummaging in the refrigerator for the leftover birthday cake and sliding a piece each onto some plates. Handing Frankie his share, you gently collide your plate with his to emit the echoic clink of china. “To getting older.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. Your perfume lingers in his hindbrain. “To getting older.”

“I remember when Santi introduced me to you,” you tell him, “the week you all came back for good.”

“Bad first impression?” guesses Frankie. 

You tut. “The opposite, honey. Thought you were sweet. I mean, there are very few guys out there willing to fix my stupid fucking car without expecting even a flash of tit in return.”

He scoffs. “You get that a lot?”

You level him with a playful glare before you lift a sliver of cake to your mouth. “Any of those pretty girls ever ask you to flash your dick?”

Frankie ducks his head, cheeks burning. “Can’t say they have.” 

“You get a lot of pretty girls in your shop?” You pout, tracing the prongs of the fork around the circumference of your plate. “I’d be real jealous.”

“You're fucking with me.” He doesn’t meet your eye, his chin practically tucked into his neck as he continues to prod around his piece of cake. The dread of your imminent rejection burns in his lower belly. 

He sees your hand on his arm before he feels it. “Francisco, look at me.” 

He reluctantly raises his gaze to you. You gently brush your knuckles under his chin. “I wouldn’t tell you how to fly a helicopter. Why should you tell me who I choose to go after?”

Frankie’s throat constricts. “Is—is that what you're doing?” he chokes. “Going after me?”

You shrug coyly, your fingertips dancing over his forearm. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Would that make you uncomfortable?”

Vehemently, he shakes his head before you finish your sentence. “No. No. Just… I just didn't think you were interested.”

You take a jolting step backward. “Are you kidding me?” 

He shakes his head again. Not quite as aggressively. 

You begin to laugh, and this is more like the reaction he's used to from women. 

“Fuck, Cat, I’ve been trying to get in your pants for two goddamn years.”

Frankie’s lips part. He’s fairly certain a minute squeak meanders out of his mouth. 

“Wh… But—but you…”

You nibble on your thumbnail as your pupils expand, your eyes darkening to something wicked, indulgent, catlike. “What did you think I meant when I told you I like you, honey?”

“I—”

Another bubbling laugh slips from your mouth. Frankie wants to drown in the sound of it. Jesus, he wants you to humiliate him every day for the rest of his laugh if gets to hear that.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Francisco?”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I do.”

“Say it.”

The command is coaxing, guiding, and it presses up against the pool of his belly, tension winding tight in his core.

“You're pretty,” he says dumbly. “You're really pretty.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and he’s shuddering, his cock uncomfortably trapped under layers of cotton and denim, fingers twitching at his sides.

“Come with me, Frankie,” you say, stretching out your hand, palm-up, like a peace offering to a stampeding animal. 

“What are you…”

“Do you trust me?” 

He scans your body—the curve of your throat, your collarbones, your breasts, thighs, hips—and swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he rasps. “‘Course I do.”

“I have something I need help with,” you tell him, coaxing him gently toward you with the promise of doing a good deed. 

Of course, he goes easily after that. 

You lead him to the living room, now in the relative state it was before the party, and gently urge him to sit on the couch. “Frankie,” you say, lowering yourself next to him, “do you have a girl to keep you company?”

His head jerks up from where it was bent in a demure aversion to meeting your eye. “What? What—no.”

“Do you want a girl to keep you company?” 

A strangled, high-pitched cry lurches halfway up his throat before he suppresses it all. “You… you want to…?”

You’re already nodding your head, winding your arms around his neck, sliding into his lap, sitting on his hard cock like you were fucking meant to—

Oh, God. Oh my God. Holy fucking, shitting, screaming Christ. 

There’s plenty of layers between your body and his. It could hardly be called sexy at all, what with both of you stuck inside thick denim and surrounded by the aftertaste and aftersmell of beer. But it is. Fuck, it is. He can see all of you from here, looking up at you, hair haloed by the sickly yellow pot light behind your head. The cut of your jaw shifts as you take him in. Your chest heaves and he lets himself imagine for a moment that you’re really here, the jaundiced light shifting over the planes of your chest and shoulders.

“I’m going to kiss you, Frankie.” 

He swallows hard, the electric jolt of your core lowering onto his length causing his fingers to flex instinctively, uselessly, against the cushions. “O—kay.”

You bite your lip when you smile, leaning in with a hand on his jaw and slanting your mouth over his. 

He can't believe this is fucking happening. Frankie sighs into your mouth, his hands shooting up, hovering over your hips, not quite touching. He moves his mouth with yours, letting you part his lips and slide your tongue along his. He groans softly, hands trembling over the divot of your waist and hips, accidentally brushing gently over the velvety fabric of your top. Frankie flushes with shame and drops his hands. He shouldn't be touching. You're giving him a gift. If he makes one wrong move, you’ll take it back. 

You laugh into his mouth, breaking away to drop your forehead to his. “You can touch me, Frankie, baby, it’s okay,” you tell him, gently raking your fingers through his hair. “It’ll make me feel good if you touch me.”

Frankie nods, lifting his hands to your waist and settling them apprehensively on your body. It feels like a switch flicks, a closed circuit, heat irradiating the tremor in his fingers. The planes of his palms explore your body, slow, the intricate care he takes in marking your topography melting you in warm shivers against him. He's making you feel good. 

Some of his deep-seated pride gurgles up his chest. He's fucking touching you. 

“Your hands are so big, Frank,” you whisper, gently rolling your hips. He makes a strangled noise, gripping your waist to stop you or encourage you. “You’re so fucking pretty. So handsome.”

He preens, blushing, dropping his head between your tits and nuzzling his cheek into your sternum. “M’not.”

“Yeah, you are.” Another slow grind against his cock and he’s baring his teeth, panting from the effort not to come so quick. Fuck, you'll never touch him again if he comes in his jeans. “You should be told every day. So gorgeous, Frankie. My Frankie.”

He's addicted now that he's got a hit. His hands won't leave you, curling around your waist until they're splayed against your spine, fitting you tighter to him, dipping tentatively toward your ass. And you're guiding his chin up, kissing him again, moaning softly into his mouth, and he's so fucking giddy he could weep. 

His hips buck up against you and he feels your thighs tighten around his hips as his erection nudges your puffy clit. You like that, he notes. It feels good for you when he does that. You gasp into the kiss, your fingers tightening near-painfully in his hair, and Frankie does it again just to feel that prickling ache. 

Give and take. He feels himself learning as you do, carving one another’s tells into your ribs. He needs this, yes, but he's beginning to realise that you do, too. 

You're grinding on him a little more desperately now, hands feverish, selfishly seeking that rough pressure on your clit. And Frankie wants you to have it. Fuck, he needs it so badly. He aches to learn what you look like when you come.  

But his dick is fucking throbbing, and you aren't relenting, and it's been so goddamn long that he’s already close. 

He breathes through his teeth as you begin to lace warm kisses up and down the veins on his throat. “I’m… fuck, I’m…”

You hum, and the vibrations travel from his neck to his cock. He's so close. He’s…

“Talk to me, Frankie. Tell me how it feels,” you coo, licking a stripe up the side of his throat. 

You want him to speak? Christ, he isn't sure he remembers words. “Muy bien… No puedo… F-feels good. Feels reall—fuck, really good.”

He feels your smile against his neck and whines when you nibble his earlobe. “Yeah?” you whisper. His entire body cavitates with a shudder, and you nip him again. “Like it when I do this?”

He groans, squeezing your hips in erratic pulses. “Mhm. Mhm.”

You roll your hips slow and hard against the length of him. You're panting, too, your pupils nearly engulfing your irises. “Use your words, baby,” you say breathlessly. “Let me hear you, Frankie, honey.”

Frankie chokes on his own tongue. “G—fuck. Goddamn, I… Please, please—”

“Please is a good start.” You suck on the spot below his ear and he sees fucking white. 

“Please, I can’t… mierda, no puedo… please, I’m gonna—”

He comes with an embarrassed shout, muffled in your temple, his hand shooting up to rest at the crown of your head and fist your hair. Pleasure skitters up and down his spine as he spills into his own jeans and warms your cunt with the wet spot that blossoms on the denim. 

You stop rolling your hips, still tucked safely in his arms. He can't meet your eyes. He's buried in your throat now, breathing hard, while your nails scratch at the nape of his neck. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, bucking helplessly as the last of his orgasm depletes his body. “I’m sorry.”

You're clicking your tongue, smoothing his sweat-matted curls away from his forehead. “Hey, hey. Frankie, baby, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Soothing him with your kind hands, you guide him to look at you. He's flushed high on his cheeks. “Give me a kiss.”

He obeys, unable to deny you, his lips naturally parting to let you in. “Didn’t mean to—”

You press a kiss to his Cupid’s bow, the corner of his mouth, and one of the patches in his beard. “Nobody’s angry with you, Frank.”

The shame toils hot, churning up his guts. “Wanted to—to come inside you.”

You make a close-mouthed noise of understanding. “I know. You wanted to make me feel good, hmm?”

He nods, eyes dipping. 

“You did, Frankie,” you tell him. 

“You didn't come.”

“I don't always have to come to feel good.” You're still smiling, a still-aroused, heavy-lidded smile, and Frankie shakes his head. 

“Wanna make you come. Tell me what to do.”

You sit back gently in his lap. “Are you sure, Frankie?”

“Sí, I’m fucking sure.” He won't leave it like this. He needs to watch you fall to pieces. If it takes all fucking night, it takes all night. It's his birthday, for Christ’s sake. 

You lick your lips and drop your voice to a whisper. “Take off my clothes.”

He scrambles, lifting the hem of your shirt up over your head and fumbling with the clasp of your bra. Both items fall haphazardly to the floor elsewhere, and you stand briefly to give Frankie a good view of your body. 

You're so fucking beautiful. 

Lurching forward, he wraps his arms around your naked waist, pressing his palms to your slick spine and putting his lips to your belly. He kisses his way up your chest until he finds one of your stiff nipples and clumsily latches his mouth around it. “Oh, Frankie,” you gasp, petting at his hair, enjoying the tremors of arousal that pool in your core. He sucks and bites at your nipples until they're raw, and by the time he gets your jeans down your legs, you've soaked your panties through. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, staring unabashedly at your aching core. 

“I’m going to sit, Frank. Get on your knees.” And he goes, settling on the floor in front of your spot on the couch. Face-to-face with your dripping pussy, he wets his lips. He's never wanted to taste something so terribly as he does now. 

“Take off the rest.”

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your lacy panties and drags them down your legs, a jolt of arousal twitching in his pants as he sees your glistening cunt for the first time. 

“Girls like to be touched,” you tell him. “Do you want to touch me?”

“Fuck,” he says, his voice pitching high. “Fuck, yes. Let me, please.”

“Some of us like to be teased. I’m sensitive here”—your hands trail gently along your upper thighs—“and here.” Your fingers rise to your sternum, splitting to play idly with your nipples. “You can use your mouth, too. Okay, Frankie?”

He nods, testing his fingertips upon the divots of your knees. You’re soft here, and you offer no resistance as he slowly spreads you wide open, fitting himself between your legs. Frankie’s heart soars out of his chest at your first shudder. He slowly trails his fingers along the soft planes of your inner thighs, learning you, delighting in the play of his rough hands on your skin. He squeezes your thigh and lifts it up onto his shoulder so he can crush his mouth into your flesh, smattering you with wet, open-mouthed kisses that have you squirming in his grasp. His name leaves your mouth like a discrete, whispered ballad. Your muscles twitch and flex under his touch as Frankie loses himself in the soft, sweet taste of you.

“That’s so good, baby,” you sigh, reaching for the brim of his cap and knocking it off his head. He grunts, able to bury himself deeper this way, head spinning, his brain folding you neatly inside. His hand migrates up your belly and blindly squeezes your breast, kneading your flesh in his palm, flicking his thumb over your nipple. “Yeah, Frankie, yeah. That feels good.”

Your words of affirmation go right to his not-quite soft dick. He kisses and gropes and licks until he reaches the apex of your thighs, peeling back to meet your eyes as he greedily squeezes your thighs in his hands. 

“Do you know where my clit is, Frankie?”

He nods. He's watched porn. He's taken anatomy classes. They’re practically the same fucking thing. 

“Show me.”

He lifts his hand to put his fingers to your clit, but you shake your head and he stops instantly. 

“Not like that,” you say, your naked chest heaving with anticipatory energy. “With your tongue.”

Holy fucking shit. 

He'd be goddamn delighted. Frankie lowers his head between your legs and, hit with the heavy, cloying scent of your hormones and arousal, feels his brain begin to lag behind. He parts your folds with his thumbs and guides the flat of his tongue over your little pearl. 

You sigh happily, your head falling back against the cushions. “That's it,” you gasp as Frankie flicks his tongue against your clit. “Oh, Frankie, that's it.”

The praise settles proudly in his chest. He wraps his arms around your thighs to keep them spread wide for him as he shoulders his way between your legs. Your tang lingers on his taste buds and prickles his adenoids. He needs more. 

You watch him blink up at you and curl your fingers in his hair. “Lick my pussy, Frankie.”

He groans when he gets his first real taste, his eyes fluttering as he licks through your slit. His nose crushed to your clit, Frankie greedily teases his tongue around your tight, wet hole, and the answering twitch of your thighs pleases him. 

“Mmmyes.” Your eyes shutter, but Frankie does not close his. He isn't yet certain he's awake, and he refuses to miss a moment of the idle grinding of your hips, the rise and fall of your chest, the way you suck in breaths through your parted lips. 

Frankie growls as you tug on his hair, spitting on your clit and spreading his own saliva around with his tongue. You cry out, back arching, and he absently humps the air like a goddamn dog as he begins to stiffen in his jeans. 

He's… good. He listens, fine-tuned, to your gasps and moans, learning what you like best. Forsaking any desire for air, he suffocates himself between your thighs, possessed by your smell and taste and the honeyed moans that leave your mouth. He’s always been overeager to help assuage your worries, to fix what was broken. This is different altogether. 

“Fuck!” you gasp, the backs of your thighs on his shoulders, ankles locking around one another, your fist in Frankie’s hair keeping him tethered to you. “That’s fucking it, baby, yesyesyes… Just like that, Frankie, fuck!”

The encouragement makes him lightheaded. Drunk on the taste of you, Frankie moans, licking your clit relentlessly, your thighs twitching at the warm flat of his tongue. He refuses to let your legs close, fingers dimpling your flesh, lips latching around your clit and sucking. 

“Ah! F—Frank! That feels so fucking good, baby. Fuck, lick my pussy just like that. My good boy.”

Frankie whines, alternating between pulling gently on your clit and licking through your pussy until he's making out with you, his cock filling out his damp jeans once more. He doesn't want to stop. He never wants to leave, tucked in your thighs, engulfed by your warmth. Your clit begins to pulse under his tongue and he suckles wetly, greedily, sloppily. Fixed to your cunt, he groans as your hips begin to buck up into him, your fingers curling painfully in his locks. 

“I’m gonna come, Frankie. Fuckfuckfuck, baby, I’m—ah!”

Head thrown back, hips grinding relentlessly against his nose, you reach your climax under Frankie’s tongue. You cry out, muscles locking, thighs trapping his head between your legs. Happily, Frankie continues to lap at you, dipping his tongue into your pulsing hole to taste what he’s drawn from your body. 

He groans into you, eyes fluttering shut now that he’s watched you ride out your orgasm, fingers squeezing your thighs and dipping to your ass. He uses this leverage to fit you flush to him, pressing himself firmer to your pussy. You gasp his name, the muscles of your inner thighs twitching as you begin to tense once more. 

He’s still going. He’s still fucking going, pussy-drunk and licking up your release which mingles with his own saliva. 

