Ezra + Bath Oil + Titties

ezra + bath oil + titties

GO

You absolute menace ily hahaha. Initially I was just going to do a short lil drabble that was a continuation of our disgusting musings about this man, but then I said why not make this into an entire feature in honor of @swiftiscruff's Friendship Exchange? You know, give our boy Ezra some real time to shine, and all in the name of celebrating friendships formed over that little verbose slut?

So, here is my Ezra oil shower titty fic dedicated to the lovely Kelli in celebration of the Friendship Exchange.

𝗔𝘄𝗮𝘀𝗵 𝗶𝗻 𝗬𝗼𝘂

PAIRING(s): Ezra x fem!reader RATING: explicit material | 18+ WORD COUNT: 3k CONTENT: AU where Cee doesn't exist sorry lmao, established relationship, titty fixation, edible/food safe bathing oils, Ezra comes with his own warning, egalitarian assplay, cumplay, fabric washcloth used as gripping agent

Your nose for the most part had become blind to Ezra’s signature, tangy musk that edged into a ripe stench on hotter days. Even though you’d settled into the outskirts of a modest trading town and begun taking on the doldrums of keeping house, Ezra hadn’t fallen from his habit of going a little too long in between bath days. In times past he would go unshowered due to lack of amenities – the worlds you’d traveled and harvested from had hardly offered much in the way of hygienic routine – but now there was no such obstacle. He could bathe any time he wished and take as long as he pleased. You had your own home together now, one you were building upon each and every day, but the transient, unpredictable life that had become so ingrained into him was hard to shake. The notion of permanence was fleeting no matter how many days passed under your roof.

You, on the other hand, had become part fish since putting down roots here. There was a bathtub and a separate shower, and you craved the warm pool of water to soak in after a long day. Ezra liked to give you grief for wasting such a precious resource as water even though this planet was abundant in it. And yet, his admonishing never kept him from slipping into the wash room to ogle your bare form in the bath. You just wish every now and then he’d partake himself.

“The suns in all their unwavering glory has me feeling wrung of every bit of moisture,” he huffs as he fills a glass with something to wet his tongue and flood his scratchy, dry throat. “It’s good fortune that we needn’t adorn ourselves in protective suits here. I can only imagine the sort of foul fog that would cling to me then.”

You’re well aware of the second sun’s habit of becoming unbearable in these few weeks that your now home planet rotates closer to it. Your skin is sticky and wet with exertion, but at least all the growth pods you and Ezra have worked so tirelessly to establish are flourishing. They needed as much extra attention as any human on this planet did during these hotter spells. Soon enough you will forget all about the vehement heat when you and Ezra take your yields to the market during The Great Exchange and come home with lighter wagons and heavier pockets.

You accept the glass from Ezra and drink down whatever he’d poured. The cool creep of it down your throat already feels one step closer to equilibrium. “I guess we should wash up before we get the entire house dirty,” you reason.

“Hm, I suppose we should.”

You trod upstairs to the bathroom and bite back a scream when you see Ezra procure one entirely too small washcloth from the cabinet.

“You’re only washing at the sink?” you ask in what you pray isn’t a too panicked timbre.

“You don’t think the sink is robust enough to address my filth?”

You scrunch your nose, and that’s all the answer he needs. He chuckles a little and sets the singular washcloth aside. It already has smudges of who knows what just from him handling it.

“Tell me what you propose, my Little Gem.” He has an easy smile and those dangerous, glittery eyes fixed onto you.

“I mean, if you’re too tired I could, you know, I wouldn’t mind getting you washed up.” You shrug as though it’s enough to offset your way too eager proposition.

“You believe my own efforts are inferior?” he teases. “My Little Gem needs to take matters into her own hands and not rely on the fates?”

“Well, you’re always talking about wasting water. Wouldn’t it be saving water if we showered together?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You would forgo your hallowed soak just to bathe with me, Little Gem?”

“I’m way too gross to just get into a bath. It’d just be sitting in a pool of my own funk. This level of gross calls for a full on shower, I think.”

“And you’ll tend to me in there?” he purrs as he steps closer to you and curves his hands over your hips. The pungent tang of his body makes your nose scrunch again.

“Much to tend to, it seems,” he remarks in response to your overt repulsion.

You need to take Ezra up on his noncommittal commitment of getting into the shower with you before he changes his mind. You quickly concoct a plan to hold his attention and agreeability in the small shower. You grab the soaking oil you drizzle into your baths on especially achy days and prop it on the shower ledge. You start peeling off grimy, damp layers of clothing and nod to Ezra, who begins doing the same.

You cross the room to where you stow your accessories and extras and grab a few items to pin your hair back. The last thing you need is something getting in the way of you giving him a thorough scrub down. Ezra saunters after you like a cat on the prowl, eyes roaming greedily up and down. Before he can derail the entire enterprise, you slink into the shower and start the water.

The initially cool spray is a contrary sensation to the heat emanating from your skin, but it quickly warms to a soothing slip. The stall darkens as he steps inside, broad shoulders blocking out the light struggling to filter in through the expanse of him. His frame was a thickened amalgamation of corded musculature padded in the softened flesh of a satiating supper every evening. The work here kept him lean for the most part, but you much preferred this iteration of him – all brawn and lithe but with the markers of an untroubled life.

“It seems all displeasure with my hygiene is forgotten once I’m naked as the day I was born,” he murmurs low and self-satisfied.

You roll your eyes but know he’s correct. A lover as competent and enthusiastic as Ezra meant overlooking other personal drawbacks wasn’t too difficult. “I’m sizing up my work,” you protest.

“And what do you make of its sizing?” he purrs with a gentle roll of his hips against you.

You knew this was where things would go almost immediately, and yet you still had the nerve to be caught off guard. “Ezra,” you grit out. You guide him under the stream and tell him to stay put while you grab the stack of washcloths you’ll need.

Upon your return you note the ashen brown water falling from him and circling the drain. “I must admit–” he says through the water rushing over him. Your eyes catch the flex of his biceps as he raises his arms up to work the water through his hair and scalp. “–There is something quite divine about the ritual. All sins washed away. A clean slate. A pure soul ready to be defiled once again. Isn’t that right, Little Gem?”

“What?” you mumble absentmindedly, too preoccupied on ogling the trail of water snaking down his torso and into the thicket of brown coarse hairs below his waist.

He only grins with a devious slant to his mouth and pulls you under the spray with him. His hands wander across your body in a lazy exploration. The only thing keeping you from abandoning your task altogether and just letting him take you right there in the shower is the persistent odor still clinging to him, now taking on a damp quality that only heightens the earthy grub and grit components within.

“Take a seat on the ledge, Ezra.”

He gropes the curve of your ass and presses a few kisses to the column of your neck before complying. “I’m at your disposal.” He spreads his arms open, inviting the work and focus of your hands on him.

You avoid looking at his half hard cock bobbing gently with every movement and soap up the first cloth. You try to avoid the snare of his gaze as you begin scrubbing his face, but he catches you with it as you lather through his beard. The corner of his mouth pulls up, an instant reassurance that he knows exactly the effect he has on you.

His face is a brighter, pinker vision once you rinse it, and it solidifies your resolve to scrub every inch of this man while he’s indulging your whim. His hands roam up and down your legs as you scratch and scour his hair. The fragrance of the soap combined with the purged dirt fills the space. You move to your hands and knees and start scrubbing from toe to knee then thigh to groin. He surprisingly doesn’t make too much of a fuss, which is good considering it takes three separate washcloths to get that section entirely cleaned.

“Surely I’ve indulged your caretaking long enough to have earned a different kind of corporeal attention?” He leans forward and noses at your neck and earlobe, and your body shivers despite the warm rush of water trailing down your back.

“Grab that bottle to your left,” you order as you start scrubbing down his torso. Your breath catches when your wrist bumps into his fully hardened, weeping cock, and you catch the curve of a smirk playing on his mouth. He holds up the unlabeled bottle and gives it a questioning shake. 

“An aphrodisiac?” His eyebrow cocks in devilish curiosity.

“Bath oil,” you snort. “You can, um, put some on me while I’m working on you. You know, just so it has time to soak in before I wash up, too. If you don’t mind.”

His eyes narrow and pull the edge of his mouth upward. He sees right through you, just like he always does. “Here I was thinking my purest Little Gem wouldn’t resort to such lowly deceit and bribery.” He pops the cap of the bath oil open and drizzles a moderate amount into his hand before setting the bottle aside again. He’s clearly amused with the ruse you’ve concocted, but unfettered exploration of your body is apparently a bribe he’s willing to accept.

“Resume your venture to free me from all the remnants of my labors,” he obliges.

“You know, you could just say ‘keep scrubbing me because I know I still smell’, Ez.”

He grins and raises his hands until they hover above your chest, little trickling lines of oil falling onto the slope of your breasts and dripping down slowly. You push your tongue against the back of your teeth to keep yourself grounded. If Ezra decided to start toying with you, you didn’t stand a chance at resisting his efforts.

You slather his arms from wrist to shoulder and work your way to his torso. Meanwhile he grazes a slick finger against your nipples in a ghost of a touch that has you subconsciously chasing his hand. You finish underneath each of his armpits, and, just when he’s behaved himself long enough to catch you off guard, he flicks one of your nipples hard with the edge of a fingernail. A shaky gasp of sharp pleasure flies from your throat quickly followed by a second one when he does it to the other side.

“See to my hindparts, won’t you?” he solicits with a deceptively innocent expression.

