Pedro Pascal Character - Tumblr Posts

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (COMPLETED)

Summary: Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Thanks for including my story on this list Jett! ❤️

A list of all my favourite MARCUS PIKE Fic Recs, with the writers tagged. Includes fics I am currently reading/want to read.

Please show some love to the writers by re-blogging and commenting on their work. 🖤

PART 4

⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes.

It's You, Que Creías? & The One Next Door - @fhatbhabie PlusSize!Reader

Wonderful Tonight - @mountainsandmayhem Pregnant!Reader

Juicy Hot Dogs - @frenchiereading

Sage - @dancingtotuyo

Caught In The Rain - @burntheedges

Baby Fever Series - @bluestar22x

Missing My Baby - @nerdieforpedro

27 Seconds - @hellfire-state-of-mind

Paper Rings - @bitchesuntitled

😍😍😍

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Pairing: Joel Miller X fem!Reader | W/C: ~6.3K | Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: You give Joel a birthday gift to remember before the world falls apart.

A/N: This will probably rip your heart out…but in like a sexy way. Missed you all.x

Artwork credit (far right): Refael Suissa | Irefaels

Warnings: Set it in the TLOU TV universe / follows the show’s timeline and locations (Austin / Jackson). Heavy sexual tension. Frustrated / grumpy Joel. Reader is a bit of a minx. Latin language (duh). Flirting / seduction. Alcohol / scenes take place in a bar. Sarah / Ellie / Tommy are in this. Good Dad!Joel. Implied canon-typical violence. Slight age gap (make it your own, but in my mind reader is about seven years younger than Joel). Joel get’s explicit consent. Raw, passionate smut. Smut with implied but undiscussed feelings. Oral (M / F receiving). Fingering. Praise kink. Dirty talk. Slight size kink. Unprotected P in V. Cum eating. Cum on face (a.k.a. Joel turns you into his birthday cake). Chair sex. Implied violet!Joel. No use of Y/N. No use of daddy. Use of good girl. Reader has female sex anatomy and has slight implied feminine descriptors. Could be seen as a happy or un-happy ending. Let me know if I missed anything!

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications

Ad Astra Per Aspera  ~ “Through Hardship to the Stars” 

++++

Austin, Texas  – September 26, 2003

"Damn it, Dan! This delay's gonna cost us a whole week—we're already playing catch-up," Joel barks into his Nokia, barely catching the muffled murmurs coming from the other end. "Look, just fix it. I'm done here. Bye." With a snap, he ends the call and tosses his phone into the faded pocket of his jeans, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer frustration.

The annoyance is written all over his face, but it's nothing compared to the storm brewing inside. Delay after delay has catapulted this job to the top of his 'worst-ever' list. 

And to top it off, it's his birthday – a day he hasn’t really ever been fond of, mostly because it just means he’s getting old. He doesn’t need his birthday to remind him of that, though. His back does a fine job of it every morning. 

 "Screw it, one beer won't kill me," he mutters under his breath. Seeing your smile might even help, too. 

Joel jumps into his truck, his toolbox landing on the passenger seat with a puff of dust. He notices a pack of Tommy’s cigarettes on the dash and toys with the idea of lighting up, but he can already hear Sarah’s nagging if she catches a whiff. It’s just a short drive to the bar.

"Must be a full moon or something," he grumbles, trying to drown out the constant wail of sirens with Hank Williams' twang. Alone, he belts out a lyric or two, a guilty pleasure he’d never share in company.

He pulls into the Whiskey Ward parking lot—only one other car there. Yours. 

Joel instinctively glances at his wrist, remembering too late his watch is out of commission. Need to fix that thing, he thinks to himself as he steps out, his work boots hitting the pavement. He runs a hand through his just starting to grey hair and pushes open the wooden door.

Inside, the bar is quiet, and there you are, perched on the bartop, legs crossed, engrossed in a textbook with a CD-player by your side. You haven't noticed him yet, so he takes a moment just to watch you, finally easing onto a leather stool at the far end of the bar. After a few moments, he clears his throat to get your attention.

"Oh, shit – Joel! Hi,” you exclaim, pulling off your headphones and sliding off the bartop with a graceful hop. The move briefly reveals a flash of your midriff, smooth and unexpected. Joel's hands clench into fists at his sides, a jolt of surprise tightening his grip.

"Rough day?" you muse, sliding a napkin across the bar to Joel with a casual grace, offering a fleeting glimpse of your figure as you pour him a Coors—his usual.

"Yeah—somethin' like that," he grumbles, reaching for the glass. His fingers brush yours, causing your skin to flush a bit. He notices.

"Quiet in here for a Friday, huh? Didn't expect to be the only one," he comments, sipping his beer to quench the heat of the day, yet feeling the alcohol's warm embrace relaxing his muscles.

"Odd day, really. Barely had two customers," you lean back against the bar, your stance casual yet poised, "Or maybe I did it just for you."