“Frankieeeee, fuck!” You can't hold your head up anymore, lolling against the cushion, as Frankie maintains a vise around your thighs and slides his tongue over your sensitive clit and it's too much, it’s—

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, that's so good, Frankie, yes! Oh my God, ohmyGodohmy—”

Frankie can't seem to open his eyes anymore, lost in the winding path of pleasuring you, unable to pull himself away from the thicket. Your scent, desire and musk and perfume, is all he cares to know. He slowly flicks his tongue up and down your clit until it’s fucking unbearable, and your only choice is to come again, your stomach tightening and a weak, gooey cry gurgling up your throat. 

“I… g—God, Frankie, I’m com—coming—!”

And you do. The rhythmic contractions of your clit roll over his tongue and your hole soaks him in your release, wetting his beard. He’s absently bucking his hips into the couch, his cock straining against his zipper, so fucking desperate for release that he’ll happily come in his jeans again. 

Frankie drinks you down, moaning into your pussy, provoking aftermath vibrations that infuse your muscles with electrical stimulation. You slump backward, your hand releasing his hair, thumb stroking his patchy jaw. “Mmm, my sweet Frankie,” you mumble, thighs still hooked over his shoulders. “S’good, baby.”

He litters your inner thighs with kisses. “I did good?” 

“Really fucking good.” You tilt his chin up and force him to meet your eyes. He's less afraid to look at you now, his pupils blown wide and his gaze faintly faraway. Your smile glows, satiated and proud. “You did so good for me. Gonna make some of those pretty girls very happy, baby.”

Frankie shifts slightly to lift his mouth to your belly, trailing his lips upward until he can rest his cheek on your chest. His fingers fit into the grooves between your ribs. “You taste so good,” he says softly. “Wanna do that all the fuckin’ time.”

You laugh, feeling his erection prod your bare thigh as he moves. “You're hard again, Frankie.”

He wraps his arms tight around your waist and pulls you on top of him as he lies sideways on the sofa. “‘m okay,” he says, back to hiding himself in your throat. You feel the warm weight of his hand on the back of your head and his other on your back, slick with sweat. “That was good. Really good.”

Smirking, you begin to travel down his body, nuzzling your cheek against his belly, still covered in a now-damp T-shirt. Frankie chokes on air when you squeeze him over his pants, blinking hard to clear the film from his eyes. 

“I think such a good boy deserves a reward for all his hard work,” you purr, letting the zipper catch on every groove as you drag it slowly down, slipping the button through its slit. Frankie’s chest heaves, a refusal on the tip of his tongue.

“Y—you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You hook your fingers in his waistband. “Do you want me to, Frankie?”

A faint whine leaves his mouth, and he presses his lips together with a tight nod. He doesn't trust himself to say more. 

“Then I’m happy to,” you say, pulling down his jeans and boxers just enough to free his hard cock, sitting heavy against his belly and already slick with his own cum. Fuck—he’s big. His length, ridged with veins on the underside, is thick and warm in your hand as you hold him around the base. 

“Such a pretty cock,” you muse, giving him a slow tug. Frankie gasps, precum pooling at the tip of his dick. “Such a shame to let this go to waste.”

You lick your lips and let a glob of saliva land on the head, and the answering twitch of his cock leaves you pleased. His fingers are fisting the cushions. “Just relax, baby. I’m not gonna hurt you.” You nuzzle your cheek against the length of him and he groans, his throat bared. “I’ll make it feel so good for you, Frankie. Do you trust me? Look at me, sweet boy.”

He lowers his chin so he can meet your eye down the length of his body, his pupils engulfing his warm irises. “I—fuck—I trust you. Not gonna… last.”

“You close again?” He nods frantically as you spread your spit and his precum around the tip. “That's okay, honey. I’ll give you somewhere to put it this time.”

His whimper makes you smile. You guide your tongue along the underside of his length, spreading your spit with your hand as you begin to pump him. You swear he stops breathing when you play with his balls in your other hand, licking at them like a fucking kitten. 

Frankie shudders at the sight of your tongue on his cock. This is a fucking dream. If he doesn't wake up, then at least he's died happy. This isn't fucking real. 

“Please, please, por favor—”

You lick a long stripe from the base to the tip of his cock. “Yes, Frankie? Use your words. Tell me what you like.”

He would be mortified if he weren't so fucking desperate to come. “Por favor… tu boca… Please, please put your mouth on me, please.”

You smile, jerking him a bit faster. His thighs twitch. “You want me to suck your dick, Frank?”

“Mmhmm,” he manages, grinding his teeth so hard they might chip. 

Pulling back his foreskin, your lips seal around the head of his cock, tongue swirling, and he's whining your name, pleading for more, losing some of the filter his sober mind tries to maintain when you're around. 

The slick noises of you taking him deeper down your throat make his head spin. Your eyes still fixed on his, you gently reach for his hand and guide it to the crown of your head. He understands your message: Use me to make yourself feel good. 

Frankie just curls his fingers in your hair and lets you work him the way you like. 

You seem pleased with his lack of desire for control, hollowing your cheeks and closing in the hot, wet walls of your mouth around his cock. “Oh, fuck,” he chokes. “Mier—fuuuuck.”

You hum around his length and he bucks his hips instinctively, making you choke on him. He tries to help you pull away, but you're dimpling your fingers in his thighs, eyes watery and bleeding mascara, and he realises you like it. 

You keep sucking, your hand softly squeezing his balls and the other his thigh, grounding yourself, him, who-the-fuck-ever. Frankie can hardly see. He feels his orgasm pull up his balls in your palm, his stomach tightening with the telltale sign that he won't be able to hold back much longer. 

You continue to bob your head up and down, the sloppy squelching sounds of saliva deafening. He keeps your hair pulled back from your face so he can see you, crying around his dick. Pride has no place here anymore. He's firmly lodged himself in the realm of disbelief once more. 

He's begging: leg bending at the knee, chest heaving, body with nowhere to go but melt into your palms, pleading with you to Please let me come, oh fuck, please, I’ll be good, please! And because you've always been so sweet, you’re letting him without a word. 

“I—” He cuts himself off with a squeak as you swallow hard around him, and his thighs begin to tremble. “Ffffffuck. I’m… I’m—nnngh, c-coming—”

Your warbling moan is so fucking greedy. His cock pulsates as he spills down your throat, coating your tongue in his cum. Frankie whimpers, his body tensing, deflating, putty in your hands. He watches you take all of his briny cum until a bead pools at the corner of your mouth and you pull off his softening cock, swiping up the pearly liquid with your thumb and cleaning yourself up. His throat emits a strangled groan. 

You beam up at him, kissing your way back up his body and in the crook of his neck. “Such a good boy for me, Frankie.”

It makes him hold you tighter, pulling your naked body flush to his. He pants against your temple, leaving messy kisses to your skin. “Fuck,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, scratching your nails at the nape of his neck, “fuck.”

He practically purrs with you against him. “When can we do that again?”

You laugh, nipping his earlobe. “Not many guys can come twice in one sitting, Frank. You gotta let yourself rest. You gotta let me rest.”

“Sí,” he mumbles, nose sliding against your temple as he nods, “okay. Okay.”

“Better hope we didn't wake my brother up,” you tease, “or he’s going to kick your ass.”

“Don't care,” he grumbles. “I can take him.”

You rear back and lift a brow, your finger tracing a heart over his chest. “You need a coffee to sober up, baby. Who are you and what have you done with Francisco?”

He finally got what he wanted, thinks Frankie. He reaches up and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Thank you,” he says softly. 

You playfully drum your fingers along the flush on his cheekbones. “Thank you, Frankie. Girls love a good listener.”

He feels himself warm a deeper red. “Would you…” He swallows, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. “Would you wanna, maybe, do this again? I dunno, sometime?”

You give him a sickly-sweet smile and kiss him on the nose. “Yeah, baby, I would. But I need you to do something for me first.”

“Anything,” he says. 

A soothing hand rakes through his sweaty locks. “Go out and find a pretty girl you like. Ask her on a date. Maybe have a nice night with her. Make her happy. I know you don't think you're capable of it, and you don't think you're the handsome guy I see when I look at you. But I’m telling you that you are. And there are so many girls out there who need to see that a guy like you exists.”

A fist squeezes his heart and doesn't let go. “You really think so?”

“I don't say anything I don't mean, Francisco.” You pin him with a serious stare. “And if you still decide, after all those pretty girls throw themselves at your feet, that you still want me, then I’ll be here. Okay?”

He frowns, examining the dips and contours and inlets of your face. The prettiest girl in the world is on top of him, telling him he’s handsome, that he's gorgeous, that he's capable, and he’s uncertain that he'll ever be able to shake you. For now, he’ll hinge his door on the possibility that you don't want him to. 

But he nods and he fixes his hand around the back of your neck. “Give me a kiss,” he says firmly, and you happily slant your mouth over his. 

(np) tagging some lovely moots who were interested in my last wip!!: @swiftispunk @mrsmando @amanitacowboy @party-hearses @joelscurls (thank you so much my loves as always) 🫶

The Plan [Marcus Pike x f!reader]

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Mentalist

Pairing: Marcus Pike x you/cishet f!reader. Reader is fat/overweight but this is never explicitly mentioned. Also, reader is a lawyer. (I know nothing about lawyering.)

Tags/Warnings: Sad Marcus, alcohol mention, one night stands, fellatio mention, neighbours with benefits, safe sex, squirting, cunnilingus, reader has a difficult relationship with her family, mad dash through the airport at Christmas, trauma dumping (Marcus coming clean about his disappointment after Lisbon dumped him).

Summary: A drunken one night stand with your cute new neighbour Marcus Pike eventually leads to more. Takes place after his story arc in the show.

Words: 7,895

A/N: My first Marcus Pike fic, and also I finished a goddamn fic! There is so much cause for celebration here, folks. Remember to comment and reblog: sharing is caring.

Shout-out to @missredherring and @pazizz who read drafts and helped me forward with this story <3

Marcus Pike does not have a bitter disposition. He does not sulk, or harbor resentment. It's just not in his nature.

Until now.

There is just something so unforgivable, incomprehensible, wrong about the way Teresa Lisbon left him. She called him to say she was coming to D.C., that she would marry him, and two hours later she called again to inform him that she wasn't. That she was in love with Patrick Jane. That asshole.

Marcus has been divorced, and not even that made him spiral as hard as the breakup from Teresa. It just hit harder, because he had fallen so hard for her, for the way she dipped her gaze and chin when a smile broke out on her lips, before looking back up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. He fell for her sense of humor, her intelligence, the way it was so easy to be with her. And he really thought that she fell for him in the same way. Maybe she did - but Jane was there, in the background, confusing her, wooing her with one last big, desperate gesture. If Marcus had known that all it took to keep Teresa was to get himself arrested, he would've done that instead of bringing her takeout at work, making her morning coffee just as she liked it, loaning her his jacket when she was cold during that date, all the thousands of little things that he did for her, that he loved doing for her because he loved her so much that doing those things weren't a chore, they weren't planned, they were an honest, spontaneous expression of his feelings for her.

And then, one big, desperate gesture that rendered Marcus's all small, everyday gestures moot. And it pisses him off.

Practicality kicked in as a form of survival. He quickly cancelled the purchase of the house he had Teresa had picked out, found a condo instead, moved in with his things, and threw himself into his work. Most of the boxes were left unpacked. His place didn't feel like a home because he couldn't let it. He was supposed to share one with Teresa, and now there was just him, surrounded by moving boxes that he had to deal with but couldn't, wouldn't. What should've been a house for the two of them - maybe more in the future? - with a little garden, walls impregnated with love and excitement for a life together, sunlight through the window during long weekend mornings of slow breakfasts, putting up Christmas decorations together, all those things that he was looking forward to. Now he has a bachelor pad, in a fancy apartment building with a doorman, but a sad bachelor pad all the same. The furniture is more or less where it should be, but he hasn't bothered to plan that much. The kitchen table is too big, but he's not in any condition to sell it off and buy a new one. The bookcases are half full, and his artwork is still unhung. He really tried there, but the first painting he got his hands on was one that he had seen before him in the spacious yet cozy living-room in That House, with the fireplace, and suddenly no wall in his apartment was good enough. So he put the painting away, and the rest were left packed down.

He even started going out after work, when he couldn't stay any longer but didn't want to go home. He found a watering hole to his liking, and became a regular, nursing one whiskey after another until he could go home and fall into bed for a deep, dreamless sleep.

It's after one of those nights that he finds you, his neighbor, trying to open his front door with your key. Your clumsy yet meticulous movements tell him that you're intoxicated, and there is something endearing about the way you're frowning, the tip of your tongue sticking out the side of your mouth as you focus on sticking in the key that doesn't fit.

When Marcus comes closer, you notice him, and look up. Quickly registering that it's the workaholic neighbor that you rarely see, you just nod, and go back to trying to open the door.

"That's my door," he says, and you look up again.

"What's that?"

"That's my door. You're trying to get into my apartment."

You frown, your hand holding the key falling to your side as you process his words. You then squint at the number of the door, taking a few seconds to realize that this is, indeed, not your front door.

"Oops," you mutter, then grimace apologetically at your neighbor. "Well, this isn't embarrassing at all."

"Don't worry about it," he shrugs, fishing his own key from his pocket. You step to the side to give him access to the door, and when he stands right next to you, you can smell his cologne, sophisticated and with a hint of bergamot.

He eyes you, just as drunk as you are.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Late night. You?"

"Same." He looks so tired when he says it, but you can tell that there is a dimple aching to appear in his cheek. His face, bleary though it is, is handsome, and looks like it was made for smiling.

"What is it you do again?" you ask. You've exchanged pleasantries with him when he first moved in, but you never had the time or mental capacity to actually remember who he is.

"FBI, I investigate art theft."

"Ah, right." Yeah, that's it, something so unusual and random that one couldn't make it up. Then again, D.C. is full of people who do stuff you only hear about in movies.

"Marcus," he offers his hand, and you take it, and give him your name.

"And what is it that you do?"

"Law. I work with government contracts and related investigations at a law firm here in D.C."

"Sounds complicated."

You shrug. "I'm smart enough."

"You look good, too."

You scoff. "Are you coming on to me?"

"I'm trying." Now the smile breaks through, lighting up his whole face. Gods, but he's cute.

"Okay." You make the decision quickly, nodding at his door. "Looks like I picked the right door, after all."

Marcus unlocks the door and opens it for you.

His head is pounding, and his mouth is dry when he wakes up. For a moment, he doesn't know what day it is, what he's supposed to do, or what happened last night, but then the flashbacks start to put things together. The flirty neighbor. Her naked skin. Her alcohol-fuming kisses.

He turns his head and sees you, still asleep next to him. Oh, okay.

Sitting up slowly, he gets his bearings before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Clothes are strewn over the floor. Right next to the bed is a used condom, tied up and looking sad and abandoned. Okay, good, at least he remembered to use protection. He picks it up and takes it to the bathroom, where he disposes of it before washing his hands and face.

He hears the rustle of bedsheets, and returns to the bedroom, realizing that he's naked. You might not want to be greeted by a naked stranger first thing. Looking around for his underwear, he's nevertheless too slow in finding them: you're already sitting up and rubbing your forehead.

He clears his throat. "Good morning."

Your smile is a little lopsided. "Morning."

"You want breakfast?" Marcus immediately offers, wanting to do the gentlemanly thing before he sends you off so that he can take about ten aspirins, and go to work. "And I'll put out a clean towel for you so that you can use the shower."

"Appreciate it, but I live right next door," you point out as you get out of bed. You're as naked as he is, and Marcus tries very hard not to ogle your body for what he suspects will be the last time.

"I don't mind."

"Thanks, but I have to get to work." You pick up and put on your panties, bra, skirt, shirt. Marcus spots his boxer briefs, and pulls them on.