You clench your teeth together and take a step forward so you can reach over his shoulders and wash his back. He dips his head and takes as much of your breast into his mouth as he can and suctions with as much strength as he can exert. You yelp and attempt to release the clutch of his mouth from your sensitive bud, but he only sucks harder with a satisfied groan. His arms circle around each of your legs and cause you to lose your footing, which he uses as a distraction to switch sides.

Little pinpricks of purple have cropped up in a bloom of red from where he already sucked, and the force of his pull now promises no different for the other side. He loved to do this to you – get you off kilter, overstimulated, and seeking out more, often all at once. Your breaths come out whiny as he latches and pulls on your nipples and tissue.

“Ez,” you gasp. “I’m–I have to–to finish.”

He grips the flesh of your ass and pulls one cheek aside so that he can deftly push a thick fingertip into your puckering rim. It glides in with no resistance, and you almost think the oil wasn’t even necessary with how much you ached for him to fill you there. He pulls away just enough to disorient you with his intoxicating diction.

“Perhaps before our wash is complete, you’ll be beseeching me just to feel the breadth of me cleaving you apart,” he husks. “Nearly weeping for me to bury my cock in this hole just as you did only two nights ago.”

 “It feels good,” you mewl weakly. 

He hums low and gravelly in agreement as he resumes his ministrations on your breasts. The tip of his finger plunges shallow, a slow in and out, and you know it’s just to tease you for what you won’t get until you are begging him for it. You think that he must revel in the sway he has over you when he so fervently succumbs to you. There’s something so raw and vulnerable in the way he cannot deny his devotion and attachment to you, and so he must have some part of you in the same way as to not feel entirely powerless.

You’re panting despite exerting very little energy at the moment. “I-I really need to finish washing you u—”

He pops off with a loud smack and abruptly stands. He crowds you against the corner and props a foot up on the ledge, caging you in with his cock right at your eye level. Your hands rush with a washcloth and soap, now more greedy to feel him than cleanse him. You lather his entire groin area and resist the urge to lick up the beads of precum dribbling from his ruddy tip. Your eyes keep traveling up to meet his where he watches down on you with an almost omnipotent, divine consideration.

The last washcloth falls to the shower floor, and Ezra slowly walks backward into the water to rinse himself. It’s probably just a trick of the mind, but you swear he appears less hazy than usual with all the grime cleared from him. Your mouth is slack as you watch from your hands and knees on the shower floor, impossibly cramped into the corner of the small space. He smiles down at you. You know how much he loves seeing you on your knees in front of him.

Without a word, he moves the shower head to the side so that it pelts against the tile instead of spraying down on you both before turning around and hitching his other leg up on the ledge. He braces himself on the wall and the wobbly metal and glass door on the other side.

“Reap the benefits of your work, Little Gem,” he says over his shoulder.

You frantically douse your hand with a generous dab of the bath oil and walk on your knees until your mouth is flush against the cleft of his ass. A strangled whimper ekes out of him as you reach a hand between his legs and stroke his neglected cock with the slippery pull of the oil. You entrench your face into him until your flicking tongue delves into his asshole. You massage and prod into it, eyes rolling back when you feel how it clenches in delight at your motions.

Ezra turns again to face you now with what can only be described as a wild, hungry look in his eye. He takes the neatly stacked pile of used washcloths and tosses them onto the floor. You have no time to question his motives because he’s grabbing the bottle of oil and squeezing globs of it onto your breasts, barely returning the bottle to its place on the shelf before he’s massaging them and awkwardly shoving his cock between them and rutting against their pillowy, fleshy tightness.

“Shit,” he hisses. “That ass. That asshole of yours. These tits.” He sounds pained just trying to speak. His face screws up as he fucks between them, moaning appreciatively when you use your hands to press them closer together for him to fuck.

“You like my tits?” you ask a little breathlessly.

He makes a noise of great effort, eyes pinching shut at your goading question. He frees his cock and takes the flat of his hand to slap against your peaked buds. You cry out in pleasure at the sharp, blissful sting. “Bet I could make you come for me just like this. Couldn’t I, Little Gem?” he grits.

“Y-Yes,” you moan.

He makes some unhinged noise and slaps against your breasts in quick succession, barking out an order for you to touch yourself, and teeth glinting in the light with a manic grin as you climax. He starts fisting his length over your face, breaths coming fast and heavy.

“Open wide now,” he pants as he tugs his cock faster. The tip of it knocks against your lip, and you open wider with your tongue jutting flat and spread out for him to cover.

“Just like that Little Gem,” he rasps. “Hold it open and drink me.”

A few short strokes is all it takes before he’s moaning and erupting all over your face and mouth, the hot, thick bands of his spend sticking to your skin wherever they land. He doesn’t stop jerking himself until every last drop is spent. When he’s finally done, he smears his softening cock against your face, collecting his cum in sloppy swipes.

“Now look who is soiled, Little Gem,” he hums. “Clean up the mess you’ve made.” He watches you with half-lidded eyes and a heaving chest. “Wouldn’t want to leave things filthy, would you?”

You oblige and take him into your mouth, sucking and licking until every trace of his spend has been swallowed.

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a lot of people have asked if they can support me and my writing through a ko-fi. and although that's incredibly kind, there are a lot of people who need that generosity more than i do.

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I drew a cowboy baby. 

Old Western Din Djarin for your consideration.

like real people do (joel miller x f!reader)

i will not ask you where you came from. i will not ask, and neither should you. honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss, like real people do.

summary: a temporary arrangement leads to permanent feelings that joel can’t seem to shake — for you. but do you feel the same?

warnings: post-outbreak, jackson!joel, age gap (28/56), smutty thoughts & happenings, jealous!joel, angst, pining, reader has curves & wears joel’s jacket, masturbation (m), typical canon violence & weapons, graphic description of wounds, cursing, blood, food, alcohol, unprotected piv, 18+ minors dni.

notes: this is my contribution to @undercoverpena’s april showers challenge 💛 jo, you are such a light. thank you for organising this, i had the best time!

as ever, i am indebted to my flawless beta @macfrog - max, i can’t ever thank you enough for the way you transform my work. i love you. big love to @frannyzooey & @swiftispunk for the encouragement and reassurances. you both rock my world.

Joel shakes his head like a wet dog, wipes his brow so he can see past the droplets clinging to his lashes. He can just about make out the gates of Jackson in the heavy rain, the reins slipping between his hands. No matter, really. Blue knows his way; the horse’s damp ears pricking at the sight of home.

His only concern is you.

Joel twists in the saddle, ignoring the protesting muscles in his spine as the wind screams in his ears.

You’re behind him, just like he needs you to be.

You’re soaked, bleeding through his hasty bandaging, wincing in obvious pain. But you’re there. Upright, still breathing. He can heave a sigh of relief.

Today was a close call. Too fuckin’ close.

It’s not like Joel didn’t know you were going to be trouble.

He did. From the moment you showed up on his doorstep, his brother’s arm over your shoulder.

He knew.

Joel stirs to the sound of incessant knocking on his front door. Sunlight spills into his bedroom, a pool of honey over his sheets. He’s not due on patrol today; a rare twenty-four hours of freedom lay ahead of him. And he’d planned to spend a good portion of those in bed, or sat with his guitar.

Clearly, someone has other ideas.

“‘m comin’!” he shouts, cricking his neck and reaching for his jeans, discarded on the floor beside him. He figures he best pull on a shirt, too - he has no idea who’s pounding at his door, but at seven in the morning, on his day off?

Surely can’t be a sign of anything good.

Joel grumbles as he heads down the stairs, pulling at his zipper and shaking his head. This better be fuckin’ important. He reaches for the door none too gently, ready to reprimand whoever’s stood the other side.

He opens it to his brother.

Joel’s readying himself to launch into a tirade borne out of week-long exhaustion. He doesn’t expect to see Tommy’s arm round the shoulder of a terrified-looking young woman.

You.

You’re covered in grime, sneakers falling apart at the seams, shirt splattered with blood.

“Mornin’, Joel,” Tommy starts, his voice soft and pleading. Joel stares into eyes so like his own, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m needin’ a favour,” he continues. Joel’s gaze flits to you for a beat, and he swallows.

“I guess it couldn’t wait till after breakfast?”

Tommy’s laugh is strained, false grin tight across his cheeks as he squeezes your shoulder. “Don’t take no notice, darlin’. Bark’s worse’n his bite, I promise.”

“This young lady here arrived late last night,” he says as Joel folds his arms across his chest. “We found her up on the ridge, nobody else with her. As you know, the Pattersons took the last available house we got, and Harley’s nursery took up our spare room,” Tommy jerks his chin over the street, and Joel has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Now that Ellie’s moved out ‘n all, Maria was — we — were wonderin’ if we could put her up here, with…With you,” he finishes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Joel desperately wants to ask him if he’s lost his goddamn mind, but you’re looking at him with the same haunted gaze he’s become so familiar with in the past two decades.

Joel isn’t a monster. Those live outside the very walls that now keep him safe. He has no desire to ask how you made it past them, though; he knows you’ve seen things you never want to talk about again.

There’s something inside him: buried and dormant. It’s not your fault. You’re not asking Joel to house you, to spend his day off getting acquainted with you. You just look like you need a shower, and a week’s worth of sleep.

It’s not your fault.

“Temporarily?” he asks, clearing his throat as you stare at the ground. “Yes, Joel,” Tommy grimaces at his bluntness. “Temporarily.”

Tommy tells you to come find him and Maria when you’re settled, that they’ll fix you up with some more new clothes, give you some time to adjust. He hands you a backpack, and you step over the threshold. Tommy heads off with a curt glance towards his big brother, leaving the two of you alone.