Joel looks puzzled.

"Maybe I cleared the place out, kept it just for you... seeing as it's your birthday and all," you add, inching closer to his side of the bar.

"Hm," Joel hums, another sip hiding his smile. "You know about that, huh?"

"Of course – remembered the first time you flashed your I.D.," you wink, sending a warm rush through him like a dip in a hot tub.

“And here I was thinkin’ you thought I was some kid tryin’ to sneak in a beer,” he teases.

Your laughter fills the air, more refreshing to him than the beer itself. Leaning in, he wonders if you're this close with everyone or just him.

"What's that you're reading?" Joel nods toward the textbook still open on the bartop.

Caught off guard, too absorbed in the features of his face, you blink. "Huh?"

"Your book," he gestures again.

"Oh, right—it's for my Master's in Latin history," you explain nonchalantly.

Joel whistles lowly, clearly impressed. "Learn anythin’ good?"

"It's Latin," you quip, matter-of-factly.

"So? Teach me something, Darlin'."

Darlin'. He rarely uses it, but when he does—you feel it in places you think you maybe shouldn’t. 

"Well, I’m currently reading about the Roman poet Seneca. Kinda reminds me of you, actually."

"That so?"

"No." You tease, smiling. "You might be a bit grumpy sometimes, but he’s got you beat there—even on your birthday."

Joel's smirk grows. "That obvious, huh?"

"Just a bit," you tease back, your voice playful yet laced with an undertone that makes his heart beat a bit faster. You lean closer, your arms crossing nonchalantly on the bar, but every move calculated to draw him in. 

The space between you seems charged with electricity; the air thickens palpably, as if every breath you take is shared. His gaze, intense and unyielding, drifts from your eyes down to your lips, lingering there, tracing the curve with an almost tangible thirst.

"Another?" you whisper, the words barely more than a breath, a soft, inviting caress against his face.

"Sure," he replies, his voice a low rumble, smooth but noticeably thick with anticipation. His eyes hold yours a moment longer, burning with a mixture of desire and curiosity, before you pull away. 

As you move to refill his glass, the distance feels like a sudden cold snap, and the absence of your nearness leaves him oddly bereft, eager for you to return and cut through the growing tension.

You fill his glass carefully, less foam this time, and return. 

"Ad Astra Per Aspera," you say, placing it before him, his confusion mirrored in his smirk.

"You havin’ a stroke or something?" he teases.

You laugh, "No, it's Latin. It means 'through hardships to the stars.'"

He contemplates the phrase, letting it seep in. "Is that your way of saying my day will get better?"

"Not exactly," you draw nearer, voice lowering to a sultry whisper. "But I can think of something that will..."

It’s now or never, you think. 

Your lips hover just over his.

"Kiss me."

His stomach feels like a lead ball just dropped into it. He pauses, contemplating his next move. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't resist. His hand finds the nape of your neck, pulling you in, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that promises more than just a better day.

It's not the type of kiss the prince gives a princess at the ball. No. It’s needy. A fierce, messy little thing. 

The scratch of his stubble sends a thrilling tickle across your skin, igniting a warm flush that spreads deliciously through you. You catch his lip gently between your teeth, releasing a soft moan as he draws you closer, your toes barely touching the ground. When the kiss breaks, your fingers instinctively touch your lips, as if to preserve the sensation that's transformed them.

With a playful smile, you begin to retreat, your fingers curling in a seductive beckon for him to follow. Joel's eyes track your every move as you flip the bar's sign from 'open' to 'closed'. Does this mean what he thinks it means? 

His hopes surge as you stride confidently to the front door, locking it with a decisive click. The sound of metal securing into metal seems to seal not just the door, but the promise of what’s to come. 

You lean back against the solid wood, hips cocked slightly, your stance an open invitation as you catch his gaze with a daring, expectant look.

He catches your drift and takes a few large strides forward. 

Faster than a blink, he’s on you, one hand on your hip, the other firm on the back of your neck. He crowds you back, pinning you harder between the door and him. You knew he was a big man, that much is obvious, but with the way he’s on you right now, he’s all you can see, feel, hear – it’s intoxicating. 

He lowers his head to your neck, his lips grazing the skin of your throat. The touch sends shivers down your spine, your pulse quickening under his mouth. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, his breath warm against your skin. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your hip, grounding you. 

“You sure you wanna do this, darlin’,” he murmurs, “you can still say no.”

You feel the soft press of his lips against your erratic pulse, the slow drag of his teeth drag up the side of your neck.

A moan slips from your lips.

“Words, baby.” He sucks a mark on your throat, and you melt a little more under his touch, sinking deeper and deeper into all things him. 

“God – yes, yes Joel, I want you, I’m sure,” you say, maybe a little too eager. Your words earn a small groan from him. 