"Okay, well... I had a good time."

"I did too."

Now you're standing right in front of him, buttoning up your silk shirt. Even with your makeup smudged out, and terrible morning breath, you look really nice.

"I gotta ask you something, though, because my memory is a little... hazy." Your cheekbones seem to glow, and he realizes that you're blushing.

"Yeah?"

"I sucked your dick, didn't I?"

Marcus feels the heat rise to his ears. "Um... well... yes, you did."

"Well?"

"What?"

"Did I do it well?"

"I think so."

You grin at him. "You don't remember much either, do you?"

"It was all consensual, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that." You surprise him by placing your hand on his naked chest. His heart skips a beat, and he hopes that you won't notice.

"I really have to go, but maybe I'll see you again soon?" you ask softly, and Marcus finds himself relaxing.

"I'd like that."

You even kiss him good-bye, a quick, closed-mouth peck to keep morning breaths from mixing, before you grab your shoes, your purse (muttering under your breath about several emails, and two missed calls), and head over next door.

Marcus, still only wearing his underwear, looks thoughtfully at the closed door for a long while before going into the kitchen with the too big table to make coffee.

Work occupies most of your waking hours, six days a week, often seven. You don't see Marcus again for weeks, don't hear any sounds from his apartment during the hours you're home and awake. Barely having time to think about him, your thoughts nevertheless stray to him when you're standing in the shower or going to bed at night. You haven't been able to fit a boyfriend into your life in a long time, and casual hook-ups have rarely left you satisfied, but even with your hazy memories of the night with Marcus, you left his apartment that morning with a feeling that it was good. So that's where your thoughts go when you touch yourself, the few times you have the energy to do so.

One Friday night, after a long but satisfying week that ended with a contract being accepted as it was, which meant you could have a weekend with only a couple of hours of work from home, you're hurrying home with Chinese takeout in a bag. Looking forward to a quiet night in front of the TV, with an early morning at the gym the following day, you run into Marcus on your way into your apartment building.

"Hi," you smile, immediately noticing how he seems to square his shoulders when he sees you. "Going out?"

"Yeah," he nods, moving his weight from one foot to the other as he takes in your food bag. "And you're staying in?"

"Finally, a Friday night without work," you acknowledge. Marcus's smile lets you know that he knows about that all too well.

"Enjoy."

"You too, you going somewhere nice?"

"No, I mean... I'm just going by myself."

There is something so despondent about the way he averts his eyes when confessing to going out alone. You're not in a position to start saving people, but you see an opening here.

"Join me for dinner instead, Marcus."

"I don't want to bother you."

"It's no bother," you shake your head, now moving towards the elevator while beckoning him to follow you. "Come on, before the food gets cold. There's enough here for two, I always buy extra."

He hesitates for only a split second, you can see it in how his body seems to pull him away, out to some sad bar with too much to drink. Instead, he nods, smiles softly, and follows you. He insists on bringing a bottle of wine from his place, and you accept.

You find out more about him that night, as you share your takeout with him, and he shares his wine. He tells you of heartache, only summarily, clearly not wanting you to feel sorry for him, but you can tell that he's been torn up about the "amicable" break-up. He also mentions that he's been married, and you wonder what's wrong with him. He seems perfectly nice and normal, why hasn't he been able to keep a woman? To his credit, he never complains about nice guys finishing last, only states that maybe he's meant to focus on his career.

"There's a lot to be said about having a good career," you agree. Marcus sips his wine with a small smile.

"Work doesn't break your heart."

"That, too."

"I take it you don't have a partner who'll suddenly come home to find me in his kitchen?" he jokes lightly, but you recognize the question for what it is: he wants to know if you're Seeing Anyone.

"Not one for relationships," you shrug.

"You don't long for anyone to snuggle up with in front of the TV on a Friday night?"

"I don't have time. And they never seem to understand that. Or they're working, too." You pick at the scraps in your takeout box with the chopsticks. "And I seem to attract douchebags. Dunno if it comes with the field in which I work. I always seem to go out with terrible lawyer guys."

Marcus chuckles. "Their loss."

"I miss having sex, though." You look him in the eye, and his tongue slides over his lower lip, catching some runaway sauce.

"Yeah?"

You nod, and feel your cheeks heat up. You're a no-nonsense person, but not always this forward with men. But it's easy with Marcus. He takes it all in stride, doesn't seem to think you're aggressive, or slutty, he just smiles and tells you that he misses sex too.

"But what we had was okay, though?" he adds. "Even if neither one of us seems to remember it that well."

"It was," you agree, raising the glass to your lips and draining the rest of the wine. After putting it back down, you tilt your head and bite your lower lip.

"You wanna do it again? Now that we're sober and all?"

"I'm a little tipsy," he warns you with a chuckle, "But I'm in."

Both of you get up at the same time, chairs scraping the floor simultaneously in the kitchen that mirrors his own but has a table that fits it. All of your apartment just fits in a way his half-assed dwelling doesn't. He realizes that it's because your apartment is a home, decorated and lived-in, warm colors and fabrics, Scandinavian wallpapers in bold but tasteful patterns that he himself would never consider but that feel right here.

You step up to him, snugly fitting yourself to his frame, and place your hands on his narrow hips as you kiss him. The two glasses of wine that you've had have laid a warm, cozy blanket over your busy mind, and now you're fully focused on Marcus, whose soft, plump lips are meeting yours as his arms go around your waist.

You make your way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes as you kiss and get undressed, get undressed and kiss. The bed in unmade, you just threw the covers to the side when you got up this morning. Wearing only your underwear, you lay down, pull Marcus over you, rake your fingers through his hair, moan when he palms your plump tits through the bra.

"Tell me what you like," he asks you hoarsely. You hum when he scatters kisses along the lace trim of your bra.

"That's a good start."

He hums back as he pops your tits out of your bra and lick around the nipples.

"Go on," he asks, and a shiver runs down your spine at the low barytone of his voice. You reach around to unhook your bra, and Marcus takes it off you and flings it to the side before burying his face between your breasts.

"You eat pussy?" you ask him breathlessly, and he looks up at you.

"Of course."

"Not everybody does," you wink, and he shakes his head.

"Their loss."

He's in a hurry, you note, but it's endearing in an unexpected way. When he pulls down your panties and gets settled, your legs over his shoulders, you remember to give him a warning.

"I, uh, I don't orgasm from oral, just so you know."

"Really?" His breath is hot against your folds, but he's looking up at you with attentive eyes.

"Yeah. It's not a comment on your skills, I just need you to know it," you shrug, accustomed to always having to tread carefully around the matter. Too many men get offended or take it as a challenge.

"Thanks for telling me," Marcus smiles in a way that's way too innocent and adorable for a man who's got his face inches away from your pussy. "But do you really want me to...?"

"Oh God, yes!" you reassure him. "I enjoy it a lot, and it gets me wet. I just can't cum, I need vaginal stimulation for that."

"You got it," he pats your thigh lightly before his tongue connects with your folds, and your eyes fall shut as you hand yourself over to the pleasure, to Marcus's deftly dancing tongue. He's good, he's attentive and eager, yet you don't get the feeling that he's trying to prove you wrong, to make you orgasm. Lord knows men have tries that in the past, and it's just stressful. No, he just seems to enjoy your moans, the way you writhe and grab his hands, the twitches of your pelvis when he does something extraordinary.

"Goddddd, Marcus, that's so fucking good..." you wail when he alternates between sucking your clit and licking it with a quick tongue. He's getting louder, sloppier, and you know you're dripping. Your clit is throbbing, and you know this is the perfect time to speed things up. You push him away, your thighs closing around his head, and Marcus retreats, chin glistening as he licks his lips.

"You okay?" he wants to know. You nod, breathless and with a pounding heart.

"Need to fuck you."

He scrambles up for a deep kiss, wet and lewd, before you push him over to get a condom from your nightstand. He drapes himself over you as you stretch across the bed, and peppers your back with kisses, like he's unable to stay away from you. You roll around, finding yourself caged between his strong arms, and you pull him down for more kissing with lips swollen and dry but still wanting more.

"How do you want me?" he gasps between the kisses as you pull down his underwear and paw at his small butt.

"Can I be on top?"

He rolls over onto his back immediately, watching you with open-mouth excitement when you remove his shorts and put on the rubber. When you finally sink down on his length, his fingers dig into your thighs as his breath hitches.

"Oh, that feels good..."

"Uh-huh," you sigh, staying still for a moment to adjust to his cock inside of you. You smile inwardly as you find yourself thinking about just how perfectly sized it is: thick but not too long.

"What?"

Your eyes open to find Marcus grinning at you.

"What what?" you grin back. He caresses your hips slowly.

"You looked like you had something to say."

"I was just thinking about what a perfect, gorgeous dick you have."

His cheeks turn pink. "Thank you. It came with the body."

You chuckle and start a slow grind, hips moving lazily back and forth as you seek out the right spots, the right rhythm. Finding it, you plant your hands on Marcus's chest and let out a low moan as you go slightly faster.

"That right for you?" he huffs, sitting up to catch a nipple in his mouth.

"Mmmfuckyes..."

You drop your hand to where your bodies meet, fingers seeking out your clit. Pleasure zaps through your body when you rub it, and you clench tightly around Marcus, causing him to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, both of you groaning.

"So good," he gripes, soothing the sting of his fingertips by rubbing his palms over the affected areas before he moves his fingers to your front. "Need a hand?"

"'m good," you gasp, your free arm slinging around his neck. You clench around him again, and Marcus's hips jut upwards, slamming into you with a force that makes you choke.

"Fuck! God, Marcus, that was..."

"Can we try something?" he pants, pulling you in for a kiss. "Please?"

"Okay?" you frown, a little frustrated at being interrupted, but Marcus gestures for you to rise, so you do as he asks, and let him pull you down with him.

"Get on top of me again, but lie down," he instructs you. You must look doubtful because he immediately adds:

"Just try it, if you don't like it, we can go back to what you were doing."

"I'll try anything once," you shrug, and get on top of him again, this time with your back turned to him. Marcus pulls you down, positioning you on top of him, legs spread, his own legs on the outside of yours. You hesitate for a second, the reality of your weight sometimes haunting your mind, but Marcus insists.

"Just come here, baby," he tells you softly, so you let him take your weight. One of his arms sneaks up the side of your ribcage to cup a breast. With the other, he guides himself into you, pushing himself in with an upward thrust of his hips. You choke on your breath and let your head hang back on his shoulder, one arm seeking a position to support you, the other coming around Marcus's neck when he presses a toothy kiss to your neck. He thrusts into you again, fingers playing with your nipple, and then his other hand comes to rub your clit.

You keen at the sudden intensity, back arching on top of him, and he plants his feet more firmly on the mattress.

"Fuck," you gasp, "that's good, Marcus, this is good..."

He sucks a kiss to your neck, his teeth stinging just a little, and your legs kick in search of a hold so that you can stay just above him. He slips out, and you whimper.

"Relax," he soothes you, thumb abandoning your clit to instead guide himself back into you. "Put your weight on me, I can take it."

You follow his instructions, back sinking down onto his chest and stomach, pelvis angling slightly to help him stay inside you. His fingers return to tease your clit, and your head falls back onto his shoulder as he settles into a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

"That's it," he praises you, his breath hot against your ear. "Just like that, take it, just enjoy it, let me take care of you."

The slow drag of his cock against your slick walls is maddening in how it pushes at your spot but leaves you wanting more. You buck your hips down eagerly.

"Faster, please, Marcus."

He obeys immediately, moaning at how you immediately clench around him. Your fingers thread through his hair, the other hand fists into the sheets. The pressure on that one spot inside you is growing in intensity, insanely, perfectly, knocking your breath out with each jab of Marcus's cock against it. Your moans become whimpers, a moan too complex a sound for you at this point, when you are so close, so utterly close to the climax that you now need as much as you need air -

The release floods your body and your cunt, and for a split second you're horrified at the wet feeling on your thighs, the rippling sound, until you realize that you squirted. A half moan, half giggle escapes you as you press your thighs together as if to lock in the orgasm that pulsates through your cunt and lower belly. Marcus gasps an excited Fuck, yes before bucking up a couple of errant times, and then relaxing down. He kisses your temple, drags his soaked fingers up over your soft belly, making you squirm.

"Sorry," he murmurs throatily. You murmur something back and slide down next to him. Everything between your legs seems wet and now cold, but you're still prickling all over with excitement.

Marcus heaves a deep sigh before turning his face to you. "That was so hot."

"I didn't know I could do that with a man."

"You haven't before?"

You shake your head. Marcus smiles softly.

"I'm honored. Was it good?"

"Yeah. How about you?"

"So fucking good."

You smile back at him before turning your face back towards the ceiling, and taking a deep breath that you sigh out audibly. Your body relaxes quickly, a muscle in your lower back mutters about the position you just were in, but you feel extremely good, and wrung out in a fantastic way. In the corner of your eye, you catch Marcus taking the condom off, before getting up to take it to the trash. When he returns, he looks around, looking for his clothes. You roll over onto your side.

"You don't have to leave, you know," you tell him quietly. Marcus stops, boxers in hand.

"Yeah?"

"I mean... don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for a relationship," you hurry to assure him. "But I wouldn't mind you staying over. Unless you have plans?"

"I don't."

He drops the boxers, and slides back into bed, next to you. You smile a little wryly.

"The sheets are wet. I'll change them, feel free to grab a shower.

"Soon," Marcus tells you, low voice heavy with a calm confidence. "I suggest we wet them a little more first."

Your deal with Marcus is simple and beautiful: sex, with or without staying the night. The occasional take-out dinner. Quickies when you run into each other in the corridor outside your front doors, with ten minutes to spare. It's undemanding, friendly, mutually satisfying. Uncomplicated, with no romantic feelings involved, so nobody can get hurt.

Marcus is an active lover who smoothly takes charge. Not bossy, but firm and empathic, and not afraid of using aids of different kinds to raise your orgasms to the next level. He's not opposed to fucking you fully clothed in the morning and leaving you wanting as you go to work with his cold cum in your panties, shot there after he removed the rubber after fucking you.

It is, in short, the perfect set-up.

Fall passes by, and you see yourself forced to fly out to see your family over Thanksgiving. You spend as much time as you can working in your childhood room, however. Your parents do not understand your choice of profession, your mother does not see how a woman of your age has chosen to be childless. Your older brother knocked his girlfriend up at sixteen, your younger sister was married at eighteen and divorced at twenty-eight. You love them, but you don't have a lot in common with them, and even if your siblings at least pretend to understand your life choices, their contempt steeped in jealousy of your life shines through at times. Your parents choose to simply ignore the life you have built for yourself in D.C., talking instead about Mrs. McCall next door, Annie down the street, Cybil in town, Kearney at the gas station, as if you knew any of them or cared about what they said about Kayleigh's twins.

You endure for two nights, and text Marcus from the airport, before boarding: I'll be home after nine tonight. You free?

He replies almost immediately: I'll pick you up at the airport.

You text him the flight number before turning off your phone, settling for a three-hour nap in lieu of working.

When you finally land, puffy-faced but breathing freely now that you're back in the city you call home, Marcus is waiting for you in arrivals. The way his smile lights up his eyes when he sees you makes your heart miss a beat. There is something there that's beyond what the two of you have, something much more sincere.

You shake it off and smile back as you walk up to him. He leans forward, like he's about to kiss you, but ends up giving you an awkward half-hug.

"Welcome home."

"Thanks. And thank you for picking me up."

"My pleasure."

The two of you turn and start walking towards the exit. Marcus offers to take your carry-on wheelie bag, but you decline, accustomed as you are to carrying your own luggage yourself.

In the car, he asks you how your Thanksgiving was.