You still haven’t said a word.

“‘m Joel,” he says as he closes the door, more gruffly than he means to. You nod, offering your name quietly in return. You look so fucking afraid of him, and he hates that. He holds out a hand to shake, and you take it.

Soft.

Your hands are so fucking soft. Your fingernails are caked with dirt, knuckles scarred, but your palms feel like warm velvet. Joel clears his throat, drops your hand like it’s burned him.

“This way, ma’am,” Joel instructs, a distant memory of his mama telling him to mind his manners. You follow him up the stairs, and he ushers you into the room that used to belong to Ellie. It’s empty now; Ellie having relocated her collection of belongings to the outhouse in the backyard.

“My, uh, kid used to stay here. She’s moved out, now,” Joel tells you, thumb pointing behind him. You’re nodding again; he can tell you’re exhausted, the way you’re moving like you’re carrying the weight of a thousand people on your shoulders. He knows that feeling, wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

“I’ll leave ya to it, then. Shower’s just down the hall, so feel free to use whatever’s in there. Won’t be anythin’ fancy, mind,” he shrugs, and is surprised when you smile at him in return. It opens up your whole face, lifts your eyes, a ray of sunlight carving a path between you both.

You study him for a second; Joel feeling your eyes assess him, straightening his back instinctively. “Here I was, expecting five stars,” you comment, and Joel’s taken aback by your gentle teasing, your quiet confidence.

For one strange moment, it’s like you’ve claimed the space already. Like this room has always been waiting for you, somehow.

“Don’t know what my baby brother’s been fillin’ your head with,” Joel smirks, “but I’ll try my best.”

You look at him one final time before he leaves the room.

“Counting on it.”

Joel learns that you’re twenty-eight, the only survivor from a group who broke away from the Kansas City QZ. He recognises the shadow that falls across your face when you tell him about it, knows all too well the living hell it became.

You compare stories with him one morning over a breakfast he prepares for you both, before you silently agree not to discuss it again. Jackson is a new start: a place all about reclaiming that sliver of human decency that’s left on the Earth, the one thread of connection and community that binds the residents together.

Joel wants you to know that.

Weeks turn into months, and before he knows it, Joel’s memorised your gait, your scent, the way you always forget the creak in the stop stair. He watches you with Ellie, how you understand their relationship with a slow nod of your head, no further questions asked.

You and Joel gossip with one another, leave notes scribbled in broken pencil. You bake for him, and in return he builds you a chair to join him on the porch. Joel remembers the jolt when you’d hugged him for it, kissed his whiskered cheek. So goddamn soft.

He begins to feel a creeping shame over the way he’d treated you on that first day; broken and worn down on his steps. Joel had no idea how peacefully you’d co-exist: sharing meals and laundry loads like two normal housemates would, if the world wasn’t so fucked.

The fact that you’re so beautiful is neither here nor there.

Joel’s tried not to notice it.

Your smooth skin, the curves of your body beneath the shapeless clothes Maria’s given you. Unfortunately, he knows just what you’ve got on under them. He almost felt lightheaded one day watching you hang your panties out to dry: delicate, wispy things; items he has no idea how you got your hands on.

Before long, Tommy’s prepping you to start patrol, and Joel makes time one evening to reassure you about it. He can tell you’re nervous, the way your hands are twisting, rubbing at your forehead frantically.

“If you really don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” Joel offers, and you sigh.

“Nah. It’s about time I started pulling my weight around here.”

Joel smiles at your tenacity, the way your mouth sets firmly. “Alright, then. Want to go over the routes one last time?”

Your eyes are wide in thanks, staring up at him from the couch, blinking through your lashes. Everything about the situation is innocent, besides every single thought running through Joel’s mind.

Tommy put this girl with you in good faith, asshole.

Woman.

Not a girl.

He reminds himself of that when he’s in the shower that night; tugging frantically at himself, thinking about the tight curve of your ass in the jeans you’d traded for.

Yeah. You were fucking trouble alright.

“I always wanted to be a teacher, back when I was a kid,” you tell him one night, as Joel clears the soup bowls away. “Miss Macy, she was my favourite, kinda inspired me in a way. I loved English; reading, writing, all these imaginary worlds I’d create. I’d still like to do it, if I can.”

Joel loves the way you laugh when you share stories of your childhood. It’s the same kind delight he sees on your face watching Jackson’s children giggling as they chase each other round the streets, playing tag and missing dinner time.

“Teach?”

You nod, and Joel’s suddenly back in Texas, Sarah tugging on his hand across the parking lot as they head towards her parent-teacher conference. Sarah’s a hard worker, and fantastically talented when she applies herself. Unfortunately, she lets herself be distracted by other students, and I’ve had to separate the group several times.

He smiles. “Scary bunch, teachers.”

He watches your eyes roll, chin resting on your hands. The light outside is fading, both of you full with a warm dinner. Your movements are languid; the way your fingers dance across your collarbone, the way your shirt rides up a little when you stretch your arms out above you.

Again, Joel tries not to notice it: the sliver of bare skin above your waistband, gentle fingertips he’s found himself thinking about more often than he really should.

“Big, bad Joel Miller? Afraid of me?”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes, throwing a rag in your direction so you can help him with the drying up. “Maybe in your dreams, darlin’.”

You smirk, taking your place beside him as he hands you the cutlery. With difficulty, he pushes all thoughts of your soft body and kind eyes from his mind.

Joel bears witness to you thriving in Jackson, unfurling like a butterfly born in the spring. You make friends, tell him all about them each evening as you trade stories about your day. Soon, you’re invited to gatherings that he isn’t, and you tell him stories about people he’s never met. He hears you come in late, starts to notice that you don’t rise to join him at breakfast.

Still, he doesn’t ask Tommy just when this temporary agreement might come to an end. For some reason, he just can’t find it in him.

Joel figures you won’t want to spend all your precious free time with a man pushing sixty, so he’s not mad about it. You’re not family, but he thinks you’re starting, maybe, to become a friend.

He makes the most of Ellie when he can, watches her glow when she talks about Dina. Tommy’s the same: content with his life with Maria and Harley, Joel’s nephew. He can hardly believe - even after two years in Jackson - how life just goes on. Despite it all, people found a way.

Joel finds himself thinking about Sarah a little more than usual. He can’t bring himself to process the fact his baby would be thirty-four now; maybe married, career of her own. She’ll forever be fourteen to him: curls bouncing, soccer trophy under her arm, innocence in her heart.

Joel tells you about her one day; tells you how, for the first time in twenty years, he’s been able to just stop and give time to his thoughts. To sit with them, feel the ache bloom in his heart. No need to fight for his life every day, to make sure he sees another sunrise. He’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing.

“It can be both, Joel,” you say, wrapped in a blanket he brought out to you. You’re sat on the front porch together, chairs side by side, watching fireflies dancing in the late afternoon light.

“Yeah?”

You nod, and move to take his hand. Something stops you, letting it fall into your lap. There’s something in your gaze that tells him you’ve felt the same pain, bled the way he has. Joel clears his throat, asking if you want another drink.

“No, thanks. Especially if it’s that fucking whiskey,” you grimace, and he chuckles, rolling the tumbler in his hand. Your profanities make him smile; he’s let you spend too much time with Ellie.

“You really hate it that much?”

“Uhuh,” you mutter, getting to your feet. “Hey, Ryan is having a few of us over for a card game evening. I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up,” you inform him, with that grin he’s become so fond of.

Joel tells you to have a great night, watching your retreating figure head into the dusk. He collapses into sleep on the couch not long after, book resting on his belly when he wakes to the sound of the front door opening.

“You really didn’t need to walk me back,” you giggle, and Joel stays frozen in the dark. He shouldn’t. It’s rude to eavesdrop, to listen in to your private conversations.

Still. He doesn’t move.

“S’okay. Still sharing a place with Miller, then?” he hears Ryan ask, and he assumes you nod in lieu of a reply. “Heard he can be a pain in the ass,” he adds, and Joel listens to your tinkling laugh. “He’s alright.”

“Hopefully you’ll get a house of your own soon, though, without an some old guy hanging around. You can start hosting me instead,” Ryan continues, and Joel fails to miss the suggestive undercurrent in his tone; the way it makes his jaw tick.

He doesn’t hear your response, and the door shuts with a click. You switch the lamp on, gasping in surprise to see Joel sat there. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” you say softly, and Joel just shrugs, frowning.

He watches you move around the kitchen - his kitchen - with a familiar ease, seeking a glass to pour some water, searching for a hunk of cheese to nibble on. Again, Joel’s hit with that feeling he had on that first day he took you to your room: this house has always been waiting for you, the lock aching for the slide of your key.

Which is why the notion of you leaving causes him so much pain.

“Guess you won’t have to worry about wakin’ anyone when you get your own place.”

He hates how petulant he sounds, but he can’t help it. Joel hasn’t been that short with you in a long time; he can see on your face how taken aback you are.

“You heard that, huh?” you ask, watching him over the rim of your glass.

“Yeah. Y’can always speak to Tommy, see if there’s anything goin’. If you feel trapped here, that is.”

You sigh, hands flat on the dining table. Joel built it himself: not his finest work, a little rough around the edges.

A direct reflection of how he feels right now.

“You don’t want me here anymore?” you ask, face half shrouded in darkness, half lit in an orange glow.

Joel chews his lip, watching you blink at him.

“Just sayin’. This wasn’t ever meant to be permanent, anyway,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head. You fold your arms across your chest; eyes narrowing. You look.. You look hurt.

By him.