“Not doin’ this jus’ cause it’s my birthday,” he asks, his firm hand still on the back of your neck. You angle your chin to face him, and his lips find yours. He kisses exactly the way you thought he would – it’s deep, intense, commanding. 

You moan into his mouth as he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, and you twist your hands into the fabric of his shirt. Your fingertips graze the top of his belt, then drop lower, feeling the hard shape of him through the denim.

“No, Joel. I think you and I both know that I’ve wanted you for a long time,” you confirm, the sincerity evident in your voice. 

His breath hitches at your touch, and he presses even closer, his hips grinding against you. You can feel his heartbeat, rapid and strong, matching the pounding in your chest. His lips leave yours, trailing hot kisses down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with desire.

Your hand moves more boldly now, tracing the outline of him with your fingers, feeling him harden even more under your touch. He groans, the sound vibrating through you, and you can’t help but arch into him, seeking more contact.

“Nope, ” he purrs, “Wanna see you first…it’s my birthday, after all.” 

His hands roam over your body, exploring every curve and dip. He finds the hem of your shirt and tugs it upward, breaking away from you just long enough to pull it over your head. He discards it carelessly, his eyes darkening as they rake over your now-exposed skin.

You toe off your shoes and work to take off your bra, all while Joel unbuttons your jeans. You wiggle your hips to assist him in removing the barrier. After what seems like no time at all, you’re nearly fully nude in front of him, bare the thin lace of your panties. 

“Fuck me,” Joel says, taking a small step back and admiring the view. He looks at you like you’re a piece of art, prettier than anything he could have conjured up in his mind. Certainly prettier a man like him deserves, but he’s not in the mood to question or overthink things now. 

He steps forward and puts his hand on your waist, using his thumb to trail over your soft skin. Goosebumps collect like pebbles on your skin from the cool air, and your nipples harden from his touch.

You push your chest to him, for him. He accepts your offering; swipes a calloused thumb across your plush, silky nipple, and crouches to catch the other in his desperate mouth. He groans into your chest the second your nipple meets his lips. You can’t control the deep hum that escapes from your throat. Joel smirks at the sound, lips still attached to your breast.

“Joel,” you moan.

He trails kisses down the valley of your breasts, across the soft swell of your stomach, whispering praise against your skin as he goes. His voice is a low, soothing murmur, each word sending shivers down your spine. You drape your hands over his broad shoulders, fingers threading through the curls that gather at the back of his head, holding him close as he works his way down to the band of your panties.

On his knees, he places both of his hands on the curves of your hips and holds you steady while he looks up at you. He looks up at you like a man starved, his pupils so dark they edge out most of the brown, his hooded eyes are almost a plea for you to let him continue.

“Can I taste you?” he asks, already hooking his thumbs in the band of them, awaiting your permission. 

You pause with your mouth agape a bit, he wants to taste you. You’ve never had a man ask before, a fact that makes what he’s doing to you right now even hotter. 

“Go on, birthday boy,” you tease. His prominent nose presses into your mound and groans. 

“Thas’ right, being such a good little present for me,” he praises. His cock twitches against the confines of his jeans.

His hands are warm and sure as they slide beneath the fabric, pulling your panties down with agonizing slowness. You take a small step out of them, and he gently caresses up the back of your calve and back of your thigh, his hand landing on the curve of your ass. He tightly grabs the flesh there. 

He gently guides your leg up onto one of his shoulders, and you press back into the wall and lean your pelvis closer to him. The anticipation is electric, every nerve ending in your body alive and buzzing with need. His lips follow the path of his hands, kissing along the newly exposed skin, his breath hot against your thighs.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he praises before leaning in to place an experimental kiss on the top of your mound. You let out a soft little sound at the feeling of his lips on your skin. 

He gets bold with his kisses, and once you’re comfortable with his mouth on you, he glides his middle finger through your dropping folds before flipping it so it’s wrist up, pausing with the pad of it right at the entrance of your tight hole. 

You look down at him with your lusty doe eyes that have been driving him crazy since he first saw you and bite your lower lip in anticipation. He looks at you and gently nudges the nip in, he holds it there for a brief second before fully thrusting it up into your core, holding your gaze as he enters you. You gasp.

“Tight little thing, too, ain’t cha’,” he moans as he continues to feel you, eventually putting his mouth back on your pussy, his lips sealed around your puffy clit. His large finger pumps in and out of you as his tongue flicks and swirls where you need him the most. 

“More,” you moan, “Fuck–please, Joel, give me more,” you mewle. 

“I will, baby,” he whispers against your wet skin as he slips another finger in, one you greedily accept. 

He devours you, and eats you from the inside out. His tongue is precise and relentless, each flick and swirl overwhelming your senses. It's so good, so intense, that you feel like you're going to come apart at the seams.

“Joel,” you gasp, your voice trembling with need. “I—”

He looks up at you briefly, his eyes dark with hunger and desire, before doubling down on his efforts. The world narrows to the sensation of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, and the steady rhythm that drives you closer and closer to the edge.

Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and the world becomes fuzzy at the edges of your vision. 

You moan as he sets a relentless pace with his mouth and fingers, slowly tightening the coil inside of you in a way you’ve never felt before. Time slows briefly, and your vision goes white, little specks of light dancing behind your eyelids, heat rushing up to your chest and cheeks. 

Until – 

“Oh my god, don’t stop,” you unravel for him, a babbling mess of pleasure, he holds you steady as he works you through it. And when he’s satisfied that you’re satisfied, he gently hoists your leg off of his shoulder and rises to his full height. 

“You look even more gorgeous when you’re cumming for me, you know that,” he whispers against your neck, nipping at your jaw until his lips find yours. You taste yourself on them, feel the wetness in his beard. He slips his tongue into your mouth, and you moan. It’s so hot to taste yourself on him, dizzying that wants to taste you on his tongue. 

“Can it be my turn now…,” you wink at him, hooking your fingers into his belt loops.

“It is your birthday after all.” 

This time it’s your turn to press him back, and you do, guiding him until he bumps into the bar. You pull one of the stools out and he takes a seat. 

On jelly-like legs, you begin to kneel before him, holding his gaze as you do. The look in his eyes is enough to make you forget the slight sting in your knees from the hardness of the floor beneath you. 

You place your hands on his thick thighs, gliding them up to meet his belt. You watch his face as you make quick work of unbuckling it. His breath hitches, eyes darkening with desire.

Pants next, you pull the zipper down, and he helps you take them all the way off. You pause to palm the length of him under the single piece of fabric left on him, feeling the heat and hardness beneath. His breath catches, and you see the muscles in his jaw tighten.

With deliberate slowness, you pull his boxers down, far enough for his cock to finally spring free. The length of him slaps against his soft tummy, leaving a little smear of pre-cum in its wake. You can’t help but take a moment to admire him, the sight of him fully aroused, sending a fresh wave of desire through you.

You wrap your hand around him, feeling his weight and heat, and his hips jerk slightly at the contact. You look up at him, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure, lips parted as he watches you intently.

You wrap your hand around his thick, throbbing cock, your grip firm yet teasingly slow as you begin to stroke him with a deliberate, rhythmic pace. The sheer weight of it in your hand sends a thrill through you, and you can't help but admire the size and power beneath your touch. 

Joel’s head tilts back, his eyes fluttering closed as if he’s surrendering to the pleasure, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. His arms stretch out, muscles taut, until his hands grip the edge of the bartop, anchoring himself as you work him with skillful, unrelenting strokes.

You wet your lips, duck down to the base of his shaft, and plant a small kiss at the base of his cock. 

“Shit,” Joel groans. 

You hum as you flatten your tongue and lick a long, wet stripe up the underside of his cock and stop at the top with your mouth open wide. As you hold the tip of him in your mouth, your tongue darts out to taste the salty, musky flavor of his pre-cum. One of his hands frees from the bar to tangle in your hair, to guide you gently down as you take him into your mouth.

The sounds he makes as you begin to move are nothing short of primal. You can feel his thighs tense beneath your palms, his breath coming in ragged gasps as you work him with your mouth and hands.

You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, the feel of him against your tongue and the sounds of his pleasure spurring you on. His fingers tighten in your hair, guiding your movements, his control slipping with each passing second.

“Shit – shit, baby you gotta stop…gonna make me cum too soon,” he pleads. 

He can’t have that. He needs to fuck you. He’s not sure he’s ever needed anything more. 

You smile around him, the vibration of your laughter making him shudder. You ease off his cock, and look up at him with hungry eyes. He pulls you up by the back of your neck and brings his hands to your hips. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he says, “think you might be prettier than all the stars in the universe.” 

It’s cheesy. Too cheesy. He’d be more embarrassed if he wasn’t so fucked out. 

“Need to fuck you,” he rasps in your ear. “Come here,” he demands, patting his lap. 

You look at him for a moment. Does he mean on the stoo–

Before you can finish the thought, he reaches out and pulls you forward, aiding you on top of him. His cock is now nestled gently between your soaking folds, just waiting to be inside. He holds you close to his chest, tight enough for the both of you to keep your balance. 

You tangle your fingers through his hair as he nips at your jaw. 

“Feelings mutual, cowboy,” you rasp. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he says, a little quiet. 

“I’m on the pill. Please, Joel, please fuck me,” you wiggle your hips a little on top of him, the thickness of his cock rubbing against your still throbbing clit. 

With a firm but gentle touch, Joel lifts you just enough to position himself at the entrance of your slick, eager heat. As you begin to lower yourself onto him, you gasp when he fills you halfway, the stretch sending shivers up your spine. Sensing your need to adjust, he holds you there, his grip steady as your heart pounds in your chest, your eyes fluttering closed from the overwhelming sensation.