"As holidays at my parents' usually are. One night would've been enough."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yeah. It's just..." You rub your forehead. "Whenever I visit, I feel trapped. Everything back home is... small. People are kind, yes, but they're small-minded. The town is small. The spaces in which to move, physically and mentally, are small. And I feel like some kind of big city snob who comes to visit twice a year, scoffs at their very ordinary and, as far as I know, happy lives, and then flies back to my vegan frappuccinos and twenty-four-hour sushi restaurants."

Marcus chuckles low. "I think I know what you mean. But it's hard for me to imagine that you'd be a snob about anything."

"I probably am. But I... I don't know, I outgrew that town when I was fifteen. Couldn't get out fast enough. And I don't like going back."

"Does your family support your choices?"

You shrug. "Yes and no. Mom and dad are proud, I guess, but at the same time they don't have any idea what it is that I do. 'If you wanted to be a lawyer, couldn't you be one here? Where it's not as stressful and you could start a family, and work normal hours?' As if I could practice the law I'm interested in over there."

"What's the most common type of lawyer in your hometown?"

"General practitioners who do a little bit of everything, wills mostly. And there are three, I think."

"Wow."

"Exactly."

The conversation turns to other subjects as Marcus drives the two of you to your apartment building. As he parks in his spot in the underground garage, you place your hand onto his thigh. He turns off the engine and looks at you.

"Thanks for picking me up," you tell him quietly. His hand comes to rest on top of yours.

"No problem."

"You have any plans for tonight?"

He shakes his head, then leans forward over the middle console as you reach across the same for a kiss. His fingers thread into your hair before closing around the back of your head to bring you in, and you sigh softly against his lips as you feel the rest of the pressure from your Thanksgiving visit melt away. If the town you grew up in felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable, D.C. and Marcus feel like home. And there's nothing you want to do more now than be with Marcus in this city.

You break the kiss and lower your gaze to his fly, where your fingers are already working on unzipping him. Marcus exhales in an audible sigh.

"You missed me that much?"

"Don't get any ideas," you warn him before bowing down over his lap.

Later, when you are freshly showered, and lying awake in Marcus's bed with him deeply asleep next to you, you wonder when his presence at night became such a comfort for you.

Marcus visits his parents over Christmas. You manage to convince yours that you're way too busy and the holidays too short for you to fly out. Settling in for a couple of days off work, you plan to go to the gym, meet friends, and maybe finally get through that book you started three months ago. You plan for simple yet delicious meals and come home with bags full of groceries and bottles of wine that you balance in your arms as you're digging for the keys in your pocket.

"Lemme get that."

Marcus appears by your side, taking a grocery bag from you.

"Thanks."

You manage to let yourself in, and Marcus follows you to the kitchen, where he leaves the bag on the table.

"Hi," he smiles. There is something so endearing about this man, his smile lights up the whole room, you can't possibly keep from smiling back at him.

"Hi. I thought you already left for the airport?"

"Just on my way now. Glad I caught you."

"Oh?" You unbutton your coat, unwrap the scarf from around your neck. "What's up?"

"Just... I wanted to see you before I left. Wish you happy holidays."

"Right." You take off your coat and leave it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Well... happy holidays, Marcus. I hope you have a nice weekend with your parents."

"Thanks." He clears his throat, looks down and scratches the back of his head. "Do you have any plans for New Year’s Eve?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do you maybe... want to do something?"

"Sure," you nod, a warmth spreading in your belly. "Like, dinner?"

"I was thinking Hirschhorn? You said you were curious about their special exhibit. Then dinner, and maybe a movie, if you're not opposed to spending so much time with me at once?"

You feel your cheeks heat up a little. "I don't mind at all. That sounds lovely."

His smile widens, his warm eyes glitter. "Great. I'll get back to you as soon as I return."

He kisses your cheek before leaving, his hand resting momentarily on your arm. When he closes the door behind him, the apartment feels empty.

That emptiness stays with you over the holidays. You're enjoying the time off, yes, and downright cherish not having to spend time with your family. You were looking forward to Christmas eve drinks with a couple of friends but are disappointed when they only talk about holiday preparations, gift shopping, and visiting in-laws. The detachment makes you annoyed. It's not that you want that kind of life, you don't want kids and a house and Thanksgiving dinners and all of that. But there doesn't seem to be any alternatives. You get the feeling that they feel sorry for you, that they think you should look up from your laptop once in a while, go dating, settle down, maybe work less.

Always work less. You love your job so much, maybe you won’t forever, but right now you do, and it doesn’t feel taxing when it gives you the gratification it does.

You grab a cab home, earlier than you thought and morose for not getting the carefree night you had planned for. Maybe it's your own fault for thinking that people with families wouldn't have changed.

You weigh your phone in your hand for a couple of blocks before texting Marcus.

Hope you're having a better time than I am. Just getting home after drinks, and realized I have nothing in common with my friends anymore :/

You regret the text as soon as you've sent it. It sounds whiny, and you know that you're being unfair to your friends. But Marcus replies almost immediately:

Sorry to hear that. Wish I was there to make you feel better.

You smile, and your heart skips a beat. He always knows what to say.

It is what it is. Early night for me.

He replies with a Santa emoji that makes you chuckle.

Too old for Santa, you type back. Or too naughty. Either way, he's not coming.

Only man who should come in your apartment is me ;)

You stare at the message, cheeks heating as you lick your lips. Your brain scrambles for an answer to match his tone.

I'll be the judge of that, mister. If you're away for too long, I might get lonely.

The reply comes almost immediately.

I'll be back before you know it.

Your heart is fluttering like a butterfly inside your ribcage, and you react with a thumb up to the last message. For the rest of the cab ride, you're chewing on your lower lip while looking out the window, decorated windows racing past you as the cab driver navigates towards your apartment building.

You fall asleep in front of the TV and are awakened by a text.

You up?

You rub your eyes, realize that you're still wearing makeup, and curse low.

It's two am.

Marcus's name immediately lights up on the phone, and you answer the call.

"What's up?"

"Sorry to wake you."

"That's fine, I was on the couch. Gotta schlep my ass to bed," you yawn as you turn off the TV, and stand up, scratching your head.

"I'm outside."

"What?"

"I'm outside your door."

You frown, trying to understand what he's saying. "What are you doing there?"

"Just open?"

Call still active and phone held to your ear, you walk over to the front door, and unlock it. And there Marcus is, holding his phone but lowering his hand and ending the call while smiling wryly at you.

"Hi."

"What... why aren't you at your parents'?" you stutter, still holding the phone like you're talking to him through it.

"Because I can't do this at my parents'." He steps up to you, cups your cheek, and brings his lips to yours. His face is cold, so you understand that he has just arrived from the airport. Your sleep-riddled brain still doesn't understand, and Marcus breaks the kiss, breathing softly against your lips before drawing back.

"Did I... fuck this up now?"

You lick your lips and realize that you're feeling calm and steady in a way you no longer do when he's not around. You grab him by the jacket lapel and pull him in through the door.

"No," you reply, a shiver running through you when he puts his arms around you. "No, you did just the right thing."

You don't use your tub as often as you would like to, yet it was one of the main reasons why you bought your apartment. It's spacious, has gorgeous vintage style brass faucets, and is placed by the window, from which you can see the park, now wearing a white winter coat of snow, on the other side of the street. The shower booth is at the back wall of the bathroom and your busy lifestyle has you favoring quick showers instead of long, luxurious baths.

Now, however, you're stretched out languidly in Marcus's arms, the back of your head on his shoulder, his hairy thighs pressing up against you on either side. The water is hot and scented with oils, and if the orgasms you had before getting out of bed hadn't relaxed you, this would definitely take away the last vestiges of stress knotting your muscles.

"This is a really nice tub," Marcus mumbles into your ear, his hand running up the inside of your arm, resting on the edge of the tub. "Wish I had one."

"You're welcome to use mine," you smile, just as his hand disappears into the water, finding your breast and cupping it, thumb lazily stroking the nipple.

"I like your apartment better anyway," he admits. "Mine doesn't feel like a home."

"That's just because you haven't unpacked."

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. "Been busy."

"Doesn't help much that you're fucking me every time you're off work."

“One could even say it’s your fault I haven’t unpacked,” he muses, lips touching your temple. You shake your head, hand finding his and leading it away from your breast.

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to pin this on me.” There is no vehemence in your voice, and even if Marcus can’t see your face, he can plainly hear the smile threatening to break out.

“I had to try.”

You bring your hand back to your chest, and sigh when his fingers brush over your nipple. It would be so easy to just let things slide, enjoy his hands, his mouth, his cock that’s resting softly against your lower back… But your interest is piqued.

“Why haven’t you unpacked, Marcus?” you ask quietly. “I’ve seen that you have painting just waiting to be hung on the walls and given how much you like to criticize my dentist’s office artwork from Ikea, I can’t imagine why you haven’t done more to decorate your apartment.”

His hand stills, and you feel him swallow. He clears his throat, sighs, clearly stalling, but you don’t show mercy. You want to know.

“I guess… I thought I’d be making a home with someone. And when that didn’t happen, I didn’t like the idea anymore.”

You braid your fingers with his, the water gently rippling with your movement.

“Your ex?”

“Yeah. Teresa.”

“What happened?” He’s mentioned some tragic breakup but never specified, and you’ve never asked. Now, however, you’re asking. You want this puzzle piece to fit right, want to know everything there is to know about Marcus Pike.

“I don’t want to burden you with that…”

“I want to know, Marcus.”

He hesitates, but eventually tells you how his ex, a smart, beautiful woman that he fell head over heels for and eventually proposed to, accepted his proposal over the phone but called again thirty minutes later to tell him that she was leaving him for a coworker. Marcus had been transferred to D.C., had asked Teresa to come with, had a plan for a life together, and she turned out to be in love with a coworker: a charming, unreliable man who worked out an elaborate scheme to make her choose him instead of Marcus.

You’re shocked to silence when he stops talking, an array of emotions simmering inside you. When Marcus speaks your name, the first one to burst is anger.

“What a cunt!”

Marcus sputters your name, but you don’t feel bad.

“You know I’m right!”

“No need for language like that,” he protests, but you can sense a change in him. It’s like something’s loosened in him. Even if you can’t see his face in this position, you can feel it in how his body feels against yours.

“I’m sorry, but that behavior is despicable. And from what you’ve told me about that asshole that she went with because of you, I’d say they deserve each other.”

He shrugs. “Or maybe I was too pushy. We didn’t date for long before I asked her to marry me. I should’ve given her more time.”

You turn around in his arms so that you can meet his flickering gaze. Raising your hand to his cheek, you caress the slightly scratchy surface that sorely needs a razor.

“If it feels right, it feels right,” you tell him softly. “There’s no shame in being open and honest about your feelings, Marcus.”

He blinks, and for a second you think his eyes look shiny. His lower jaw moves as he swallows.

“Thank you,” he eventually mumbles. “I don’t want to sound like I’m making excuses but… I did feel I was being straight with her. And she… really fucking hurt me.”

“Yeah, she did.”

His stare is suddenly relentless.

“Will you? Hurt me, I mean?”

You feel nothing but calm. “Marcus, I like you a lot. This is more than just sex now. But I won’t marry you in six months, and I don’t need you to have a plan for us. I like my job, I have a good career that I won’t give up. I don’t want kids, but I like being with you, and I want to keep being with you, not just have sex but do other stuff with you.”

He smiles at that and casts his eyes down. You lean forward to press a small kiss to his lips.

“And I will help you to unpack your shit, and I will come with you to get a new kitchen table tomorrow when the stores open. Because that huge monster you have jamming up your kitchen has got to go.”

“Not tomorrow,” he immediately tells you, and you quirk an eyebrow. “Because tomorrow I’m taking you to the museum, out for a meal, and then we’re watching Casablanca.”

You chuckle. “It’s a deal.”

He pulls you in for a deeper kiss, water splashing when his arms go around you.

“For the record,” he murmurs against your lips, “I like you too.”

“That’s a relief,” you smile, before a gasp escapes your lips; Marcus’s hand has slid down your soft stomach to the apex of your thighs, and one finger is slowly circling your clit.

“Open your legs,” he whispers, breath almost scorching your cheek that is already warm from the water and your rising desire. You move around, legs and hips repositioning themselves so that he can cup his big hand over your sex.

“Marcus,” you breathe in a low moan, “I already came twice this morning…”

“And you’ll come a third time,” he promises as he slides a finger inside your warm heat, rolling a nipple between two fingers of his other hand. You curl your arm back and around his neck, seek his lips for more kisses, push down against his hardening cock to make him gasp into your mouth. Thumb on your clit, he adds a second finger to your pussy, fucking you slowly as you exchange moans along with your kisses. Your hips jut upwards when he hits the right spot, and then he stays on it, water splashing over the edges of the tub when he goes increases speed. Your hand dives underneath the surface to find his cock, and a strangled moan travels from Marcus’s mouth to yours when your fingers close around the stiff length. When he slows down, so do you, when he fucks you faster, your hand works him faster.

The climax reaches both of you at the same time, your bodies tightening up, Marcus’s hips jerking up as your thighs clamp shut, cries bouncing off the tiles as you press your bodies together. As silence falls, the water stills and your hearts return to their normal rhythms, and Marcus’s lips are on your temple.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.”

“So are you,” you hum, a ripple of lingering pleasure making your legs twitch. He kisses you again, a light smattering of kisses over your temple, brow, cheekbone, before reaching your mouth. That last kiss is deep and slow, loving, and intimate in a way you haven’t had with him before. It’s unnerving, almost scary, but there is something so comforting about Marcus’s broad-shouldered body underneath you, something that makes you embrace the unknown.

“Happy Christmas, baby.”

The underwhelming meeting with your friends, the flirty texting with Marcus, that feels like weeks ago. But it was only last night, and your world has been thoroughly rocked since then.

“Happy Christmas, Marcus.”

for you, for me | joel miller x f!reader

masterlist | joel masterlist | kofi | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates

pairing: joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 4.4k

summary: joel makes a bad day better. warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] porn with basically no plot, a touch of angst, established relationship, no ages mentioned but in my mind joel is in his 50s, reader is whatever legal age you want her to be, hurt/comfort but make it horny, daddy kink, dd/lg vibes (reader is not heavily infantilized), d/s dynamics, risk-aware consensual breath play, choking, implied subspace, needy!reader, soft dom!joel, unprotected p in v sex, finger sucking, cockwarming, creampie, pet names (including use of "little one" and "little girl"), a hint of degradation (joel refers to reader as "dumb" but like, in a romantic + comforting way), dry humping, praise kink, aftercare, reader is described as wearing a skirt, reader has hair, implied anxiety and depression. no use of y/n.

additional notes: this is a work of fiction. joel and reader have pre-established rules and trust surrounding breath play and you should always research the risks before engaging in any kind of edge play irl. additionally, the kinks and dynamics portrayed in this fic are based on a combination of personal experience, research, and wish fulfillment. it is not meant to be read as educational. it is a fantasy.

a/n: no wheel being reinvented here. just some good old comfort sex with daddy!joel. enjoy if this is your thing, scroll on if it's not. thank you to @joelscruff and @5oh5 for reading this over for me and everyone who showed this fic love on ao3.

You should turn on the lights. The lights always help.

The power bar is right there, just out of arm’s reach, tucked between the arm of the couch and the space beneath the windowsill. You could switch it on if you could only convince your muscles to unfurl from the fetal position you’ve been locked in since you got home, if you could blink away the tears in your eyes long enough to see the plug where it’s wedged against the drywall.

But you can’t. So you don’t. You just sit in the dark, still clad in your work clothes and cry. Let the weight of your day consume you. Replay every mistake you made at work, every judgmental side-eye from every uninviting stranger. You can’t control the way it spirals when you get like this. One cruel word from one cruel coworker dredging up a lifetime of failures and anxieties. You just want it to stop.