“Ryan seems like a good kid. ‘m sure he’d treat you right.”

Joel knows he’s projecting his own insecurities onto you. He’s fucking afraid: he’s come to care for you so much more than he realised, and every time Joel cares about someone, he loses them.

A bite. A bullet. A new family.

But this? For some reason, this cuts just as deep. Joel won’t let it happen again. No matter how bad he wants you.

“Where’s all this coming from?” you ask. You’re quiet, voice flat with disappointment. It makes Joel’s heart ache; he’d rather you told him to fuck off, call him out for being a dick, tell him you’ll pack your stuff and go.

You don’t.

Your shoulders just slump when he doesn’t respond, staring at him imploringly.

“Well?”

Joel should tell you he doesn’t want you to leave, not in the slightest. All he wants to do is kiss you, crush your lips to his, run his tongue over every inch of your flesh, slide inside you and make you scream his name. Tell you he’s better for you than anyone else in Jackson; that he can take care of you, keep your bed warm every night, better than any fucker half his age.

But he doesn’t.

He just lets you go, watching as you shake your head and turn on your heel, leaving him alone in the dark.

Breakfast the next morning is a solemn affair.

You’re already gone - which isn’t unusual - but there’s no note from you, no sandwiches wrapped in paper to take out for patrol. Joel feels a little disgruntled: it’s your turn to prep them today, as per the agreement you have when you’re both scheduled for a shift.

You must be really pissed at him.

He wolfs down his bacon, throws on his jacket. It needs patching up, almost worn through at both the elbows. Joel recalls you telling him you’re nifty with a needle and thread, that you’ll do it for him at the weekend.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never learned how to sew,” you smirk, sizing up his jacket, throwing it over your shoulders. Joel can’t help but admit how good it looks on you; the fact you’re wearing his clothes doing something inexplicable to his groin.

“Just like you never learned how to drink?” he teases you, and you hold up your hands in defeat. “And don’t be forgettin’ I made you a whole goddamn chair.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you sing, admiring yourself in the cracked mirror. Joel shakes his head; eyes lingering on the tilt of your hips, the way your breasts push at the fabric.

“Guess I owe you.”

He supposes he’s better off taking it to the seamstress on Main Street, now.

The sky outside is grey to match his mood, brewing ominously with the threat of rain. Nothin’ worse than patrol in the rain. Boggy trails and limited visibility never work in anyone’s favour, and he prays for an uneventful shift.

Blue’s tacked up and ready for him; Joel slips the horse an apple from his pocket, pulling at his forelock gently as he says hello.

“Gotta stay outta trouble today, boy. We’ll be home soon enough.”

He hears his sister-in-law’s voice from outside the stable, calling his name.

“Mornin’, Maria.”

She smiles, hands on her hips as Joel leans against the stable door. “Your brother has done an irresponsible thing and gotten sick,” she sighs, eyebrows raised.

“Y’sure he ain’t just had some bad eggs?” Joel chuckles, and Maria shakes her head.

“Judging by the way he’s shivering, I think it’s the real deal. In any case, we need you to take his partner today,” she tells Joel, thumb over her shoulder.

She moves aside, and he freezes.

Fuck.

Of course: it’s you.

You’re adjusting Shimmer’s stirrups, unaware Joel’s even there. Those goddamn jeans sticking to your thighs like glue, eyes rimmed red like you haven’t slept.

Maria continues, tapping her foot. “I’m assuming that won’t be a problem? She’s still settling into it, as you well know, and we haven’t had her go up —”

“S’fine. Not a problem.”

Maria raises her eyebrows at Joel’s brusqueness, turning on her heel and leaving the stables.

You look up, watching her go. Joel swallows as your gaze tracks upwards, locking with his.

“Hey.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “Look, I know this ain’t ideal, but we’ll talk when we’re back. Yeah?”

You roll your eyes, laugh sarcastically. You brush past him, knocking into his shoulder as you go.

“Counting on it.”

Joel scrawls both your names in the log book, heaves his rucksack back onto his shoulders. They’re aching, as per usual. Almost as stiff and awkward as the whole morning with you has been.

“We all good to go home?”

It’s the first sentence you’ve uttered since you both left Jackson, your tone still clipped, not leaving much room for any forgiveness.

Home.

Joel wonders if that looks different to you now; wonders how soon he can expect your possessions in boxes by the front door, to see the disappointment in his brother’s face when he hears how unreasonable he was towards you.

All because he doesn’t know how to fucking tell you.

The descent back to Jackson from the ski lodge is slow, clouds low and threatening in the sky. Thunder echoes atop the mountain ridges, lightening flashing across the jagged peaks.

Then, the rain comes.

It starts as a drizzle, just enough to dampen the leaves on the trees, for Joel to hear you sigh disdainfully behind him. “Stay close,” he calls, and you tell him you will.

Soon, the rain falls in a barrage, hammering down on you both as your charges slide in the dirt. Joel’s soaked to the bone, the storm moving directly overhead as the sky flickers and crackles above.

He doesn’t like this. Not one fuckin’ bit.

He feels exposed, vulnerable, the hairs on the back of his neck raised; an ancient warning sign —

“Joel!”

Your scream is agonised, drawn-out, hurtling past him in the swirling wind. He wheels Blue around, startled.

Three men. Two guns, from what he can see. A machete.

Shimmer rears high on her hind legs in panic, one of the fuckers dragging you from the saddle. Another has his gun aimed at your head; the third is advancing towards Joel, silver weapon brandished in his hand.

Their faces are gaunt, eyes sunken. They’ll murder you both, take anything they can find, leave your bodies to rot until you’re found by the next band of raiders, or worse.

You fall to the ground with sickening crunch, still yelling his name, body crumpling against the exposed rock.

No time to think. He needs you to survive.

One, two, three.

The shots ring out through the valley in quick succession, blood soaking through the shirts of your attackers. They fall like marionettes, slithering to their deaths amongst the grass and mud.

Joel dismounts, scrambling to get to you. You’re not unconscious, thankfully. No obvious wounds to your head, either; Joel cradles your face in his hands, asking you to tell him your name, to open your eyes.

“My back, Joel. My fucking back,” you moan, and he grits his teeth, turning you on your side as gently as he can. You cry out in pain, and he sees the laceration above your hip, your skin sliced open.

“You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you,” Joel reassures you instinctively, shrugging his rucksack off to retrieve the bandages he needs

You grip his forearm, fingernails piercing him. “Don’t leave me, Joel,” your voice breaks, tears joining the wetness on your face as Joel swipes a thumb across your cheekbone.

You’re still miles from Jackson, bleeding out onto the rock beneath you, horses loose in the valley. The rain pounds, the wind howls, and Joel makes his promise.

“Never.”

Maria puts you on bed rest for a week.

You recuperate, slowly but surely. Joel had carried you to Jackson’s version of an infirmary, watched your wound be painstakingly stitched up. Turns out, the fall had smashed two of your ribs, too.

Joel nearly chews his lip in half when he finds out.

So fucking stupid. He should’ve insisted you go in front, acted more on instinct. Joel was supposed to take care of you, keep you safe.

Hasn’t he learned?

You’re due back home today. Joel’s changed your bed linen, lit a fire in the sitting room, gathered some flowers to fill the cracked vase you covet on your nightstand. The arrangement was clumsy, but he hopes it’ll be the first step he can take on the path back into your life.

At the very least, Joel hopes they make you smile.

You arrive when he’s pouring your favourite soup into two bowls, setting them at opposite ends of the table. It hurts him to do so, considering you’d usually sit side-by-side, stealing the bread off his plate, your legs folded underneath as you caught up about your day.

Still. He has to take this slowly.

“You didn’t have to do all of this, Joel,” you say softly, and he shrugs.

“Figured we’d need to build your strength back up,” he says, pulling your chair out for you.

“And soup is the way to do that?”

“Quit arguin’,” he chides gently, setting your dinner down in front of you. Candles burn in the centre of the table, the night closing in outside. Everything is quiet for a while, spoons scraping against decades-old china as Joel sits with you — and his thoughts.

“So.”

He looks up, watches you settle back in your chair. You swallow, picking at your nails, avoiding eye contact. Joel waits, doesn’t want to interrupt whatever it is you’re finding hard to say.

“I feel like almost dying has put some things into perspective for me,” you say, and Joel can’t help but laugh at your sarcasm, and soon enough you’re giggling too, until you wince sharply.

“That bad, huh?” Joel murmurs, and you nod, hand over the bones that broke. “You mind if I go sit on the couch?” you ask, and Joel comes to help you to your feet, your hand in his.

Fuck, he’s missed it. Soft, warm and smooth.

Once you’re settled, he sits at the other end, still keen to give you space. “You know what? I think I want a whiskey,” you muse, leaning into the cushions. “Will you join me?”

Joel’s eyes narrow in confusion, but he fetches the tumblers anyway, sets them down on the coffee table. He pours you a small measure and hands it to you tentatively.

“I didn’t think you’d hit your head when you fell. Maybe I was wrong,” he comments, and you roll your eyes, swirling the amber liquid and observing it closely.

“Maybe you were.”

You toss it back, and Joel does the same.

“God, no. Definitely still tastes like shit,” you splutter, face contorted as you swallow the liquid down. Joel can’t help but grin as he watches you place the glass on the table, soft features glowing in the orange flames.

He feels the instant hit of alcohol in his bloodstream, loosening him up and relaxing his muscles. He lays back on the couch, head lolling as he turns to look at you.

“I wanted to say thank you. Y’know, for saving my life,” you tell him, staring into the fire burning in the grate. Joel can’t believe what he’s hearing; for a moment he sits stunned, unsure what to say.