"Eyes on me, baby," he rasps, his voice thick with desire. You force your eyes open, locking onto his, and in that moment, he pushes deeper, taking you inch by inch. When he pauses again, halfway inside, he studies your face with a mix of concern and hunger.

"You okay?” he asks, his tone laced with restraint. You shake your head yes, breathlessly telling him you want all of him.

Once he's certain you're ready, he thrusts his hips up, releasing his hold just enough to let you sink fully down onto him. The sensation of him filling you completely, every inch buried deep inside, leaves you both trembling with a shared intensity, the connection between you electric and undeniable.

Your pussy clenches around him, your jaw going slack as he fills you completely. Joel fucks you with deep, deliberate strokes, each one slow and measured, giving you time to savor the way he stretches you, to adjust to every inch of his thick length. He holds you tight against him, the heat between your bodies building, making the little space that remains sticky with sweat and desire.

His breath is hot in your ear, whispering praises that send shivers down your spine. His hands grip your hips with a firm, guiding pressure, helping you ride him just the way he knows you need. Each movement is a teasing dance, his cock barely leaving the warmth of your cunt before you're slamming back down, taking him to the hilt again and again.

This position drives you wild—the way his thick, coarse hair brushes against your clit with every thrust, adding just the right amount of friction. It’s the perfect cushion, the perfect tease, amplifying every sensation as you move on top of him, your body attuned to his in the most intimate way possible.

“Holy fuck —” his words break with a moan again,  “That’s it, baby, ride me, use me…god.”

His words ignite something primal within you. As his hands grip your ass, you brace yourself on his shoulders and start to ride him harder, letting him guide your movements with each firm squeeze. His cock hits that perfect spot inside you, the one that sends waves of pleasure crashing through your body, making your thoughts blur into a haze of raw, unfiltered need.

With every thrust, he pumps into you with a rhythm that drives you wild, your moans growing louder and more desperate. The room is filled with the obscene, intoxicating sound of your bodies colliding, skin slapping against skin in a symphony of pure, unbridled lust.

“I’m gonna come again,” you gasp, your voice breathless and quivering, as the pressure inside you builds to an unbearable peak.

“Yeah?” he says, breath short, voice deep, “Such a good girl, want you to come for me, show me how pretty you cum.” You think you could come from just his words alone. 

Your pussy pulses around him as the wave of your orgasm takes over you, your mind hazy and filled with nothing but the thought of the way he fills you just right.

His movements begin to slow, and his grip on your ass tightens. You can tell he’s close.

“Where do you want me?”

Part of you wants to say inside, but there’s something that you want more.

“Fuck. Fuck. Face. Want you to cum on my face.” Joel’s lips lift a little at the corner, finding your answer a bit unexpected.

After a few more thrusts of his hips, he begins to stutter and slow. You take that as your cue to ease yourself off of his cock. He steadies you a bit with one hand, the other still pumping his thick length as you once again fall to your knees. 

You bow at the altar of the man above you, your hands placed dutifully on your knees, watching, waiting patiently for him to cum. 

“Gonna cum now, baby….can’t hold off an–” his words trail off as thick ropes of cum spurt out of him, landing warm and thick on your face. 

Once finished, you stay where you are, opening your eyes to once again look at him. You smile as you watch his breaths, now coming a bit more ragged, and the way his drooling cock looks so good gripped in his hands. 

He holds your gaze as you bring your finger to your face to gather the cum that’s gathered on “I’ve always wanted to be a birthday cake,” you tease with a wink, your playful tone hitting its mark. Joel blushes, a rare sight that makes you smile.

“You’re too much, you know that, darlin’?” he murmurs, his voice low and full of warmth.

“Too much, or just enough,” you counter, rising with a grin, accepting the free hand he’s offered to help you off the floor. You reach behind him for a cocktail napkin, handing one to him before using the other to wipe the rest of the mess on your face.

Once clean and redressed, the two of you stand there, the earlier momentum slowing as reality starts to creep back in. For a moment, neither of you is quite sure what to do next.

“Want another beer?” you offer, breaking the silence.

“Sure, why not,” Joel agrees, sliding into a nearby booth. He watches as you pour not one, but two beers, bringing them both to the table. Instead of sitting across from him, you slide in beside him, your thigh brushing against his as you settle in.

His hand naturally finds its place on your leg, the weight of it grounding and comforting. It feels right, easy, as if it’s always belonged there. With the bar still closed, the world outside forgotten, the two of you lose yourselves in conversation, flirting, kissing, laughing—everything flows effortlessly.

It always has with you.

“What time is it?” Joel asks, glancing around as if the hours haven’t slipped by unnoticed. He’s so caught up in you that he nearly forgets about the rest of the world, about Sarah waiting for him at home.

You glance at the clock behind the bar and feel a small jolt of surprise. “Oh shit, it’s almost 10 pm. We’ve been at this nearly all night.”