The lights would help. But they’re silly and childish and you feel stupid for wanting them. And they’re all the way over there.

You need Joel. Joel always makes everything better. 

But when he finally comes through the front door, minutes or hours later, you can’t even find the will to get up and greet him. You tuck your face into the couch cushions and think how pathetic you must look, alone in the dark in his living room, sobs wracking through you for some reason you can’t even remember now. 

“Oh, baby girl,” Joel murmurs. You hear his work bag hit the floor and the rustling sound of his boots coming off. He rounds the couch and you feel him kneel down before you, one big hand cradling the back of your head. The contact, so warm and comforting, makes fat tears well in your eyes. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers gruffly, stroking your skull in a manner almost frantic, still somehow gentle and reassuring. He shifts a bit, and you peek an eye out from where your face is pressed into the couch to see him reaching over to plug in the lights.

They cast the room in a twinkling, warm glow, and it helps. 

“There we go,” he says, resuming the steady petting of his hand on your head, letting his palm drift down the knobs of your spine while he’s at it. You feel him lean in, and you breathe in the welcome smell of him.

“Baby, can you look at me?” he implores. “What’s wrong?”

You sniffle, and think about denying him–but you don’t. You tilt your face to the side, and take in his familiar, beautiful face, brown eyes sparkling in the glow of the fairy lights. In their comforting light, you watch the moment the concerned little furrow in his brows dissolves into sympathy at the sight of your tear-streaked face.

“There’s my pretty girl.” He traces your cheekbone with calloused fingers and you sigh a shuddering breath. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

You shake your head–as much as you can without lifting it off the couch. Everything is wrong, but seeing his face, feeling his touch…it helps. You know what you need, and you think he does too. You need more. You need to let go and you need him to help you do it. 

You clear your throat, reach out and grab at the fabric of his shirt with needy little fingers and almost whimper at the feeling of his solid, warm chest beneath your touch.

“Bad day, daddy,” you tell him. You lace your voice with innocence, and his response is immediate. 

Though infinitesimal, the shift is always noticeable, at least to you. The marginal darkening of his eyes, the slight catch in his breath, the subtle twitch of his jaw. He effortlessly moulds to your needs and you happily sink away in turn.

“Yeah?” he coos, concentrating the tender brushing of his fingers to your face. His voice drops an octave and something comes alive inside of you. “What happened, little one?”

You shiver at the endearment, slip a little further into that smaller, weaker part of you. 

You shake your head, deliberately defiant this time. “Don’t wanna talk about it, daddy.” 

You suspect he already knows that.

His eyebrows shoot up a little, feigning surprise anyway. “No?”

“Mm-mm.”

Joel’s lips twitch a bit, maybe a little amused at your petulant refusal. But there’s still a lingering glint of concern in his eyes. There’s something so paternal about that look. 

“C’mere,” he says suddenly. He grunts a bit as he stands and you start to whine at the loss, but then he’s manhandling you upright with sure, gentle hands and you willingly go with ease. He makes another laboured noise as he sits down into the couch and moves you so you’re straddling him, murmuring a, there you go, baby , as you wrap your arms around his neck and press yourself as close to him as humanly possible.

He rocks you, and it feels like home. He’s so safe. 

“Wanna talk about it now?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head against his shoulder and grab at fistfuls of his curls. 

“No, daddy,” you groan despondently. His hands traverse your back and his breath is warm against your skin and his strong thigh presses deliciously against your clothed pussy and you do not want to talk about anything at all. Unconsciously, you find yourself grinding against his lap, breath catching at the contact where you suddenly need it most. Joel stiffens beneath you in response, his arms tightening around you.

“What do you need, sweet girl?” he presses, soft but stern. He pries you off him and holds your face in his hand, thick fingers cupped firmly under your jaw. “Use your words, please.”

Demanding this of you serves two purposes. His tone implies control, which you and he both know is what you need from him right now. He takes control and you slip a little deeper, go a little foggier and a little dizzier, a little closer to letting go completely. In many ways, though, he is giving you the power, imploring you to clearly communicate even when it feels impossible. He only ever wants to take care of you, and he is always determined to do it right. 

“I need…” You’re cut off by a whimper as your hips move of their accord against him and part of you wishes he’d let you off the hook, just let you chase this feeling instead of forcing you to verbalize it. But he’s still clutching your face and watching you with eyebrows raised, expectant. You pout and force yourself to say it. “Need you to do that thing…”

He bucks his own hips upwards then–just to toy with you, you think–and smirks when it makes you lose your train of thought all over again. 

“What, baby?” he murmurs like he’s done nothing wrong, petting at your cheeks with big, strong hands. “Tell daddy what you want.”

And you can’t argue with that. At last, you sink below the surface and when you next speak, your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. 

“That thing where you make my brain go all fuzzy,” you say, words pouring from you so fast they nearly blur together.

Of course Joel understands at once what you’re asking. A worry line reappears between his brows as he considers your reddened eyes and your already faraway gaze. His hand moves to curl around the side of your neck and you gasp softly. 

“Baby…right now?” he asks. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” you almost sob, craning your neck so his fingers drift that much closer to your throat. You hardly ever ask for this, wouldn’t ask for it now if you didn’t think it would help. “Please, daddy.”

Joel sighs as he softly places his palm at the base of your throat, trailing his touch featherlight upwards until his hand rests just below your jaw. Something carnal takes over. You grind on him faster, your need for him reaching near embarrassing levels. 

“Please, yes–” you beg him as he applies the faintest bit of pressure around the column of your neck. “Please, daddy. Please– please–”

“Sh, alright, it’s okay,” he nods, but then he surprises you. His hand moves right past your throat, up and over your chin to sink his thumb into your open mouth. You close your lips around it at once, eyelids fluttering as you obediently suck with a whimpered sigh. Joel exhales a breathy little laugh. 

“There ya go,” he smiles. “Good girl.”

He pushes his thumb deeper, rough skin all salty and woodsy against your tongue. It silences you so effectively, pulls you down that much deeper when he slowly retracts it all too soon, only to replace it with two thick fingers instead. You clutch at his wrist with both hands, holding him there as you dreamily moan around him.

“Oh, my little girl,” he croons as he languidly pumps his middle and index fingers between your lips. “You want daddy to get rid of all those bad thoughts for you?”

You feel like you could cry all over again at the offer.

“Mhm,” you sigh, swirling your tongue around his fingers just to taste him better. 

Joel hums. 

“Whatever you need, sweetheart.”  

His voice is so sweet in contrast to the third finger he forces between your lips, the stretch almost too much to take now as you slacken your jaw to make him fit. Your eyes pop open and you’re sure you must not be a pretty sight anymore, straining and drooling around his thick, insistent fingers. But Joel looks at you like you’re the most perfect thing in the world, his dark gaze drinking you in as you submit for him fully. 

“Your daddy always takes care of you, don’t he?” he growls. 

You shiver as arousal burns between your legs. 

“Yes,” you say, the sound muffled around his fingers. Joel smiles, tilting his head to the side in wonder. 

“My girl…you’re so sexy,” he marvels, lazily fucking his fingers into your mouth. Your eyes are watering now and spit trickles down your chin, a soreness budding in your jaw as you strain to open wide enough for him. “So goddamn beautiful.” 

At that, you frown, something about his words pulling you back from that perfect, blissful place. The memory of your day floods your brain and even Joel’s adoring gaze can’t chase away the feelings of inadequacy that still linger at the back of your mind. He catches the response.

“Hey,” he admonishes lightly, suddenly yanking his fingers free from your mouth to clutch your face. “What do you say?” 

You pout at the gentle scolding and cast your eyes downward instead of at him. 

“Thank you, daddy.” 

“That’s right,” he insists, forcing you to meet his gaze. His voice is firm, almost angry; he doesn’t like it when you’re mean to yourself. “No arguin’. You’re perfect. You understand?” 

“But I’m–” You start to argue anyway, but the look Joel gives you in response stops you dead in your tracks. Your eyebrows knit together and somewhat reluctantly you grumble, “Okay, daddy.”

Joel nods, seemingly satisfied. Your cheeks hollow as he grips your face a little tighter and you go pliant under his touch, let him nod your head up and down for you, side to side for you, while he offers you his stern command–

“That’s all I wanna hear from now on, alright, babygirl?” he instructs slowly. “‘Yes, daddy.’ ‘Okay, daddy.’ ‘Thank you, daddy.’”

 His voice is so low, so measured and even. It entrances you.

“Okay, daddy,” you promise in a whisper. 

“Good girl,” he praises you lowly, big hand moving to cradle the back of your head and pull your face in closer to his. “No more thinkin’, okay? You just focus on me.”

Through the haze that is slowly beginning to take over your mind, you’re conscious of his other hand wrapping around your waist, gently but assuredly encouraging you to continue rocking on him. You gasp when you feel his hard cock pressing against your pussy through layers and layers of fabric, wetness pooling inside your panties at the steady contact as he coaxes you to ride him. Your eyes flash downwards, but Joel’s hand at the back of your neck holds you in place, leaving you little choice but to lock your stare with his. 

“On me ,” he repeats.

It doesn’t take long for you to lose yourself, Joel’s hand on your waist relaxing as you begin to rock on him in earnest. Your work skirt bunches at your waist and the hard line of his cock feels so big and warm against your core; you don’t even care how obscene you must look. You just rock and grind and chase, lean into the humiliation of it all. You’re no better than a dog in heat for him–and that’s exactly what you want to be right now. There’s not a thought behind your eyes except that of relief as you rub your clothed pussy into his lap and hold his ravenous gaze. 

“Does it feel good?” Joel implores darkly, a delicious hint of mocking underscoring the question. 

A wave of slick gathers at your centre in response and heat smolders in your stomach. You move on him frantically, something like a sob getting caught in your throat. 

“Yes, daddy,” you manage. 

“Do you wanna come?”

You nod so fast it makes him chuckle, even before you breathily beg him,

“Yes, please.”

“Go on n’let go, baby,” he encourages you. Then, in a whisper, “Go on.”

And for him–you do.

You shudder violently above him, the ridges of his jeans catching perfectly on your clothed clit as you come apart. You fall forward into him, bury your face into his shoulder while you come and come, Joel’s hand holding firm around your waist to keep you moving through the waves. He’s whispering praises in your ear and you’re floating floating floating–so far gone you don’t notice him reaching between your bodies to push your panties to the side and free his cock from his jeans. He holds you close against his chest as you come down from your high, barely giving you a chance to breathe before he’s carefully shifting you in his lap and sitting you down onto his length without warning.

It’s too much. It’s perfect.

“Shh s’okay…” he whispers when you gasp and whine at the sudden stretch. “I know, I know, I know, baby, I know.”

He murmurs quiet praise at you until he’s sheathed completely in your warmth, the both of you moaning when you’re fully seated in his lap again, now with his cock nudging at the deepest parts of you. With his arms wrapped around you, he holds you there, chest to chest, his breath warm and all-encompassing at your ear. Your pussy drips and strains around his girth and you are so fucking full you could weep.

“Daddy…” you whimper. “So–fuck–so big, daddy…”

“It’s okay, you’re doin’ so good,” Joel hums quietly, stroking your spine comfortingly. “Takin’ it so well. My perfect little girl.” 

He pulls back far enough to look at your face then and whatever he sees there makes him smile with pride.

“Oh, baby, look at you, huh?” he chuckles, cupping the side of your face with one massive palm, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “So pretty like this. Daddy’s gorgeous girl. What do you say when daddy gives you his cock?”

“Th-thank you, daddy.”

“ That’s right,” he murmurs, shifting beneath you just the slightest bit so his cock hits somewhere dizzying inside of you. Your mind goes beautifully blank, eyes rolling back into your skull. Joel chuckles.

“Daddy’s cock got you feelin’ a little dumb, sweetheart?” Joel sweetly taunts and you nod; he’s not wrong.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Yeah, that’s okay” he grunts, rocking you in his lap as he speaks. The pooled fabric of his boxers rubs against your clit while his cock tickles your insides and already you can feel the urge to come again building in your core. “I know how smart y’are. Work so hard all the time. You can be a little dumb for daddy. Right? You can let go for me.”

Fuck–you want to. You just need more. 

“Daddy, please …” you whine, rather pointedly finding his arm and bringing his hand up to your neck, unable to find the words, knowing Joel will understand. 

He does, of course he does. He groans as his fingers ghost around the base of your throat, his hips bucking up into yours. He pulls himself together with a growl deep in his chest. 

“Okay, alright,” he nods.

It’s a blur then as Joel hastily tears your shirt up and over your shoulders, moving with your pussy still wrapped around his cock so you’re lying flat on your back on the couch and Joel is hovering above you between your legs. 

You feel smaller like this, exposed and open with Joel still fully clothed above you, his thick cock filling you so perfectly. You allow yourself this feeling, let your eyes slip closed and wait for Joel to take away whatever thoughts are left in your mind. 

“How’s that, sweetheart?” he checks in first, softly cupping the side of your face until your eyelids flutter open again. “You comfortable?”

For the first time today, you feel yourself smile. 

“Mhm, yes.”

Joel smiles too, a fleeting little thing that falls once concentration takes over his features. He has to focus now, you know that. 

He only wants to take care of you. 

“Right,” he nods. You start to drift away again but Joel isn’t having it. Not for this. “Nu-uh–eyes right here for me, please.”

You do as he says, infusing your gaze with all the trust and devotion you can muster. Joel steadies himself, his hand moving to curl around your throat. He rests it there, letting you get a feel for it as he dives forward to slant his mouth against yours. 

He kisses you deep and long, lips moving against yours at an unhurried pace, not unlike the way he’s now finally fucking you, cock dragging liesurely through your walls, all sticky-wet and patient. 

“Put your hand on my arm,” he whispers gruffly when he breaks the kiss, pausing the languid thrusting of his hips. You obey at once, touching your fingers to his thickly muscled bicep.

“How many times do you squeeze if you want me to stop?” he asks.

“Two.”

“Lemme feel it.”

Impatient as you are, you know it’s important. You demonstrate squeezing his arm twice in quick succession, repeat it when Joel says again , and only then does he nod his approval. 

“Good girl,” he breathes. Your pussy clenches around him at the praise. “M’only gonna do a couple seconds, alright?”

You nod frantically, heart already hammering with anticipation. You will gladly take whatever he gives you. 

His fingers find that perfect spot around your throat and you involuntarily shiver.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he reminds you. Your eyebrows knit together as your gaze locks with his and then, with just the right amount of force and pressure–he squeezes.

Any hope of keeping your eyes on him dissipates in an instant. Sweet nothing clouds your vision, a blissful sort of fog moving in as Joel restricts your oxygen with careful, steadfast fingers. For a few beautiful seconds, you float away to nowhere, until all too soon, his grip around your neck loosens, and a blinding wave of pleasure washes over you as your lungs refill with air.

“Fuck, good girl,” you hear Joel groan, diving forward to kiss your face, crowding you as you feel him start to fuck you again, thanking you for trusting him with each push of his hips into yours.

“Again, daddy, again– please,” you find yourself begging. “More.”

“Oh, fuck.” Joel pulls away, pistoning into you now with a slightly crazed look in his eyes. You recognize that look. As much as he loves relinquishing you of your power, he also–to some degree–relishes in owning it. When you give in, so does he. He lusts for the control, craves the responsibility of caring for you. 

“Yeah?” he growls. “You want daddy to decide when you get to breathe? My little girl doesn’t wanna think for herself at all, does she?”

“Mm-mm, no, daddy.”

“Fuck.” 

Joel curses under his breath as he works to slow his thrusts again, his fingers retaking their place around your throat. His nostrils flare and his chest heaves and you think he looks like a god. You bite your lip at the sight of him and actually feel his cock twitch inside you. 