“It was my fault. I was too slow, and too fuckin’ deaf to hear ‘em comin’” he admits. “I’m not who I was. Years ago, I would’ve destroyed ‘em. I’m sorry — fuck, I’m so sorry. You nearly died, because of me” Joel sighs, and you reach out to take his hand.

“Joel, I’m alive because of you. Nobody could’ve known that was going to happen - there’s been no talk of raiders for months now. Guess we both just got complacent,” you tell him, and Joel tsks under his breath.

“You’re still new to patrol. I should’ve let you go in front, brought up the rear. I can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he whispers, and is horrified to find himself close to tears. “‘specially after the way I behaved the night before.”

You squeeze his palm gently, the firelight flickering in your eyes. “I want to leave it in the past. But if you don’t want me here, I need you to tell me.”

Joel faces you properly, holding your gaze for the first time all evening. For you to still think he doesn’t want you here breaks him: after the sleepless nights he’s had, tossing and turning, the echoes of your scream breaking him into a sweat that never dies.

“It.. It ain’t that. Hell, I love havin’ you here. I’m ashamed I ever made you feel like I don’t.”

You smile shyly, releasing his hand. “Then, why..?”

Joel breathes out, long and hard.

“You started movin’ on with your life. You didn’t need me as much, and I guess I let that hurt me. I let you down with how I reacted.”

“I appreciate you telling me,” you murmur, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, like it’s not what you wanted to hear. Joel’s puzzled, praying he hasn’t done anything wrong.

The atmosphere still feels tense, like you’re waiting for him to say more.

Like you know there is more.

“You look different, by the way.”

Your gaze find his as he digests your statement, and you tilt your head, lip pulled between your teeth. Joel wishes you wouldn’t fucking do that.

You’re twenty-eight, for Christ’s sake.

He’s fifty-six. He’ll go to hell for what he wants to do to you right now. You don’t want him: you want Ryan, someone your age, someone who can offer you stability and safety in the way he so clearly can’t.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks anyway, feeling his breath shorten as you lean in closer to him. Your skin is so smooth; reflected in the firelight, breasts fighting against the tank top you’re wearing.

Joel can smell vanilla, wants to taste it, too. But he can’t.

“More.. Relaxed. No frowning,” you tease, reaching out a thumb to his forehead, pretending to smooth out the crease that usually has a home there.

“Could say the same f’you, too.”

You smile, and suddenly you’re right beside him — above him, and Joel knows he’s powerless to stop you. The whiskey is warm in his veins, and he wants you. So, so badly.

You hitch a leg over his jeans, trap him beneath you.

“You know, I’ve had just about enough of you.”

Your hands are slipping from his shoulders, down the planes of his chest. Joel can’t help himself; he cants his hips up into you, relishing your gasp, the way you’re already so frantic for him.

Your lips beg for permission messily against his, thighs squeezing him tight. Joel grants it gladly; savours the taste of your tongue in his mouth, the way your breasts feel against his coarse fingertips as he ventures carefully under your flimsy shirt.

Your skin is hot beneath his touch, and he wants to tell you how good you are; letting him touch you like this, letting him pinch the pebbled flesh he finds, soothing it over with his mouth. He manages to be mindful of your sore ribs, the gauze above your hip, but it’s not without trying.

Joel’s so caught up in you: the sweet sounds you’re making as you kiss him so deeply, the way you pull at his hair, grind down onto him. He’s painfully, pathetically hard; it’s only when you come up for air that he takes a second to think.

Fuck.

“Hey — look,” he starts to withdraw, hands moving to your shoulders, holding you back. You pause, eyes narrowed, realisation dawning across your features.

You shuffle out of his lap like you’re ashamed. “I’m sorry, Joel. That was — that was too much.”

“No, don’t be,” he sighs, longing to reach out and cup your jaw in his hand, pull you back to where he so desperately wants you to be. “It’s the whiskey talkin’.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You won’t look at him; gaze cast downwards, swallowing thickly.

“It’s not.”

You say it so quietly, Joel wonders if he’s imagined it.

“No?”

You shake your head, and Joel breathes out, capturing your chin with his finger. His heart is hammering in his chest; your lips are parted, sweat dewing in the column of your throat.

You’re so fucking beautiful.

“I want you, Joel. I know you think you’re not worthy, or too old, or whatever you’ve made yourself believe. I haven’t been able to do anything but lie there and think, for a whole seven days. You know what I thought about?”

Joel waits, agonised.

“You. Everything you’ve taught me, shared with me. The way you’ve let me into your life, into Ellie’s. I turned up here alone, and now I’ve never felt less lonely. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to give you up,” you tell him, and press your lips to his.

“If you’ll have me, Joel, I’d like to stay forever. You and I, in our chairs, eating soup.”

Joel’s grinning now, tugging you back to him gently. “You mean that, pretty girl?”

“Uhuh. And forever starts now,” you press your forehead to his, then pull him to his feet. You keep hold of his hand, traipsing through the darkness, past walls you know so well.

It’s heaven. You’re heaven.

Joel wants to take it slow, but he can’t: not with you. He takes his time, though, sliding your shirt off your head, pressing a kiss to your battered ribs.

Your jeans drop to the floor soon after, and finally, you’re bare for him. He’s salivating; you’re a vision, soft and supple as he runs his hands along your thighs, the curves of your tummy, up over your sternum.

Joel revels in the sounds you make, the way you’re so responsive to him, whimpering as his hand closes over your throat gently, tongue back inside your mouth with a renewed ferocity.

“Wanted this for too damn long,” he says gruffly, hand under the bend of your knee, your body so pliant beneath him. You arch your back wantonly as he touches you, teeth sinking into his neck, red marks from your nails down his back.

“I’m yours, Joel. Just like I said.”

Joel slides into the wet, slippery heart of you, both of you groaning at the stretch, the shared feeling of euphoria.

Home.

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

chapter summary: Everyone has an opinion about you and Dieter these days. ratings/warnings: E [age gap (reader is 32, Dieter is 47), dual/alternating POV, boss/employee relationship, flirting, overt criticisms of Twitter stan behavior, overt fatphobia, insecurity of the new romantic relationship variety, Pix has a conversation with her mother that goes poorly, ableism, some overt fatphobia because the internet is a garbage land, a little angst, SMUT, oral sex f receiving, difficulty orgasming, face riding, coming untouched, dry-humping (i'm going through a phase i fear), they're both switches but Dieter is very submissive this chapter, semi-public fooling around, they are extremely horny for each other, Dieter goes to therapy, Dieter has commitment issues, they are both trying their best] wc: 6.4k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! Pretty sure life is conspiring against me lately, but I finally got this finished and I REALLY hope it's as fun to read as it was to write. I am asking y'all to bear with me (and Dieter--and Pix, too, tbh) and trust the process. that fear of commitment can be a bitch. all my love to @mothandpidgeon for giving me all the bonks I could ever ask for every time i start to doubt myself and for being a wonderful beta. i love you endlessly.

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The morning after is, in your experience, a delicate affair. Maybe if you were a different person, a chill girl with no need for answers to any of the questions swirling around the whirlpool of your mind, you could approach with a heavier hand. 

But you are not a chill girl. 

Maybe it’s lucky for you that Dieter Bravo is not a chill guy, either. His affection is not the usual type of cool, collected kiss on the forehead. There is no knowing smirk, no barely-there acknowledgment of what happened the night before. Instead, he clings to you like a needy sloth, pressing sloppy little kisses on every inch of bare skin he can find. 

He’s even more beautiful right now, haloed by all this golden sunlight with cherry blossom pink cheeks and pupils blown so wide and dark you can barely make out the dark brown irises. His tongue massages the column of your throat, hungry and pleading, but his hand hovers politely at the hem of your shirt. 

“What is it?” 

“Can I see you?” He rubs the seams between his thumb and forefinger. You frown at him, your sleepy, over-literal brain too slow to work out his question.

“Can you not see me now?” You ask, only understanding what he’s meant just as the last word of your question leaves your mouth. He buries a smile into your collarbone, waiting for you to catch up. “Oh. You mean…yes. Yeah.”

“You sure?” He asks, sensing your hesitation.  

“Well, just, um.”

Maybe there is some delicacy to this morning, after all. You try to phrase it in your brain, reordering sentences until you've been quiet too long. Dieter says nothing, though, just occupies himself by kissing all your fingers.

He likes you, doesn’t he?

Fuck it. 

“It’s just that my tits are like…real tits. Like they’re not perky, they’re just big, thirty-two year old tits, so if you’re thinking—”

But he’s already hiked your shirt up, groaning as he cups the aforementioned big, thirty-two year old tits his hands and massages them. “Fuck yeah, they are.” He wastes no time latching onto your nipple and letting out a garbled fuck as he swirls his tongue around the hardening bud.

“Fuck, Dee,” you whine. 

It’s embarrassing how desperate you are, how wet you’ve gotten already. You can feel him, too, though, hard and throbbing against your hip. 

He unlatches, gazing at you with big puppy eyes to ask, “Can I eat your pussy?”

“Yeah, Dieter, please,” you breathe.

You’re definitely not the only desperate one. He’s crawled down between your legs to pull your panties off before you can even finish saying yeah. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him. His fluffy hair sticks up over the curve of your belly as he positions your legs over his shoulders. He noses your thighs, kissing and nipping his way to your core as you squirm against him.

“Tease,” you murmur.

“Just wanna taste all of you,” he says, settling himself in front of your pussy. “Jesus Christ. You’re so wet, sweetheart.”