“Damn. I’m sorry, I really gotta get goin’. Sarah’s waiting for me,” Joel says, regret heavy in his voice. But you understand—he’s always spoken about Sarah with such love and pride. You know he’s a good dad, maybe even a great one, and it warms your heart to see it.

You both rise, walking together toward the door. Joel unlocks it, but before stepping out, he turns to face you. His eyes soften as they take you in, as if he’s trying to capture this moment, this image of you, and burn it into his memory. 

God, you’re beautiful. You always have been. You shine with the light of a thousand suns.

He kisses you goodbye, and your stomach tightens, that familiar ache of knowing this could be the end of something special. But as he pulls back, he catches your gaze, and his expression reassures you.

“See you soon,” he promises, his voice a gentle vow.

His lips leave yours, and you watch him as he steps out the door, the night air cool against your flushed skin.

“Hey, Joel?” you call out just as he’s a few steps into the parking lot.

He turns back, his silhouette framed by the lights in the parking lot. 

“Happy birthday, old man,” you say with a final wink, your voice carrying the warmth of everything unsaid.

He shakes his head with a small smile, lingering for a moment longer, taking in the sight of you—perched against the doorframe, hair slightly tousled, skin still glowing. It’s an image he knows he’ll remember forever.

As he drives away, he glances up at the night sky, the stars twinkling above. Maybe Seneca was on to something, he thinks, a small smile tugging at his lips as he heads home.

++++

The house is bathed in a soft, warm glow, the kind that only comes from years of memories and quiet evenings. Joel pushes the door open carefully, trying not to disturb the peace. Inside, the flicker of the television bathes the room in muted light, a newscaster’s voice droning in the background.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Joel’s eyes adjust to the dimness, and he spots Sarah on the couch, her attention absorbed in a magazine.

“You locked the door for once. Good job,” Joel remarks, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yeah,” Sarah replies softly, her voice tinged with the weariness of waiting up.

Joel collapses onto the couch beside her, the leather creaking under his weight, the day’s exhaustion catching up with him.

“It’s 10,” Sarah says, her tone flat, but the disappointment is unmistakable.

“I know. I’m sorry, bad day at work,” Joel admits, his voice heavy. He’s never been one to hide the truth from her, but he doesn’t burden her with the details, or the truth of why he’s really late.

“Where’s the cake?” she asks, a small reminder of the promise he made that morning.

“Shit,” Joel sighs, rubbing a hand over his tired face.

“Come on, man,” Sarah teases, though there’s a touch of hurt in her voice.

“I’ll get us one tomorrow,” Joel promises, his heart sinking at the sight of her slight frown. He hates letting her down.

“Swear, or you don’t get your present,” Sarah says, a playful smile brightening her face again.

“You got me a present?” Joel’s eyes light up, genuinely surprised.

“Swear,” she insists, her smile widening.

“On my life,” he vows, his voice deep and serious this time. 

With a grin, Sarah reaches behind the couch cushion and pulls out a small gray box. Joel takes it, examining it with curiosity before carefully opening it.

“Fixed it for you,” Sarah says, watching him intently.

Joel lifts the watch from the box, admiring it for a second before holding it to his ear with a grin.

“Did you? I don’t hear anything,” he jokes, enjoying the mix of confusion and disbelief on her face before he bursts into laughter.

“That was lame. You’re lame,” Sarah quips, rolling her eyes but unable to hide her affection.

“Yeah, I know,” Joel chuckles. “Where’d you get the money for this?”

“Drugs. I sell hardcore drugs,” she deadpans, causing Joel to scoff in amusement.

“It’s better than what I do,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“It was only 20 dollars…which I stole from you,” Sarah admits, flashing him a mischievous smile. Joel gives her a mock stern look.

“I could have stolen 60 but I put the change back ‘cause I’m an honest thief. Besides, it’s the thought that counts, and you were never gonna do it for yourself...so…” she trails off, her voice softening.

Joel looks at the watch again, carefully strapping it on, his heart swelling with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“Oh, there’s one more,” Sarah adds, reaching behind the pillow again and pulling out a DVD—Curtis and Viper 2.

“Borrowed it from the Adlers,” she explains.

“Ah, this is the one with the deleted scenes,” Joel says, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice.

“Yeah, imagine how bad those have to be,” Sarah replies dryly.

“Come on, pop it in, while it’s still your birthday,” she urges, snuggling up against him as he moves to the TV and slips the DVD in.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Joel warns, swelling at the feel of her head resting on his shoulder.

“Of course I won’t, it’s too riveting,” Sarah promises, even though they both know how it will end.

The movie begins, but it isn’t long before Sarah drifts off, her soft breathing a lullaby to Joel. His cellphone rings, breaking the quiet, and he answers it, careful not to disturb her.

“Hello,” Joel says quietly.

“Joel. It’s me. I’m okay,” Tommy’s voice crackles through the line, rough and anxious.