Somehow, he remains focused.

“A little longer this time, okay?” he grits.

You nod, a desperate little noise squeaking out from between your parted lips.

Joel takes a deep breath, keeps his eyes trained on your face and for the second time, his fingers close around your airway.

Like he’d promised, he draws it out a little more this time. A slow build before stars burst behind your eyes and your body melts away into the couch as Joel softly presses down down down into your windpipe. You lose sense of time altogether, blinded by euphoria. But then Joel is letting you breathe again and you’re moaning as the blood rushes back to your brain, head lolling dazedly against the cushions as he resumes fucking you, harder now. 

“Christ, yeah , she fuckin’ likes that–you’re so fuckin’ wet, baby,” he marvels. He clutches your face beneath your chin and gently taps your cheek to refocus you. You blink up at him, so large and imposing as he fucks into you and overwhelms every single one of your senses. “You gonna come again? Get daddy's cock all messy?”

You want to–you will. You can feel tension coiling deep in your core, so warm and wet and inviting but–

“Need it…one more time, daddy,” you plead hazily as needy little tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Please.”

Joel groans but works to oblige you, slowing the steady strokes of his cock with a heady, ragged grunt. It seems to take considerable effort for him to hold his composure now, but he does–for you. 

“One more time,” he repeats definitively, eyebrows raised. You whine out a noise that sounds like please and Joel’s fingers find their way around your throat once more. 

“Ready?” he asks. You nod before he’s even finished speaking.

Joel’s chest rises and falls, his thick brows furrowing as he squeezes his deft fingers around your throat one last time. 

And oh –that does it. 

Release builds in you while your mind drifts at the sensation. You can feel him fucking you through it even as his hands make careful work of restricting your airflow, so sure and precise with every move he makes. He lets it go on until that welcome fog passes over you again and you’re sure you’d fall right through the floor if Joel wasn’t holding onto you. When he releases you, ecstasy floods your nerve endings and your orgasm crashes through you with dizzying force. His thumb finds your clit through it all, rubbing you through the peak of your climax so it seems to go on and on and on. Your ears are ringing but you can still hear yourself crying out, voice all hoarse and wanton with daddy daddy daddy thank you daddy.

“There she goes,” Joel hums as you come. He sounds so far away. “That’s right, little one, that’s right. Let it all go. Just like that for me.”

His free hand moves to cradle the back of your neck while you arch and writhe under him and when it ends, your mind is finally–perfectly–empty.

You’re not sure when it happens, but somewhere in the haze, Joel moves so you’re back in his lap. Like muscle memory, you snake your arms around his neck and hold on for dear life, a listless thing in his grasp as he fucks up into you so hard it jostles your entire being. 

“Atta girl, just keep fuckin’ takin’ it like that,” he grunts haggardly into your hair. “Just like that. Daddy’s perfect little doll. This is what you needed, huh?”

Yes. God, yes. This is all you ever want, you think. To just be a mindless little thing with no problems or fears. Only Joel’s. 

A breathless hum of agreement is the most you can offer him in return. Joel groans appreciatively, clutching you tighter as he chases release. 

“I know, baby, I know.” He sounds almost apologetic, like he can hear how tired you are. He knows you love this part just as much as anything else though. It might be your favourite part, actually–to feel so useful to him while doing nothing at all. It’s like a gift. 

He’s just worried about you, you think blissfully, smiling into his neck while he pounds your spent, weeping pussy. He only ever wants to take care of you.  

“M’almost done…almost there,” he promises, thrusts growing erratic. “Tell me where you want daddy’s cum.”

“Come in my pussy, daddy.” You say it like you’re making a wish, voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

“Yeah…yeah, baby, daddy’s gonna come in your tight little pussy,” he rambles. “Gonna give my little girl just what she needs–gonna–”

He’s cut off by his own strangled moan, coming undone with a final few pumps upwards into your wasted hole. His arms envelop you as he fills you with hot release, moving your ragdoll form along his length as he milks himself completely. It feels like he comes forever, cock spasming between your walls until you can feel spend leaking out around his length and dripping down onto his clothes, staining your inner thighs. He holds you there on top of him, even when his shudders subside and he’s filled you as completely as he can, fat pools of slick and cum sticking to your skin at the place your bodies are still connected. 

You can feel your eyes welling with tears again, some mixture of gratitude and grief setting in. Gratitude for finally feeling some semblance of comfort after such a painful day. Grief at the thought of having to come back to reality. Joel lets you stay below the surface a little longer, keeps reality at bay with his softening cock buried inside your pussy and his arms around your body, whispering praises and assurances that daddy’s here, daddy’s got you, you’re okay. 

He only moves to help guide you to the bathroom after several long, steadying moments. You still feel like you’re floating as he meticulously washes you clean in the shower, taking extra care around your neck, dotting sweet kisses there and painting your skin with tender, loving caresses. He offers your aching pussy the same gentle treatment. 

And when he tucks you into bed, he leaves the fairy lights on in the bedroom too, moulding you into his chest under their soft, heavenly glow.

“Tomorrow’ll be better, babygirl,” he whispers. “Okay?”

“Okay, daddy.”

For now, at least, you’ve got the lights. And you’ve got Joel. And that helps. 

Katee, help me pls I'm in a daddy mood and i would like to ask u if you would please write some daddy Marcus for me 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 THANKIE LOVE OF MY LIFE

ahhahahaah please enjoy some smut, baby girl. also i needed some resolution to daddy!marcus and i loved this too much.

~~

know better

a/n: SMUT, daddy kink, fluid transfers, big ass age gap; unbetaed, flinging shit out bc i'm a horny bitch; marcus might be a little OOC here

word count: ~1600

pairing: marcus pike x fem reader

read on ao3

~~

He shouldn’t be doing this.

He really, really shouldn’t be doing this.

What the fuck is he thinking?

He shouldn’t have you stretched out over his thigh, your little skirt bouncing as he rocks your hips back and forth, your drenched panties moving over the rough material of his slacks. He sits in his office chair behind his large oak desk, your pretty legs clamped onto each side of the thigh he’d lowered you onto when you leaned over to kiss him, unwilling to listen to him bullshit you anymore.

His fingers shouldn’t be digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow. He shouldn’t be shirtless in his office. Marcus knows better than this, is better than this, but your open mouth emits whimpers that drain all thought and reason from him. He’s drunk off of you.

And you’re so young. So willing and pliant and soft. He should’ve had you transferred months ago before it went this far. Before you came to him in his office a week ago and offered him something.

To his credit, he declined at first. Said he didn’t think it would be a good idea. You are so bright and shiny and new, and his exhaustion from work, from dating, from life has settled itself in his bones. Your quick, witty flirtations make him feel young, but he can’t be that guy. Right?

You’d walked out looking so sad and embarrassed, and it broke him. He’d pretended he wouldn’t go home and spill himself all over his own stomach as he remembered you telling him you wanted him. He watches you now. Lost in your own pleasure, your clit pressed hard into his muscled thigh.

He watches your tits bounce, both pebbled nipples showing beautifully through your knit blouse. Before he can stop himself, he leans forward and bites one, eliciting a whimpered moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he says, biting the other and lifting your shirt up to suck on them. “Taste so fuckin’ good. Your tits are so fuckin’ pretty.”

You rock against him with your eyes closed, high off of the praise.

“I lied,” he says, gripping your hips again, moving you faster.

“I know you did,” you whisper.

“Sweetheart, you don’t know what you do to me. You make me feel so out of control,” he admits, pulling you close to him so he can kiss your neck. His lips glide over your smooth skin and he inhales sharply as your thigh brushes against his length. His cock strains against his zipper and he bucks against you, desperate for some kind of friction.

“Why, Mr. Pike?” You breathe. Your voice is high, breathy, girlish—he growls.

“You know you can’t just—you know why—you’re doing this on purpose—”

He snarls into your neck, trying to keep himself under control.

“You’ve done this before, right?” Marcus asks.

“Yes, a few times,” you pant. His heart lurches. He stops you then, trying to ignore your whine of protest that makes him dizzy.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, “you...don’t have to do this. I don’t know if you’re ready for what I want to give you, and I don’t think I can hold back. I don’t want to do anything to—”

But you stop him with a kiss and wrap your little fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand to your soaked panties. He doesn’t resist—how could he? He pulls your panties aside and dips his fingers into your folds—how are you so fucking wet?

“You won’t hurt me if you get me ready,” you whisper in his ear. He snaps, then. His mind turns off, and something primal inside of him takes over. He’d take care of you, get you ready, he’d take you right here. He’d keep you.

He throws you over the desk and rips your panties off of you, positions himself in between your legs and dives into your cunt like you’re his last meal.

“Beautiful little girl,” he murmurs into your folds.

You gasp, reaching into his hair. None of the boys you’d fucked had done this before. You think of the times you were alone, pretending, wishing that the pillow between your legs or your own hand was any part of him. Of the times you’d make yourself come over and over thinking of him, his name tumbling off of your lips, and that darkest, most secret desire—that word you wanted to call him; the one you could barely admit to and had only whispered allowed when you’d exhausted yourself enough to relax into it.

But his tongue feels so much better than what you do to yourself. It’s hard to keep anything in. It’s late and no one else in the office, but you throw your hand over your mouth to keep anything from spilling out. Marcus licks and sucks and bites any bit of skin he can get to. He slides one thick finger inside of you, and even that fills you up. He groans into you, and you feel his arm jerking at his side in quick strides, the sound of his first moving around his cock.

“You taste so good, honey,” he says. You tense up because you feel that string about to snap and he moves his finger inside of you, hitting a spot that sends a wave of tingles through your body and you shudder. The flat of his tongue presses, and you let go—

“Daddy,” you breathe. It just comes out and your legs are shaking and you are so much wetter than you remember being before. You hope he didn’t hear it. You’re half humiliated and half thrilled.

Marcus stops. He stops touching himself and removes his face from your pretty cunt. You’ve thrown your arms over your eyes, trying to hide your face, cheeks burning. There’s a flurry of movement and two big hands wrench your arms down by your side, pinning you on the desk and caging you in. You open your eyes and he’s staring down at you, his lips and facial hair still wet with your slick. You cannot read his face.

“What did you say?” He asks. You can’t read his voice, either.

Marcus’s breath comes in shudders—he has to pull himself back, has to stop himself from fucking you into the desk, but he needs to know—what did you call him? And can you call him that again? And if you call him that again, can he fuck you until you cry for him? Can he do it again and again; can he make you his baby? His heart beats wildly, waiting for your response. Your voice comes out small.

“Daddy,” you say.

“Say it again,” he snarls.

“Daddy, please,” you whine.

“That’s my good little girl. That’s right, baby, you listen so well,” he says, smoothing his thumb, wet with his pre-come, over your bottom lip. He jams his thumb into your mouth and you can taste the salt and musk of him, and something guttural comes from you.

“You like that, baby girl? Sweet girl,” he coos. He rubs the tip of his cock some more and smears it over your mouth. “You like how Daddy tastes?”

You writhe underneath him. You’ve never been at anyone’s mercy like this, and you wonder, for a moment, if you should be more afraid, when he leans down to kiss you softly and puts his lips on your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop this right now, sweetheart. Please,” he says, and he sounds like Marcus again—patient and sincere. He waits for you to answer with soft eyes, stroking your cheek.

“Please—no, I don’t want to stop this. I want you to ruin me, Daddy,” you whimper.

You’re so lovely, spread underneath him, and he’s going to ruin you.

He brushes his cock against your folds and fucks into you without warning. He gives you no time to get used to it, and he’s so fucking big it stings. Marcus hauls you up to him so you can hold on to him and you dig your fingernails into his skin.

“Tell Daddy if it gets to be too much, baby,” he says into your ear. You can’t speak, so overwhelmed are your senses. He stops inside of you and grabs your chin.

“Answer me,” he says.

“Okay, Daddy.”

Satisfied, he sets the most brutal pace you’ve ever experienced.

“H-how long have you wa-anted this, little girl?” he asks.

“Since—the—beginning,” you say. He fucks you like a ragdoll, holding you up, enjoying your helplessness.

“God, you’re so fucking innocent,” he says, and you reply with a long whine. He reaches between your legs and plays with your clit, pressing and circling. “Come for me, baby girl. Come around my cock. Soak Daddy’s cock.”

It’s hard to resist that order. Your orgasm is softer this time, but it still grasps his cock and he groans into your mouth.

“Oh—oh—oh,” you whimper, and he can’t stop now. He fucks into you, harder and faster, his hips snapping into you.

“Come in me, Daddy,” you say. He slows a little. “I’m safe.”

He shouldn’t.

But he does.

His hips stutter and he bites your tits again as his warmth fills you, whispering that you’re a good girl.

“So good for me, so wet for Daddy, such a good fucking girl,” he murmurs as you stroke his hair. You let out a contented sigh, sticky with his come. He drops to his knees and licks himself out of you.

“Marcus,” you sigh.

He’s at your side in seconds.

“Is everything okay? I didn’t hurt you?” He asks, and his sweet brown eyes grow wide.

“No,” you say, carding your hand through his hair. “We made a mess of your desk.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s okay. Come home with me.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise.

“I wanna...wanna take care of you tonight. And maybe a few other nights. If you’ll have me,” he says, pressing light kisses to your jaw. “Let me take care of you, little girl.”

You close your eyes and sigh into his lips as he covers your mouth with his own. That didn’t sound so bad.

tags:  @cannedsoupsucks @thewayofthemandalorian @i-ship-it-ironically @sergeantbannerbarnes @greeneyedblondie44 @phoenixhalliwell @dindaddy @bootyliciousbilbo @sleep-tight1 @autumnleaves1991-blog @northernpunk @salome-c @agentwhiskeypussyindulgence @thirstworldproblemss @thepoisonofgod @starlightmornings @yespolkadotkitty @keeper0fthestars @songsformonkeys @sarahjkl82-blog @simsiddy @pedro-pastel @toomanystoriessolittletime @mothandpidgeon @silverwolf319 @generalfoolish @notabotiswear @foli-vora @the-witty-pen-name @pedrobsessed @leaiorganas @doin-stuff @wyn-dixie @kesskirata @janebby @julesorwhatever @221bshrlocked   @mad-girl-without-a-box @danniburgh @maharani-radha @starlightmornings @ladytrashbird @charnelhouse @jaime1110 @dihra-vesa @riddikulus-obsessions 

bright lights - part iii [dieter bravo x neurodivergent!f!reader]

chapter summary: It's the first awards show of the season. You try to get Dieter there without too much trouble. ratings/warnings: E [dual/alternating POV, alcohol/drug use, flirting, a little insecurity but not much, food eating/mentions, pix being a boss bitch, frank discussion of autism/neurodivergency and ways of coping, both of them being absolute menaces to each other, description of an-almost meltdown, reader described as curvy/soft/plus size, dry humping, dirty talk] wc: 6.7k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! take a look at the series masterlist linked below for some notes on our reader. Things! Are! Happening! I'm playing very fast and loose with the timeline here, but we're starting with The Golden Globes, y'all! I'm always a little nervous before posting this fic in particular, I'm finding out, for so, so many reasons. There are a few things I put in here just for me, and I hope y'all can relate to them, too. Shout out to @mothandpidgeon for her betaing and the pep talk. I hope y'all have fun on their first little adventure!

masterlist | series masterlist | dieter bravo masterlist | previous | next

There are many, many things on Dieter Bravo’s body to lust over. His thick forearms. Those shapely thighs. A smooth, muscular chest. The soft curve of his belly. Even his earlobes are begging to be bitten. There’s also every single thing about his face. By all rights he might be the most naturally beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

But if you must choose, if someone forced you to name a feature of his you cannot stop thinking about, it would be his hair. Especially right now. 

Especially right this very second.