“Better do something about that, Bravo,” you order. “Before I do it—”

You jump at the sudden contact, his tongue pressing firmly against your clit. No curious kitten licks—he gets right to work. Most of the men you’ve been with need a moment to orient themselves, but Dieter knows exactly where he’s going. 

He listens well, too. All that talk about him being difficult to work with on set and here he is, taking direction perfectly. 

“Firmer,” you sigh, and he presses the flat of his tongue against your clit as he moves his head in circles. “Like that, yes, fuck—”

Dieter lets out a soft little whine at your praise, bringing his hand down to his cock and squeezing. You gaze at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He likes it when you praise him. 

A lot. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, really; the man lives off praise. But this is different. You’ve seen him shrug off criticism of his performances, but it feels like it would ruin him if he failed to please you. 

His fingers twitch against your thigh and your mouth waters at the thought of them inside of you. You really need something inside of you.

You clear your throat. “Dee—can I—your fingers—” 

Eloquence is not your friend right now.

“You want my finger, baby?” He asks, not looking up, barely taking his mouth off your pussy.

“Yeah,” you whine. “Yes. Fuck, please.”

Despite spending the last six months staring at those thick, steady fingers, but that hasn’t prepared you at all for the way just one stretches you out as he sinks it into your cunt. He growls at the sob you let out, curling his finger up and caressing something that has you seeing stars.

“Dee—”

“I know, baby,” he coos. “Can you take a second?”

“Please, fuck, please,” you beg, all breathy and girlish. 

He slides in a second finger and groans at the way you take it for him. It’s even more of a stretch, but he’s gentle with you, rubbing and massaging until you open up completely for him. It’s easier, you think, with all your arousal and his saliva and how relaxed he’s made you. 

“Look at her,” he says, pulling back for a breath. He’s not talking to you. “She’s so wet.”

He says it like he hasn’t been drooling on your pussy for the last twenty minutes, like he’s shocked he’s made you feel this good. 

A sudden dread pushes through your haze of pleasure and you glance back at the digital clock next to the bed. Twenty minutes? 

This is not the best realization, especially now that there’s been a realization. Now you’re in your head. This happens sometimes—sometimes, no matter how good it feels, you just need more pressure than that sweet little tongue of his can provide. 

Dieter doesn’t seem concerned, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed how much time has passed. You try to get out of your head; try not to worry about how easily he bruises even when it’s something silly. 

Of course it would happen the first time he’s eating you out.  

You could always fake it, but you don’t like lying to him. He’s always so open with you, it feels like more of a betrayal than a little lie. 

“C’mon, baby,” he urges. “Wanna feel you come all over my tongue.”

Shit.

His tone isn’t even impatient. If anything, he’s just trying to be sexy, but now you’re in your head and you’re not getting out of it. 

You stiffen as you throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut, deciding to just go with the truth. “Sorry, I know it’s taking a while, it—sometimes that just happens, I guess, it feels really good, it’s okay if I don’t come.”

He stops and gazes up at you with those soft eyes, the bottom half of his face shiny with your arousal.

“It’s okay if it takes a while, baby. I’ll stay down here all day. What do you need from me?” He asks, pulling his fingers carefully from you and waiting for you to answer. “Faster, slower?”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck. They usually just stop.

“Um…it’s not really that. It’s usually, like, more pressure. Friction, I guess.”

He flashes a devilish little grin. “Mmm, okay. So you need something to rub up against, yeah? Like last night, huh? She just needs a little something more?”

“Jesus Christ, Dee,” you mutter, suddenly aware of how naked you are in more ways than. This is not usually something you discuss.

“C’mere,” he says, climbing up and laying back on the pillows. The fluffy robe has fallen open, and you can see his pretty skin shiny with perspiration. Your eyes wander down, biting your lip as your gaze lands on his cock. 

You’ve never seen it before, not even by accident, despite being warned. You make a mental note to ask—why’d he stay so dressed in front of you all this time? For now, though, you’re busy staring at it. 

It’s fucking pretty. Thick and long, his head bulging from his foreskin and leaking with arousal. You swallow harshly—you were in the middle of something, but now it’s all you can do not to sink down on it, even if it splits you in half. 

“Nuh uh,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around the base. “You’re not near ready for that, sweetheart. Could barely take my fingers. Need more time.”

Your mouth rounds—you hadn’t even considered that he’d be worried about that. Guilt twinges in your gut—you’d assumed he’d be more selfish. 

He’s smirking when you meet his eyes, your face hot with desire, and that doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. You’re still not entirely sure what he wants you to do, though.

“What…”

You trail off.

“Come sit on my face,” he says.

Oh.

There is no denying that you’ve gotten off to the thought of riding that nose. The fact that he’s offering it so freely just to get you off makes your head spin.

“Okay,” you murmur. 

You straddle him first, pressing a kiss to his lips and sliding your hands through his hair. You haven’t gotten to touch him very much, and all you want is to feel him under your fingertips. 

Dieter licks into your mouth, wrapping his arms around your waist with a little delighted noise. You can feel his cock, hard and pulsing underneath you, slick with both your arousal. You spend some time kissing him; feeling him. Everything is wet and sloppy and smooth, and you like the way his soft belly meets yours. He whimpers when you cradle his jaw in your hands and pull on his hair, and again when you scratch your nails down his chest, leaving long, pink marks on his pecs. 

“Good noises?” You ask, just to make sure. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs. “Now if you don’t fuck my face right now, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He looks almost as excited as you feel when your thighs bracket his head.

“Baby,” he groans. “Please, sit on it, don’t make me beg.”

You kind of like making him beg, though.

“What if I want you to beg?”

“Then I’ll fucking do it.” His big, earnest eyes send a ripple of power through your chest.

“Then beg.”

“Please, Pix. Please put your pretty little pussy on my face,” he whines, sticking his tongue out of his mouth like he’s trying to taste you in the air. “Please, please, baby, please—”

You don’t have it in you to make him wait for long.

He makes an incoherent noise underneath you, sinking his fingers into your thighs to help you move back and forth. His tongue finds your hole quickly, fucking it as you find the perfect pressure for your clit on his nose.

“Oh,” you moan, grabbing the headboard to stabilize yourself. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck it’s—”

He growls, fingers digging harsh enough that there’ll be little marks on you, too. 

Your release sneaks up on you, clamping your thighs around his head and clenching around his tongue as stars burst behind your eyelids. You can hear yourself crying out, but it doesn’t feel like it’s coming from you. Dieter stills, moaning underneath you and holding the small of your back, like he’s trying to keep you upright.

Collapsing backward, you giggle with endorphins. Dieter’s climbing over you in seconds, kissing you with all your arousal sliding against your lips. “Fuck, you are so sexy, holy fuck,” he mutters.

“Do you need to, um…?”

His cheeks turn pink at the question. “I kinda, uh. When you were on my face.”

“Like, you jerked—”

“No.”

“Oh. Oh, Dee, that’s so—”

“I know, I’m sorry, you’re just—”

“Fucking hot,” you finish, running your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You taste like pussy.”

“Mmhmm. I’d fucking live in there if you let me. Curl up in a little ball and just—”

“You’re so fucking weird,” you tease, and he grins. He balances himself on his forearm, his other hand wandering down your body until he finds your soaked core. Two fingers slide in with ease, pulling a gasp from you. 

“You love it, though,” he murmurs, pumping slowly. 

He looks you in the eye, and you let him.

On Tuesday morning, your mother calls. This is not surprising—the surprising part is that she’d waited this long. 

“Did you see Twitter?” She asks. You haven’t, and anyone who knows you well knows not to inform you of anything like this unless you ask. Your mother, unfortunately, does not know you very well at all. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. 

“Like…the app? The whole thing? What are you talking about?”

“You’re on it,” she says, elaborating on absolutely nothing. 

“Mom—”

“Just look at the link I sent!” 

“All right, all right.” With an apprehensive tap of your index finger, the link pops open to reveal a thumbnail zoomed into a mane of curls you’d recognize anywhere. 

And oh, for God’s sake, it’s trending, too.

“What’s going on there?” Your mother demands, as though you’ve betrayed her somehow.

“My boss is helping me up—”

“Did you fall?”

“Mother,” you sigh. “I just bent down to pick up some broken glass. He helped. That’s all.”

“That’s not what everyone’s saying,” she presses.

“Who the hell is everyone? I’m telling you what happened.”

You go around in circles with her, and after a while she seems to believe you. For now. “Imagine if you were dating Dieter Bravo,” she chuckles.

“I could pull Dieter Bravo,” you argue. She laughs some more, and you try to ignore it, but something about talking to her always turns you into a petulant fifteen-year-old.

“What’s so funny about that?” 

“Well, nothing, dear. You’re just—well, you’re different, you know. It’s not a bad thing.” 

“I know it’s not a bad thing.” But it feels like a bad thing right now. “Look, I gotta go. My boss who could never possibly be into me needs me to go fold his laundry. Love you.”

“Honey—”

Guilt creeps up on you the moment you end the call without letting her say goodbye. It’s just not fair. She can be as careless as she wants with her words and you’re the one who ends up feeling bad about it all. It’s so unfair that she’s never really gotten past the whole autistic daughter thing. 

You wipe your eyes, refusing to get so upset over something so stupid. And anyway, she’s wrong. You absolutely can pull Dieter Bravo. He’s been all over you since Sunday, even after the nerve-wracking “What are we?” conversation you couldn’t help but initiate last night in the middle of The Truman Show. 