“Yeah?” Joel’s heart sinks, sensing trouble. His little brother always did have a knack for getting in trouble. 

“But I’m in jail,” Tommy admits.

“God damn it,” Joel snaps, his voice low but tense.

“It wasn’t my fault this time. I was at the bar, some guy goes crazy, starts swinging at a waitress, I step in, knock him out, cops show up…but it doesn’t matter. You gotta bail me out. If you don’t get me out tonight, I’m in here all weekend,” Tommy pleads, a desperate edge in his voice.

Joel pauses, the weight of the situation settling on him.

“It’s a fuckin’ madhouse, Joel. I gotta get out,” Tommy presses.

“Well, which jail, Travis County?” Joel asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, on the 10,” Tommy confirms.

“God damn it, Tommy,” Joel mutters, frustration bubbling up.

“I’m sorry. Please,” Tommy’s voice softens, regret lacing his words.

“Okay,” Joel agrees, resigned.

“Fucking idiot,” he murmurs to himself after ending the call.

He thinks back to your comment about Seneca having the upper hand on frustration. What would you think if you could see him now? 

With a sigh, Joel gently lifts Sarah from his lap, cradling her against his chest as he carries her to her bed. He tucks her in carefully, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

If he knew what awaited him the second he stepped out of the house, he never would have left.

Jackson, Wyoming – September 26, 2028 “Ellie!” Joel calls up the stairs, putting the finishing touches on her school lunch in the kitchen.

She descends the staircase, her focus completely engulfed by an ancient Latin history book. "Hey Joel, do you know what 'Ad Asturrah…Per..As..prurah' means?" Ellie’s attempt at the phrase is adorably muddled as she tries to wrangle the words from her mouth. 

In that instant, Joel's world blurs, and time seems to stretch and thin. 

He's suddenly no longer in their home in Jackson; he's whisked back to the last normal night he ever had, lying next to you, the comfort and closeness a sharp contrast to the bleakness that followed.

"Through Hardships to the Stars," Joel replies, his voice a quiet echo of times past. The words flow effortlessly, as if they've been longing to break free for years.

"Oh shit. Wasn’t expecting you to actually know that – where’d you learn that, smartie pants?" Ellie’s playful challenge pulls him sharply back to the present.

“No more questions now, off you go to school,” he says with a gentle firmness, a tone that Ellie knows means business.

“Fine, whatever, but only ‘cause it’s your birthday. Happy birthday, old man.” Her voice carries a teasing lilt as she scampers off.

Happy birthday, old man. 

You had said that, too. 

Joel moves to stand by the window, a freshly brewed coffee in hand, gazing at the morning sun that bathes the world in gold and promise, despite the gloom and grime that lines beyond the gates of Jackson. 

His mind wanders through the tumultuous paths of his past—the dire situations, the desperate choices, the blood forever on his hands, nights spent on unforgiving earth—all underscored by the gentle cadence of your voice.

As he closes his eyes, darkness envelops him, but it's not void of light. He sees stars—luminous, unreachable, eternal. In that vast canvas of night, there you are, indelibly etched in his heart.

And there you will always be.

END

A/N Continued: Thank you so much for reading! As much as I'd love to say I don't care about the notes, I won't lie and tell you I don't need them for validation. If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging.

Tagging some moots for visibility since I've been MIA for so long:

@endlessthxxghts @syd-djarin @yxtkiwiyxt @auteurdelabre @morallyinept @mermaidgirl30 @survivingandenduring @morning-star-joy @merz-8 @alltheirdamn @chulopascal @sweetercalypso @xdaddysprincessxx @burntheedges @punkshort @pedrostories @bastardmandennis @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @ohheypedrito @ozarkthedog @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk P.S. Since I'm back from my hiatus, please tag me in your fics! I would love to read and support you all.x

😍🫠😍🫠😍🫠

Oh how I love Dieter and his lack of fucks to give when it comes to who sees or hears

Break Me Off A Piece

Dieter Bravo x Female Reader Written for the ever so lovely @yopossum's Mootboard and Minifics celebration.

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)  Summary: Your husband Dieter Bravo has dragged you to yet another boring Hollywood party, you're determined to make it a little more fun. Warnings: reader calls dieter daddy, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (be safe irl), food play (kit kat on/dipping in reader’s kitty cat so definitely edible object penetration), spanking with a garden tool, teasing, somewhat public flashing, public-ish sex, getting caught having said public-ish sex, stolen flower, reader wears a dress and heels. Words: 2,000

A/N: Well, I’ve done it folks, my first fic where reader calls someone “daddy.” Thank you to @mothandpigeon for letting me type out Kit Kat ideas and @ohheypedrito for supporting the daddy of it all.