Dieter has gone through a few different haircuts since you started here in the summer, but he’s kept it longer lately. He hasn’t had a haircut in a month or two, ever since you’d mentioned that you’d always liked men with long hair. Whether it’s by coincidence or he’s taken your opinion to heart, you don’t know, but it’s a constant struggle to keep your fingers to yourself.

If you dug your fingers through that silver-threaded chestnut mane all the way to his scalp and tugged, what would he do? 

Every imagined reaction makes you giggle. 

Shock, confusion, arousal—all three, maybe. 

You suspect he wouldn’t mind one way or another if you simply ran your hand through his hair, though. He’s been more physically affectionate toward you since he got back from visiting his family. A light touch on your arm, a hand on the small of your back as he passes behind you, one of those gleeful little forehead kisses he’s so fond of when he gets good news. 

You can’t tell if all of this is a coincidence or if he’s genuinely trying to be closer to you, as a friend or otherwise. It’s been an arduous process letting it happen. You would never tell him that, obviously; it sounds so insulting to tell someone, “Hey, it was really hard to let myself get close to you, but I did it!”

Getting close to someone, physically or otherwise, means opening up, and opening up means showing parts of yourself that he might find ugly. Making friends has always been pretty easy; it’s the keeping them around that’s usually the problem. 

But you really, really want to try to keep him. You’re so hopelessly, desperately into him that you don’t even try to fool yourself anymore.

What makes it all a little easier, though, is that you’re about ninety percent sure he’s into you, too.

All the signs are there. 

And yes, you know you’re just a regular girl (kind of) with a regular job (sort of) and a regular life (before this, at least) and he has a million beautiful people throwing themselves at him all the time, but, like, where are all those beautiful people lately? 

You haven’t had to call a single morning Uber since that night with Elvira. 

It’s not like he goes out—he’s about as much of a hermit as you are. The only hint of him still possibly sleeping around was the picture of the “old friend,” but he’d told you it was nothing, and you’d believed him. 

You decide to test this theory of yours. What’s the worst that could happen? You’ve embarrassed yourself plenty in front of him and he still seems to want you around. 

Eight days before the Golden Globes on a brisk Tuesday morning, you start your experiment.

“Morning, Dee.” He’s dragged himself out of bed for an early esthetician appointment, followed by a deep tissue massage. You’re still not entirely sure what an esthetician does, but Christina made it sound very important. 

“Mm,” he grunts. “Coffee?”

You nod toward the counter and he stumbles to the coffee maker, then settles next to you and stares off into the patio, bleary-eyed.

“You need a haircut.” 

He looks up and glares over the rim of the cup. 

“I’m not even awake and you’re criticizing me,” he pouts, jutting his bottom lip out. 

“I’m not,” you laugh. “I’m making an observation.”

With a wicked little smile, you run your fingers through his hair. It is, you realize, the first time you’ve actually reached out and touched him.

His mouth rounds, eyes fixed on your other hand as it comes up to tug at the ends. It’s thick and only a little coarse, softened up by the two hundred-dollar deep conditioner sitting in his shower.

“The gray is nice, too,” you sigh. His dark eyes widen, sparkling like a starry night sky. “Makes you look so distinguished.”

“Yeah?” He asks and you hold in a giggle at how hoarse it comes out. 

“Mm. I’ll see if Caitlin can cut it on Sunday, too. It just needs a little trim to keep it healthy. Do you want her to dye it, too?” You ask, but he just swallows hard as you keep playing with his hair. “You okay?”

“Great,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’m—you’re touching my hair.”

You ignore the prick of self-consciousness.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No!” He says as you slide your fingers down and set them in your lap. “Fuck no. I like it. You just…don’t usually touch me.”

You take a bite of your bagel and scrunch your nose at him and his big puppy dog eyes, and tug on the ends of his hair again.

He giggles.

“So,” you prod. “Cut and color?”

“Just the cut,” he says, and you don’t bother hiding your smile. “For now.”

Experiment one: successful.

The world is often hellbent on making life as difficult as possible for people like you. Sometimes just going to the grocery store is an event you have to come home and recover from.

Keeping yourself on track and focused when there are quite literally dozens of things feels impossible until you remind yourself that you have a system. 

You have a system for everything.

A checklist doesn’t sound revolutionary, but most people see a task as one step. You do not. In fact, there are many steps for most things, and when you’ve tried to explain this to people that don’t think like you, you’re often met with a blank stare. 

But that’s fine. They don’t need to understand your system. 

The only problem is that it’s time consuming. Broken down into tasks and subtasks and sometimes sub-subtasks, it takes a full day to translate everything from the chaotic scribble of notes you took perched in the uncomfortable armchair in Christina’s hospital room into a readable list of Things to Do.

There are so many things to do.

Christina is shockingly patient with you through the whole process, and you suspect she’s feeling guilty for throwing all of this on you. You’d like to clear the air; tell her it’s fine, that you’re actually getting excited about it, but people don’t seem to like it when you bring stuff like that up unprompted.

Her hospital room is filled with flowers and candy bouquets and Get Well Soon! teddy bears. She says almost all of it is from Dieter. She’d forbidden him from stepping foot into this hospital.

“I’ll be damned if he catches some kind of bacterial infection right before the biggest moment of his career,” she’d said. She wasn't quite so concerned about you, apparently.

“He’s really kind of a sweetheart, isn’t he?” 

She rolls her eyes, but hums in agreement. “He wasn’t always,” she says. “Back when he was using. I think half my job was dragging him out of bars and paying off paparazzi.”

Dieter isn’t exactly the picture of sober living now.

“When he was using?” You ask, helping yourself to a dark chocolate-covered strawberry from one of the candy bouquets.

“The hard stuff, I mean. I’ll take him drunk or stoned any day over coked up out of his mind. He doesn’t like to talk about that much.”

Sometimes you still wonder why Christina stuck around through all of it, but looking around the room you kind of get it. There are worse people to work for.

He has a good heart.

You spend the rest of the pleasantly cool day by the pool organizing your planner. Dieter, of course, decides that he simply must go swimming today. You don’t know how he’s not freezing, even with a heated pool.

Maybe it’s a good time to try another experiment. 

He hops out of the pool just as you’re breaking down scheduling an appointment for a haircut. You’d asked Caitlin, his usual groomer, if she could do it Sunday before the show, but she was hesitant to give him a cut on the day of an event. You understand her nerves, but it’s still another thing you have to do.

You pretend the reason you can’t tear your eyes from your tablet is because you’re too engrossed with your work and not because you’re afraid you’ll forget how to talk if you see him with wet hair and stiff little nipples—

Droplets of water spatter over your screen as he invades your space. “Yeah?” You ask, wiping them away. 

“You’re really organized,” he says, tapping it and minimizing the window. Now you have to look up and scowl.

“Dee!” You scold. He looks incredible, of course. Of course.

“Sorry, sorry.”

But you can hear the grin in his voice as he sits down next to you like a damp, curious dog. “What is all this?”

“What’s it look like? All the things I have to do to get you to an awards show in one piece,” you say, probably a little more aggressively than is strictly necessary.

“There’s like fifty things here,” he says. 

There’s not fifty, but there are a lot, you suppose.

Schedule haircut

Check if D wants Amberlee or Hans

Call first choice

Make back up appointment with second choice

Add to schedule

Tell D

You tap your fingers against your thigh as he glances over it, expecting him to ask why you need to do that, that a fully functioning adult shouldn’t need things broken down like a toddler. And then you might have to explain why your brain works the way it works, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready for that conversation with him.

People usually have one of three reactions when you disclose your diagnosis. Usually, it ends with someone denying everything, saying that you must have been told wrong, that you are too functional to be autistic. Too much like them. Other times, people outright stop speaking to you, suddenly extremely uncomfortable with the fact that you exist at all. And worst, in your opinion, is the sudden change in tone, speaking to you like a child.

It’s not something you usually tell your employers. And you don’t think you could handle any of those if they came from him.

“That’s cool,” he says. “I want Amberlee. Hans is always trying to get me to cut it really, really short. As if I’d deny the world this.”

The tension dissolves as he shakes his wet hair, spraying you with water and giggling as you shriek his name.

“Sorry!” He says again, but you know he’s not. He stands up and stretches out, his biceps glistening in the weak sun. 

How silly you were, fearing he’d judge you. 

“Dee?” You ask softly, and he freezes, looking down at you with a furrowed brow and two plump, pursed lips. “Would you mind getting me a drink?”

His face lights up. 

“Of course,” he breathes. “Yeah, of course, what do you want? I can—do you just want some water? I can go get something from—”

“Just some bottled water, please,” you say, and he trots off, dripping water all over his marble floor.

Something giddy and warm blooms in your chest. 

Experiment two: successful.

Sunday night, it’s all out of your hands. You’ve done everything you can do to ensure Dieter’s evening goes as smoothly as possible. And you’re feeling really, really fucking good about everything because you’re pretty sure you pulled this off, despite knowing nothing about any of this. You’ll have to spend all day tomorrow doing everything you usually do in a week, but that’s fine. You got this. 

You did this.

There’s nothing for you to do now but wait for Dieter to ask you for something. He has water and snacks, and you’ve picked out the red Skittles for him just this once to prevent any red dye smearing on his fingers. You’d worry about his clothes, too, but he’s in all black tonight.

You’re in all black, too, but it isn’t on purpose.

Christina’s dress code instructions were clear: do not give them any reason to think you’re anything but staff. A plain black suit felt appropriate, complete with sensible black shoes to keep you comfortable on your feet for the next few hours. Not exactly fashionable, but the goal is camouflage, not couture.

“We’re gonna match!” He’d announced, giving you a once over as you’d gotten into the car. “You look really nice.”

“Very funny, Dee,” you said, slipping into self-deprecation and denial before you could stop yourself. He didn’t say anything, and you looked up from digging in your purse to meet his eyes. 

“I mean it,” he’d said quietly.

“Oh,” you sighed, heat rising in your cheeks. Sometimes you’d claw at yourself and end up scratching someone else instead. “Thank you, Dieter. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he’d said, and then he’d moved on, talking about how he hoped they didn’t sit him by Austin Butler again.

Dieter, at least, is very good at moving past those moments, though sometimes you wish he’d let you wallow in them a little and feel worse about your social faux pas. He won’t, though. He never does.

Things are a little hectic. His pants needed hemming, his shirt was too small in the shoulders, the shoes were a half size too big. Eventually, between his stylist, his stylist’s sewing kit, and you running to the nearest men’s clothing store with said stylist on FaceTime telling you exactly what to look for, he’d gotten almost fully dressed.

He’d put the long, sequined coat on last, after his hair’s been poked and pulled and twisted into perfection.

“No date tonight?” Caitlin asks, brushing his curls out of his face. “Love that you’ve kept the silver, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he says, clearing his throat. “No, uh, no date.”

His eyes flick up at you, but they’re back on Caitlin just as you notice it. She has a million products laid out on the little table beside her, each chosen carefully from a bag filled with anti-aging creams and moisturizer and serums. You’d never thought much about men getting done up before these events. Dieter wore makeup on set, of course, but for some reason that never translated in your brain to being on camera elsewhere.

She starts with a cleanser that costs more than the jacket you’re wearing, and a gentle application of under eye serum for the bags under his eyes. Moisturizer that makes his face glow, along with cover up for a few blemishes. Eyebrow gel after a quick pluck, and a light dusting of powder for shine.

Caitlin steps back and tilts her head like there’s something missing.

“What about some eyeliner?” She asks. “I think it’ll go with your whole kinda goth boy look tonight.”

He nods, unconcerned. She applies a small amount to the outer corner of his eye, and decides he could use some clear mascara, too.

It’s unfair how fucking good he looks.

As if his eyes aren’t big and sweet enough on their own, the slight enhancement makes them heartbreakingly beautiful.

“How’s he look?” Caitlin asks. You glare at him.

“Sickeningly handsome,” you say, faking annoyance. He tries to be smug, but his cheeks are already turning pink. 

You’re a little smug about flustering him.

Dieter is constantly in various states of undress in front of dozens of people. He is pulled and poked at, positioned and repositioned, dressed and undressed, and he’s never shy about it. He’s unaffected, irritated at most if he’s been standing there for too long, but the feel of hands and fingers moving him and his limbs from one place to another is background noise at this point. You watch Caitlin run her fingers through his hair, twisting and waving his curls, and he stares at his phone like she’s not even there.

But you fluster him. 

He shudders when you run your fingers through his hair. 

Your heart flutters at those rosy cheeks.

Eventually, his face is done, his hair is done, he’s slipped on his coat and he’s ready to be chauffeured across the street in a black SUV. He’ll sit in the back—much more glamorous to exit that way—and you’ll get dropped off with the rest of the assistants down the street.

It curdles that blissful certainty you’d just recently had; a stark reminder of the division between the two of you. You sigh as you gather your things in your bag to set by the door. It’ll be faster that way when you get him inside and come back, not wasting time packing up.

“Pix?” He asks. “Do I look okay?”

What a question for him to ask. Do I look okay? He’s literally sparkling. He’s glowing. He’s so beautiful it’s hard to look at him for too long.

But he’s pulling at his collar and biting his lip.

“You look beautiful,” you say, and he grins.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Getting my stuff together so I can fight everyone else trying to get home a little faster,” you explain. He has no idea what happens after he disappears into auditoriums.

“Why don’t you just stay in the room?” He asks. “At least until traffic clears up. Or stay the night. I paid three grand for this suite, someone should enjoy it.”

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you explain, but it’s like a weak argument. You don’t even know why you’re fighting it.

“Sleep in the shirt I wore here,” he says, grinning. Flirting. “Or nothing.”

“Aren’t you coming back?”

“You want me to?” He asks quickly. You open your mouth, intent on saying something wildly flirtatious, but your alarm goes off. 

It’s time.

It’s almost over. Dieter is almost to the end of the carpet, almost ready to go inside. It’s almost time for you to get away from all the flashing lights and photographers screaming his name and the beautiful people who keep shoving past you to greet him.

You can almost feel those soft sheets.

You keep repeating it over and over, almost done almost done almost done, hoping to stave off the mini-meltdown that’s been looming since you arrived. You’ve blended into the back with the rest of the help, armed with lip balm and a sewing kit and glass bottle of Voss.

Dieter looks back every now and then, and you wonder if he’s trying to tell you something. Are you doing a good job? Does he need something? Can he tell you’re getting uncomfortable? You plaster on a smile and hold up the water bottle, but he shakes his head.

Almost done almost done almost done.

The clicking of the cameras, light bouncing from expensive jewelry. A cacophony of voices, some excited, some impatient, some inexplicably angry. Cell phones ringing. Someone is wearing too much cologne. The lining of your polyester suit jacket itches, but at some point during the day all the tags had disappeared.

Breathe in, breathe out. It’s almost done.

A man, large and imposing, brushes past the throng of assistants, and bumps right into you. The bottle of water—Dieter had specifically asked for that bottle of water—flies from your hand, hits a divider pole, and bursts into pieces, all over the fancy carpet. No one notices but you, and that’s when it feels like the end of the fucking world.

He asked for that water.

You hadn’t questioned it—you don’t like it when people question your food and beverage preferences, afterall—and you’d assumed there was a reason. The taste, the texture, you have no idea. All you know is that it’s gone now, and your precariously balanced state of mind is in danger of shattering just like that stupid fucking bottle.

Is everyone looking? You don’t look up. You focus on keeping your shaking hands from catching on pieces of jagged edged glass. All that work and you can’t even do something as simple as keep a bottle of water safe and ready for him to drink when he gets thirsty.

Later, it will occur to you that some inconsiderate asshole had shoved you in their hurry to get from point A to point B, and you could hardly be blamed. But that girl with her logic and objectivity is not here right now. It’s just you, your anxiety, and the sound of a million fucking camera shutters.