“So…what, um, what is this?” You’d asked, just after Truman Burbank started falling, unscripted, for an extra. “Like, us?”

You’d barely gotten the words out and already you wished you could take them back. Why did you need to know that second? Why do you need to know everything, immediately, why can’t you ever just be cool?

You’d be a very different person then, you think.

Dieter had put his arm around you and set his chin on top of your head as a surge of hope spread through your chest. Your imagination had run wild—maybe he’d profess a love so big and beautiful he couldn’t stand to keep his mouth shut about it; that he’d been into you since the very second you walked into his life; that he wanted to be with you forever and ever.

“Well,” he’d sighed.

It hadn’t sounded like the start of any profession of love you’d ever heard.

“We should probably just…keep it casual for now. See where it goes. All this stuff going on, you know, might be a little much to start a whole thing in the middle of it.”

A little much.

You’d tried to quell the disappointed ache. No grand love profession for now, then. He’d tipped your chin to meet his gaze, and you’d rearrange your face into something passably placid.

“That okay?” He’d asked. You’d had to keep yourself from laughing, imagining his face if you’d said it wasn’t okay; that you didn’t want casual. That you wanted to be his. 

But you knew well enough what “That okay?” meant. It was like when someone asked how you were doing—you weren’t ever supposed to actually tell them how you were doing. 

You didn’t want to create problems for him now, either. He was stressed out enough.

“Totally,” you’d said. 

It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but it felt sticky and sour on your tongue. 

But it’d been fine then, and fine after, and you’d both fallen asleep on his big couch, and you really should stop thinking about how nice it is to wake up with him wrapped around you.

You wonder what your mom would think about that.

The thing about wanting to know things is that curiosity will always get the better of you, dead cats be damned. What’s so special about this interaction between the two of you that it’s trending? 

And so, during some interview for Vanity Fair’s Youtube channel (you think, at least, you don’t keep up quite as well as Christina on these long press days), you spend a few minutes in his luxurious, if rather small, changing room investigating just what’s so interesting about him helping you stand up.

The video is thirty seconds long, but you’re sure it was at least a few minutes. The camera pulls away from Dieter’s curls as he whips his head around like there’s been a commotion. And there has, of course, with you dropping to the ground to scrounge for pieces of broken glass that, somehow, hadn’t cut your fingers to shreds. It finally irks you that the man who bumped you so hard didn’t even turn to look. 

Dieter moves quickly, kneeling with you in that outrageously expensive outfit, a literal knight in glittering armor, and tries to block you from the cameras. There’s only so much he could do from the side, you suppose. 

It’s a ridiculously romantic shot, one of his hands clasped over yours, the other cradling your elbow as he lifts you from the ground. His eyes sweep over you, squeezing your shoulders when he’s certain you’re steady and talking softly before turning back to the line of interviewers. And you, for your part, actually look great in that black department store suit. 

The moment looks so intimate, and despite having had this man between your legs, covered in your arousal, this is what makes your heart stutter and your cheeks burn. And it’s not just you projecting, either—the commenters are quick to confirm exactly what it looks like, for better or worse.

Who the fuck is that? Have we seen her before?

lol didn’t know he was into fat chicks

omg he’s into big girls??!!

he’s like in love with her

who IS that

She’s pretty, is she an actress?

Ugh he’ll fuck anything won’t he

“He’s not fucking you,” you mutter, happily recalling the way his tongue felt on your clit, the sharp hitch in his breath when you rubbed against his cock before climbing on his face. 

There are an alarming number of comments expressing excitement about him liking fat chicks—which, like, sure, but do they have to say it like that?

Morbid curiosity finds you digging deeper. Just who are Dieter Bravo’s most devoted fans? What do they know about him? And more importantly, what do they think they know about him? 

They’ve been busy, it seems, digging up blurry pictures of you leaving his house and carrying groceries and giggling as you accompany him to some fitting or another.

You give yourself a quick kudos for dressing as professionally as possible on your outings with him, despite his insistence that you be comfortable. He can wear all the dirty pajama pants and be as comfortable as he wants—that is not a luxury you can afford.

The speculation is endless—you’re his girlfriend, his cousin, his friend from college, his hair stylist, his personal chef, his secret wife. A part of you wants to participate and suggest the most ridiculous thing connection you can think of—salt lamp specialist comes to mind.

“Whatcha doin’?” Dieter bursts through the dressing room door, prompting you to snap the laptop shut, looking at him with much wider eyes than necessary.

“Nothing,” you say, straightening up.

He crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, unconvinced. “You watching porn?”

You laugh. “Here? No.”

“Then what is it? Tell me,” Dieter whines, closing the door. He drags the ‘e’ out and flops onto the little loveseat, settling his head in your lap. “I needed a break and came to see you.”

“Fine,” you sigh, handing him the laptop. Sometimes it’s impossible to say no to him. “It looks like your fans have figured some things out.”

You watch him for a reaction as he balances it on his little belly and squints. “Where are your glasses?” 

He waves you off.

As he reads through the comments, you chew your nails as quietly as you can. Is it weird that you’d gone looking? Would he be upset that you did?

He’s too quiet.

Your imagination starts running wild again. Maybe he’s considering their points. Maybe you’re really not good enough for him, you need to go back to just being his assistant. Actually, you’re fired, and he’ll just pay to break your contract.

“What’s wrong?” You ask as he sits up.

“They’re so mean to you,” he says, and you meet his gaze. It catches you off guard how softly it comes out, how round his eyes are.

“I mean, yeah,” you say. “Of course they are. Is this the first time you’ve read internet comments before?”

“No,” he says defensively. “I just don’t like how they’re talking about you. Like, fuck them, you know? They’re supposed to be my fans? Maybe I need to get some real security. I don’t like them fuckin’ poking around, looking for more pictures of you and shit.”

You can’t help the slow smile creeping across your face.

“What?” He asks, but he starts smiling, too.

“You’re protecting me,” you tease, rising from the couch and poking him in the chest.

“So what if I am?” He gesticulates wildly, your MacBook bouncing up and down as he flails his arms.

“You like me,” you accuse.

“Yeah, and?” He sets the MacBook down and closes the gap of space between the two of you. “That a problem?”

You swallow as he gets closer, his cologne giving you a headrush. He brings his hands to your face, cupping your jaw and brushing his thumbs over your cheeks.

“Hm?” He asks. You shake your head, suddenly lacking any teasing words at all. He turns your head to the side and nuzzles you. “You think I’d let anything happen to you?”

“No,” you whisper, your stomach doing flips as he presses a wet kiss to your cheek and trailing his lips down to your neck.

“You know I think you’re so fucking sexy, right? Wearing these little low cut shirts all the time?”

“Shit, Dee,” you gasp, giggling as his hand slips under your shirt and resting on your belly.

“Bossing me around,” he breathes. You let out a soft moan when he cups your breast, squeezing lightly.

“This is so inappropriate—”

“I’ll stop if you want me to stop,” he grins, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You can feel his smile on your cheek.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you sigh, eyes darting to the locked door.

“Oh, fuck yeah, baby, is that what you need right now? You need a little distraction? You want me to make you come?”

Your work phone rings, of course. At the same time, there’s a heavy knock at the door. “Mr. Bravo, we need you back in two minutes!”

You take a deep breath—it’s for sure the stylist trying to work out a time for tomorrow. He whines as you grasp his wrist and gently pull his hand from under your shirt.

“Goddammit,” he grunts. “Let me finger you while you’re on the phone.”

There is an absolutely ludicrous moment where you consider this, but you eventually shake your head and come to your senses. “Go finish up,” you order. He relents, but not before he gives you one of those sloppy, desperate little kisses he’s so fond of.

You are in far, far too deep.

Life might be overwhelming right now, but he can’t put therapy on hold, unfortunately.

Dieter started coming to Kristopher (“With a K,” he’d emphasized at their first meeting) a few months before Anika finally had enough. Kristopher’s office was sparsely decorated with just a few plants and couches and soft lighting. He usually did house calls, but ever since you’d started living in the guesthouse, Dieter came here instead. He doesn’t know why—you know he’s in therapy. You pay Kristopher out of Dieter’s account like every other bill he has. He just doesn’t want you to see him like this. 

He hasn’t unpacked that with Kristopher yet.  

Dieter pokes at the salt lamp on the side table while he waits for Kristopher. You would have some horribly un-fun fact about why it doesn’t do anything. He makes a mental note to ask.

Kristopher, he thinks, will either be very proud of him or very disappointed. He wipes his sweaty palms on his gray linen pants as the door opens.

“Good afternoon, Dieter,” Kristopher says brightly.

Kristopher is forty-two and married to a man named Derek. He wears silver wired-rimmed glasses and tight khaki pants, teetering on the line between professional and elder millennial hipster with his Chuck Taylors and the top two buttons of his dark green shirt undone.

He is also a frequent star of Dieter’s fantasies, talking him through some trauma or another while Dieter slowly jerks off. Dieter doesn’t know what that means, and it’s not really something he wants to examine. He should find a therapist he doesn’t want to jerk off to, but Kristopher is the only one he’s found who isn’t openly impressed by his star status. Like you, now that he thinks of it.

There must be something there, but he doesn’t want to talk about that, either.

Dieter looks away as Kristopher bends over to set something on his desk. “Hey,” Dieter says.

“How are we?”

Kristopher uses “we” when he means “you” or “I”. It makes Dieter itch. “Good,” he says. Kristopher sits and crosses his legs, peering at Dieter like he’s assessing him extra hard today.

“Even after Sunday?” Kristopher asks, and Dieter huffs a laugh.

“Even after Sunday,” he says.

“You were worried about that,” Kristopher points out. “About being upset. What changed?”

Kristopher has his opinions on Dieter’s “fascination” with you. If you knew how often he brings you up in therapy. 

“I…had some support,” Dieter says, acting cagey. He doesn’t want Kristopher to tell him this is a bad idea.

The other man doesn’t say anything. Instead, he scribbles something in a notebook and lets Dieter stew in his discomfort. He does this, and it always works.

Fuck.

“My assistant. Or temporary assistant. She’s my assistant’s assistant,” he explains unnecessarily. Kristopher says your name, his lips quirked upward. Dieter nods, feeling like he’s about to get chewed out.

“Well?” Kristopher prompts. He’s not getting out of this.

The damn breaks, and Dieter spills everything.

“It was really…great,” he finishes with a sigh.

Kristopher finishes scribbling and sets his notebook down. “So you’ve already had that ‘What are we’ conversation?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she brought it up. She’s…direct,” he says, smiling.

“And is that a positive thing for you, do you think?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Kristopher picks up the notebook and rifles through it, flipping back a dozen or so pages. “‘She’s a little mean sometimes’,” he quotes. “You said that in July. So is she mean or direct?”

“Direct,” Dieter asserts. “I just didn’t know her well enough.”

“Why do you think you took her directness as her being mean at first?” He asks. Dieter leans back and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. They’re about to get into something, he can feel it, and he doesn’t know if he has the strength.

“Probably because no one talks to me the way she does. Like they want to, not because they’re being paid to. I know she is, technically, but I don’t…she’s different. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“What about Anika?” He asks softly. “She was direct.”

Dieter shrugs. “And I made her life hell.”

“But you won’t do that this time?”

Sometimes Dieter wants to get up in the middle of these sessions and leave. No, he won’t do that this time. He’ll be better this time. He is better this time.

“It’s not…it’s not the same,” Dieter insists.

“It doesn’t sound very casual to me, Dieter,” Kristopher says. “You told her that, right? To keep it casual for now?”

“Well, yeah,” Dieter says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured…I figured she’d tell me if there was a problem with that.”

“Because she’s direct,” he says. Dieter hates it when he does this, too. Kristopher is the opposite of direct, leading him around like a dog on a leash and not in a fun way. He has no idea what conclusion he’s supposed to be getting to here and it’s starting to infuriate him.

“You just have to come out and say it, man.”

Kristopher leans back and folds his hands over his flat stomach, squinting at the clock above Dieter’s head. “All right, well. In the interest of time. You don’t talk about this person in a casual way. You never have, not in any of the six months she’s been in your life. You mention her more than you do your family. You came in here three months ago distraught that you’d hurt her feelings. You didn’t get that upset when your wife left you. Not once. So I guess what I’m asking is, is casual the word you wanted to use? And does that mean the same thing to both of you?”

Dieter blinks a few times, trying to come up with any words at all. He swallows harshly. “I…guess it’s not the word I’d use.”

Kristopher’s alarm goes off—time’s up.

He walks Dieter to the door and squeezes his shoulder. “People don’t always tell us exactly what they want when they think they’ll lose something if they do. I just don’t want you to miss out on something that might be good for you.”

It’s late when he gets back. All the lights are off except for the dim glow of your little house in the backyard. He bites his lip, wondering if you’d be too mad at him for disturbing you.

Would you think it’s a hook up? That he’s just using you?

Are you okay with this whole thing?

Kristopher’s words stick in his head—does casual mean the same thing to you?

It’s so late. He just wants to see you.

It’s unseasonably warm, even for Los Angeles. This might explain why he finds you in a lounge chair, looking up at the clear sky.

“Hey, Dee.” You don’t look away from the sky.

“What if I was a murderer?” He asks.

“Then I’d be dead, I guess. How was your evening?”

“Mmhmm,” he says. “What’d you do?”

“Me and Ada had dinner together and watched When Harry Met Sally. She said she was missing Carrie Fisher. They were good friends. Can you imagine?”

“I worked with Carrie,” Dieter says.

“Of course you did,” you laugh. “C’mere.” You open your arms and he climbs between your legs. He likes when you hold him like this-there’s safety here he hasn’t felt with anyone in years.

“Did you get more Skittles?” He asks and you hum an affirmative, looking at the sky.

“Did you know that Skittles have titanium dioxide on the coating to keep them shiny?”

“They have what?”

“Titanium dioxide. It’s banned in Europe even though there’s not really a link to any risk, but isn’t that weird? And some of it just doesn’t break down in your body.”

Dieter looks at you, bumping your nose with his. “Why do you know that?”

You grin at him. “Don’t know, actually. Just do.”

Dieter kisses your forehead. “What else is in that big brain?”

“Memorizing facts doesn’t make you smart,” you say matter-of-factly.

“Kinda does,” he says. “What about salt lamps?”

“What about them?”

“What’s their deal?” He noses your neck and settles there, waiting for you to tell him everything you know.

“Nothing. They’re just pretty. But they don’t do anything.”

“No asbestos?” 

“I dunno. I’m no salt lamp expert. I just know it’s garbage.”

He presses his lips to yours—innocently, at first, he swears, he’d just missed you. But you make this noise—this soft little moan—and his cock springs to attention. He slides his tongue across the seam of your lips, but you’re already opening your mouth.

You lift your hips and press into him, and it’s over. No more innocent little kiss now. He slots his knee between your legs and presses his thigh to your cunt, precome already leaking from him.

There’s something forbidden about this, the two of you rubbing against each other like breathless, desperate teenagers.

“Dee,” you breathe. “You’re so hard already.”

“Doesn’t take a lot with you, sweetheart. Make me fuckin’ crazy,” he grunts, rutting against you. The fabric of his pants gives a pleasant friction he’d forgotten about. “Fuck. You wanna—fuck—you wanna go fool around? Let me eat your pussy? Oh, fuck, please let me eat your pussy.”

“Um, I might’ve just finished touching myself,” you giggle. You seem a little shy about it. “I didn’t know you when you’d be back.”

“Fuck me,” he breathes, grinding against your leg. “I’ll make you come again, c’mon.”

“No,” you say sharply. “I want you to come.”

He shudders at your request. “Jesus Christ, baby. Tell me what you thought about when you were touching yourself. Please.”

Dieter buries his face into your neck, desperate to breathe you in. He runs his teeth over the column of your throat—he wants to mark you, to sink his incisors into your skin and watch tiny bruises bloom.

He thinks you’d like it rough.

“Thought about you being a good boy for me,” you whisper into his ear, tugging on his hair and sending goosebumps down his spine. “Thought about you putting your big fucking cock inside of me and letting me ride you until I’m screaming—”

Sweat gathers on his brow, his hips moving faster at the tremor in your voice, like you’re so drunk on power and lust it’s hard to keep your own hips from grinding into his. “Holy fuck,” he groans.

“Thought about you doing exactly what I say. About pulling this pretty hair.” You tug again, harder this time, your fingers twisted into his curls and bringing tears to the corners of his eyes. “Thought about sucking that pretty dick, letting you come all over my face.”

He can’t speak, he can barely breathe; he wants it so, so bad.

“You’re a good boy, you know. Doing what I tell you, humping my leg outside all desperate.”

“I’d do more—I’d do whatever you want. I’d get naked, I don’t care.”

“Hmmm,” you tease. “Maybe next time. This still feel good?”

His pants, drenched with precome, press firmly against your bare leg. He wants to feel your skin, but he doesn’t say anything. “Yeah,” he croaks, because it still feels good. But you see right through him.

“You sure? You don’t want anything? Good boys don’t lie.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I want—can I feel you? Can I fuck your thigh this time?”

“Ohh,” you coo. “That’s my sweet boy, asking for what he wants. Take it out.”

He wastes no time pulling his cock out.

“Let me see,” you request. He sits back on his knees and holds it at the base, the bulbous tip red and throbbing and drooling precome. It takes all his strength not to stroke himself. “Oh, baby, look at you. Come on, honey, finish.”

Dieter falls forward, groaning when his cock meets your soft warm thigh. He hides his face in your neck again, whimpering and wishing he could feel you, too.

He asks, because you’d told him to.

“Can I touch your pussy? Please, sweetheart?”

You don’t say a word as you take his hand and slide it under your sleep shorts. You’re not wearing panties and you’re fucking soaked. You keen as he sinks his fingers into you, your heat clenching around him.

It’s over so much sooner than he wants it to be. 

He tries to warn you about his sudden release, but you don’t seem to mind the surprise, cooing softly as he bucks against you. “My good boy, oh, fuck—that’s it, come on, baby, you’re so—fucking—good—”

He lays there for only a moment, sticky spend cooling between his belly and yours, because he has work to do. He can still feel you clenching around him, and he thinks he could do it. You deserve it. He hasn’t even caught his breath when he presses his palm against your clit, fingers seeking curling up and finding something that makes your eyes roll back. 

“C’mon, baby,” he groans. “You come for me now. I got you now, honey, don’t worry about a thing. I know you can, know you want to, you’re so fucking tight—”

“Dee,” you moan, pressing into his palm, and goddammit, he’s never gonna get tired of that.

“That’s my girl. Just let it happen.”

Your mouth falls open, quiet as you spasm around his fingers. He’s never seen anything so beautiful. He wants to paint you like this, the furrow of your brow, your slack jaw, the glow of the pool lights bouncing from your skin. 

He’ll take to you bed with him, curl himself around you, and tomorrow he’ll talk to you. He’ll tell you everything. 

He won’t fuck this up—he won’t, he won’t, he won’t.

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