“Pix?”

Dieter’s kneeling on the ground in a ten-thousand dollar outfit. You might kill him when you can breathe again.

“Dieter, I’m sorry, the water—I can find some more, I know you like Voss—”

“Hey,” he says, blocking you from all the cameras as best he can with his broad torso. He slips his warm, dry hand over yours and squeezes. “You’re okay.”

Your heart stutters as you meet his warm gaze.

“We’re almost done here,” he murmurs low enough that only you hear it. “I’ll get something inside. You’re doing great.”

“Oh,” you hiccup. “Thank you.”

You’re not sure what else to say, but he doesn’t seem to need anything else. He helps you back to your feet and your heartbeat slows to normal.

You’ll be tabloid fodder, you think—Dieter Bravo stops red carpet interviews to help clumsy woman up during the Golden Globes—but that’s all right. 

All you can think about is his hand over yours.

Dieter has no delusions about his chances tonight. He’s still a little stunned that he’d been nominated at all. He figured it would be his co-star getting all the nominations—and he did, too, of course, but for a supporting role. Knowing Bradley, he’d bitched about that designation for weeks. 

Dieter had spent a lot of time before this wondering exactly how many dramatic roles he’d need to do before he got taken seriously again. Even with his general disdain for these ceremonies and all the ass-kissing involved right up to the last minute, being nominated means he’s back on track; that he hasn’t screwed his life as badly as he thought he had.

Despite that, he’s over all of it after twenty minutes into the show. The hosts are rarely funny, the music is always a little too loud, it’s always far too hot under the lights. It’s not like sitting in the dark enjoying a play—they’re all part of the show, too.

You’d hate it here.

You’d look amazing in one of these designer gowns, though. Maybe one of those strapless, backless things they have to use double-sided tape on to keep up. If he told you that, you’d frown at him and tell him to shut up, and he’d insist, and you’d tell him to shut up again. And he’d laugh because you’re funny. 

Maybe you’d be his date one day.

You’ve been different lately. Flirtier. Handsier. Fingers in his hair, a hand on his bicep. He stands too close to you and you don’t move away. He wants to do things for you; he wants to please you, pull you closer, make you proud of him.

You’re making him crazy.

Dieter resists wiping a hand down his face, afraid of smudging Caitlin’s carefully applied makeup. He’d never hear the end of it.

As predicted, Bradley wins for supporting actor. Dieter claps and laughs with everyone as Bradley thanks a laundry list of people who got him there today. 

He’s barely paying attention when they get to lead actor. The presenters call out his name and he snaps into performance mode just before someone shoves a camera in his face. Humble smile, wave at the camera.

“And the Golden Globe goes to…”

Dieter expects to feel nothing when he loses, but it’s bitter disappointment that floods his chest instead. He sighs, a broad smile of solidarity stretching across his face as he claps for his fellow nominee.

Only fifteen more categories left. 

He throws back a shot of tequila.

Shadows of the Past wins for best screenplay and supporting actress in a drama. Emma deserves that one. His claps are much more enthusiastic for her.

He squeezes Emma’s shoulders as she darts onto the stage as gracefully as she can and she throws a cheeky grin back at him. It might have enticed him once, but he has no interest in messing with a married woman.

How times change, he thinks.

Finally, it ends and they’re all herded like overdressed cattle to another ballroom for a tame sort of after party that lasts for a few hours. He makes the rounds, running into Carol Cobb and Sean Knox, who’ve just moved in with each other.

They’re trying for a baby.

He’s nodding, smiling, trying.

God, it’s so fucking hard to care. Good luck to that kid.

At ten he figures he’s been here long enough. There are still the after-after parties, and maybe he can get smashed enough at one of those he’ll forget all about the one of many losses he’s sure to sit through until the season is over.

He runs right into Bradley as he sneaks through the back.

“Hey, man,” Bradley says, staring out over an eerily empty parking lot. He takes a drag from what looks like a tightly rolled joint. His statue is on the ground and he nudges it with a shiny loafer, as if making sure it’s still there.

Dieter frowns. Bradley isn’t one to put “poison” in his body. He made sure they all knew that on set. “You all right?” Dieter asks, and he’s shocked to find that he’s actually a little concerned.

Bradley shrugs and hands him the joint, of which Dieter happily takes a long inhale. It’s not the good stuff, but it’ll do.

“Great,” Bradley says miserably. Dieter debates finding an excuse to leave. He’s not good at this kind of thing, and he’s still a little bitter about losing.

He’s still deciding when Bradley speaks again.

“My wife wants a divorce,” he says. Dieter tries to recall his wife’s name, but his brain just whirs.

“Shit, man,” Dieter says. “Sorry about that.”

He really is, kind of. Divorce sucks, no way around it.

Bradley shrugs. “I expected it. But she served me papers this morning.”

Dieter doesn’t know what to say, so he just takes another hit and hands it back. “You need that more than I do.”

“You headed to any parties?” Bradley says, eyes dragging up and down Dieter’s body with new, sudden interest. 

There are two reasons people look at him like that—drugs or sex. Dieter got rid of his plugs for the most part after his last stint in rehab, and as much as he wouldn’t ordinarily be opposed to fooling around with a desperate, heartbroken man, he thinks he’d rather just go back to the hotel now.

He’d rather just see you.

The Waldorf Astoria lobby is surprisingly quiet, save for a few employees milling around. Dieter checks his watch—it’s only nine-thirty, somehow. You haven’t answered his text about coming back and changing for the after-after parties, and he wonders if you’ve fallen asleep.

He’s never seen you asleep, now that he thinks of it. You’re always sharp and alert, always ready for whatever bullshit he has to throw at you. The idea of you curled up in bed, maybe snoring a little, softens something in his chest.

The elevator ride takes forever. It chafes at him—for three thousand dollars a night he shouldn’t the elevator fucking work?

He imagines you rolling your eyes at his impatience. He can’t help it. He wants to be there now. He wants to ask you for a hug and pretend it’s not because he’s upset about losing.

The hallway lights are dimmed to a soft, yellow glow that does nothing to endear him to the ugly carpet. He stops in front of the door and pulls out the keycard—should he knock, he wonders?

He should knock.

One, two, three knocks. “Pix?” He calls. “It’s me.”

“Hold on,” you say, and he’s so deliriously happy that you’re still there he doesn’t even fuss about waiting a few moments. The door opens and he blinks a few times to make sure he’s not seeing things.

You’re barely dressed.

“Where’re all your clothes, honey?” He asks, unable to help himself. You’re wearing his shirt and a pair of boy cut panties that accentuate your ass. And that’s it.

You roll your eyes. “You coming in or what?”

Hell yeah, he’s coming in.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says as you climb into bed and cover yourself up, much to his chagrin.

“What?” You ask, looking down and giggling. “Oh. Yeah. You told me to, remember?”

There’s something a little off about your demeanor. A thin sheen of sweat shimmers on your collarbone and your eyes are much shiftier than usual. Most of the time he can get a glance or two from you.

Did he…interrupt something?

“I did,” he sighs. “It looks good. You look good.”

“Shut up,” you say, and there you are, glaring at him in an adorably bashful way with slightly bloodshot eyes. He spies his weed pen on the bedside table. 

“You smoked my weed, too,” he teases as you fall back on the bed and giggle.

“Mmhmm.”

Yeah, fuck the after-after party.

“Sorry about the not winning thing,” you say out of nowhere as he shrugs his jacket off, hanging it up carefully. “At least you have some parties to go to still, huh? Unless you plan on hanging out here. There’s a marathon of Criminal Minds on.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him, grinning in a dramatic, enticing way.

“Actually…” He trails off, and you give him an expectant look. “I need a hug.”

You open your arms wide with no hesitation and he falls on to the bed with you. You’re definitely high, right? He should feel bad about taking advantage of your current state of mind, but he can’t make himself feel bad enough to stop. You’re too soft and warm against him.

You run your fingers through his hair, humming as he burrows into you. He doesn’t dare breathe too hard, doesn’t try to unravel himself just in case you realize what you’re doing.

“Still got all this product in your hair,” you say, scruffing it up. He pouts when you let him go, but he’s not mad about the view as you walk to the bathroom. He’s almost purring at the sight of you so casually undressed, so comfortable in his presence with your thick thighs and the curve of your ass on display.

You look so fucking good in that shirt.

He reaches for his weed pen and takes off the stiff, expensive clothing as he waits for you to come back.

“Where’re all your clothes?” 

You’re so loose like this, so unafraid of yourself, of him, of whatever is happening between the two of you right now. He should put all his clothes back on and leave, but Dieter is a selfish man, and you might never let him get this close again.

You settle back in bed with a spray bottle and a brush, kneeling next to him and spritzing it with cold water. He sighs as you massage his scalp with your nails. On the TV, a serial killer confesses his crimes to Inigo Montoya. 

Now he wants to watch The Princess Bride with you.

He takes an inhale and hands you the pen, but you wave it off. “I’ll pass out soon enough as it is,” you murmur.

“You want room service?” He asks. “I’m fucking starving.”

“I’d take some dessert,” you say. “I might have already gotten a burger.”

“Spending all my money.” 

“You don’t mind.”

 And fuck, he absolutely doesn’t. He’d spend every penny he ever made on you. He never thought of himself as a spoil-his-girl type, but he’s pretty sure he’d do anything to keep you happy.

“I don’t,” he says, because he knows you need to hear that. You let out a huff of a laugh and run your fingers through his hair one more time.

“So soft,” you sigh.  

“You think about my hair a lot?” He murmurs.

“I just like touching it,” you say, and he turns around and grins at you.

“You can touch anything on me whenever you want,” he flirts.

“Shut up,” you say again, smirking.

He finds the room service menu on an iPad on the bedside table and sends in an order, pleased that he doesn’t need to speak to anyone but you. A bacon cheeseburger and peach and pistachio mille-feuille with creme patisserie for him, a butterscotch pot-de-creme for you. You tease him for his overly fussy dessert, but you take a bite when he offers it anyway.

He feeds it to you, the messy creme squeezing from the sides of the crisp and as you bite down. Your eyes are still bloodshot, heavy lidded in an indescribably sexy way. If he moved his fingers a few inches forward they’d be on your tongue.

“That’s pretty good,” you say, scooping some of the pot-de-creme out and lifting it to his mouth. “Have some of this.”

He leans forward and wraps his lips around the spoon, watching the way your mouth parts as he consumes the confection like the Eucharist.

“Pretty good,” he says, wiping the tiniest bit of creme off the side of your mouth with his thumb. 

Eventually, when he’s stuffed himself full, he finds himself under the covers with you.

“Not going out I guess?” You ask. Your voice is heavy with exhaustion. You’re fighting sleep just to stay awake to talk to him. He should let you sleep.

“Wouldn’t be fun. I’m still a little sad that I lost,” he admits instead. Your eyes pop open, shiny in the blue light of the TV screen. “I woulda thanked you if I won.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you say in that blunt way of yours. “You didn’t even know me when you made it.”

“I wish I had,” he says.

You giggle and run your fingers through his hair again, more tentative this time, cautious not to cross any lines. He wants to tell you that there are no lines with him, that he’d give himself to you whole if you’d let him, stomp all over these boundaries you’d imposed on yourself.

He lets you step over them first.

You draw closer until he’s holding you in his arms, until you’re nosing his cheek and he’s nosing yours, and he should pull away. He shouldn’t let you do this.

And then you kiss him. It’s chaste at first, like you’re just comforting him in the language he speaks.

“I’m sorry you didn’t win,” you say, kissing the tip of his nose. “You deserved to.”

“Thought you didn’t watch my movies,” he says.

“I lied.”

You kiss him again and giggle against his lips. He giggles back. Laughing with you makes him warm and gooey inside. “You okay, Pix?” 

He needs this to be real.

“I know what I’m doing, Dee. I promise.” You pause, and he watches the doubt creep over your face as you second guess yourself. “Unless—”

He kisses you with more heat to head you off, heart thumping in this little cocoon of bedsheets. 

“What were you doing when I came back?” He asks.

“Guess,” you sass.

“You wanna finish?” 

“You’re so unprofessional.”

“Just trying to help,” he says. He winds his leg between yours, offering himself. “Been a long day. You get so stressed out.”

Use me is what he wants to say.

You wiggle further down till you reach his thigh, pressing the damp gusset of your panties against him. He flexes and you let out the smallest whimper.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “There you are.”

“Is-is-is this okay?” You stutter, and he cups your neck in his hand and kisses you.

“You know it is,” he murmurs. “You know how much I want you. Know how much I wanna see you come. Make you feel good. I know you do, you’re a smart girl. Use me.”

You move like molasses against him, and your panties just keep getting wetter and wetter against his thigh. He wants to pull them to the side, feel your hot pussy against his bare leg, but he doesn’t dare do anything that might pull you out of it.

His cock has sprung to life, precome dripping from his slit as he throbs against your soft thigh. You pant into his mouth as his hands roam your body, stroking your belly and thighs and all the places he ever dreamed of touching.

“Can I touch your ass?” He asks, and you nod vigorously. He squeezes your cheek in his hand, groaning into your mouth as you whine against him.

Dieter’s been with a lot of people on various drugs in various positions, but you make it all brand new. You make him feel like he’s never felt a hot, wet cunt before, like he’s never heard a woman moan, like he can’t control himself. His cock is throbbing, protesting at being ignored, but he’s too focused on just how much pleasure you’re getting right now.

“Dee,” you whine and oh, fuck, he really loves the way that sounds.

“I know, baby,” he says. “I’m right here.”

“I think—I think I’m gonna come,” you whisper.

“Good, baby, that’s good. Want you to come. What do you need?” He asks. “Let me help you.”

“I-I-”

“Wish you were on top of me right,” he whispers. “Wish you were using my cock to get yourself off. Want you to put me in place, yeah? Fuck me until I’m a good boy for you.”

You don’t answer—you can’t. You seize against him, and he can feel you gush through your panties, your slick dripping against his thigh. “Dee,” you chant, over and over, and he rocks you through it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. My girl, my pretty girl.”

Shivering through the aftershocks, you look up at him with soft eyes. “Dieter,” you sigh as he smiles softly at you.

He murmurs your name against your lips and kisses you one last time before you go heavy beside him, your breathing evening out. His cock is still hard, begging for him to finish himself, but he’s loath to untangle himself from you. 

Instead he just lays there listening to you breathing, and eventually, he drifts off, wrapped up in you.

Blearily, your eyes blink against the morning sun. There’s something warm and bright fluttering in your chest, like you’d been having a particularly lovely dream, and as you try to chase the last glimpses of whatever it had been the night before floods your memories.

Dieter’s nose nuzzling against yours, his lips tickling your jaw, soft giggles from the both of you echoing in the dark room. And you’d kissed him.

You’d kissed him.

He’d kissed back, of course.

His hands roaming your body, gentle fingers lingering over your bare thighs and tummy. His leg threaded between yours, pressed against—

Oh, God.  

Was that part of the dream, too?

Judging from the stickiness between your legs, you think not. You sit straight up in bed, whipping your head around to find the room empty save for yourself.

You try to swallow the disappointment rising in your throat as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stumble around for your pants, the humiliation of waking up alone after dry humping your boss being quite enough to deal with at the moment.

Ugh, you’re still in his shirt, and it still smells like him, and you still smell like him, and—

The sliding glass door opens and Dieter steps inside wrapped in a fluffy robe. Every muscle in your body unclenches, and that warmth from earlier floods back into your chest. He smirks, his eyes dragging over your body.

He whistles.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” you laugh and throw a pillow at him as you fall back on to the bed.

The mattress dips with his weight, leaning over you to meet your eyes. The silver in his hair shimmers in the light. You smile up at him.

“Morning, dream girl,” he says.

You don’t think you’ll need a third experiment, actually.

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