Masterlist

🧡🍫🧡

All night you’ve been playing nice, allowing Dieter to rub elbows and be the center of attention at this boring Hollywood party full of lame people you have nothing in common with. You laugh at jokes you don’t find funny, nod at stories you don’t care about, and smile at people you don’t like. You’ve been wondering all night why you even let Dieter drag you here…until you saw the way his face lit up as he watched you run that sweet cherry from your drink across your bright coral lips before biting into the fleshy fruit. Oh, that’s right, if you’re bored at this party, why not just tease your busy husband from afar? Time to shuffle the straps of your dress farther down your shoulders. Oh, what’s that? Your leg itches, let’s hitch your dress up and scratch the outside of your thigh. Dieter’s eyes behind his designer sunglasses always find their way back to you all night; you’re playing with fire, and you like the way the deep orange flames feel across your body. 

He’s entertaining yet another group of hanger onners, they laugh at everything he says, maniacally nodding their heads as he regales some sort of story you’ve probably heard a dozen times. Oh, please, he’s not that big of a deal. You love him, he’s your best friend, but they don’t have to pick up the Kit Kat wrappers scattered around his bedside table or pick up his wet towel he constantly leaves on your side of the bed. He catches your eye and you feel like making him suffer even more for dragging you to this lame party inside a lame mansion owned by a lame producer. You glance across the room, nobody’s looking at you, you’re not famous, you’re just a “trophy” (yeah, right) wife. A shot of bravery makes you sit up straighter, and grab the hem of your green dress. You open your legs, just as Dieter’s eye’s open when he gets a glimpse of your coral panties. His mouth drops, thick eyebrows rise above his sunglasses in feigned shock before he gives a precursory nod to his fan club and walks away from them, heading straight for you. 

“Get up,” he grabs your arm, pulling you to stand. “We gotta go somewhere, need to teach you a lesson.”

__

“Here?” 

“Yes baby,” Dieter crowds your back against a table filled with gardening supplies and potted plants. Your body knocks against the wood top, trowels and rakes clatter against one another; you’re mindful to not stick your hand in the potted cactus sitting to the left of you. His wet tongue runs up the column of your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your jaw. You can feel the bulge of him growing against your behind. 

“It’s so dirty in here,” you say, angling your head back to try to meet his lips. 

“So?” he asks before sealing his mouth over yours, his large hand grabs your chin as the other grips your breast. You can taste the fancy champagne his cohorts have been pouring him all night. “You should have thought about that before you teased me in there.”

“Meee, tease yooou?” you gasp against his lips when he pinches your nipple through the fabric of your dress.

“Yes, youuuu,” he teases, “you know exactly what you were doing to me.”

Your palms push against the rough wood of the table, you’re really mad at your past self for choosing to wear such high heels. Weak knees and platform shoes are not a good mix for an escapade in a damn greenhouse. 

“Bend over for me naughty girl,” he rasps. “Want to show you what all this fucking teasing gets you” He bunches your dress up in his hand, exposing your bare cheeks to him. "Fuuuuuuuuck, this is perfect baby girl, you wore my favorite thong like the bad girl you are, didn't you?"

“You are aware this whole greenhouse is–nyuuh–glass, don’t you?” you ask surveying the surroundings of the windowed shed. Is all of this necessary? Do mega movie producers really garden?

“Well aware," he growls. “You look so fucking good tonight, I don't give a fuck where we are, just as long as I can fuck this pretty little orange covered cunt. I say let everyone watch. Let them see how crazy you’ve been driving me all fucking night.”

You hear the clang of metal, before feeling something cool and flat against your ass cheek. 

“...What in the world are yo–”

SMACK, a stinging sensation blooms across your bottom. Your body tightens, a loud moan escapes and echoes across the glass panels of the greenhouse. You jerk your head back, to only be greeted by Dieter and his proud smile. 

“Told you I had to teach you a lesson,” he says, waving a garden trowel in the air.

You breathily laugh, lust surging through your body when you push your ass farther out, encouraging him to spank you again.

“You want another bad girl?” his voice drops an octave, deep bedroom Dieter has taken over. 

“Yes daddy,” you mew, enticingly shaking your curves back and forth. 

Cool metal is once again against your skin rubbing small, teasing circles into your flesh. Your breath hitches in your throat when it’s pulled away, time slows while you wait for another spark of pain. 

SMACK. The metal lands against you harder this time, you gasp Dieter’s name, he answers you with a grumbly chuckle before throwing the trowel back on the table.

His hands find your hips, turning you around to face him before he sinks to his knees and bunches your dress up. He lifts his sunglasses up to rest atop his head, giving him a clear view of his favorite pair of panties.

“Fuck, they do match your lips,” he says before running his tongue across the seam of your orange thong.

He pulls your underwear to the side, covering your cunt with his mouth. You’ll never get tired of the way he groans against your flesh, like he can’t believe he gets to taste you. He swirls and glides his tongue against your sensitive flesh, sucking and licking in all of the right places. 

The sensation makes you lose your grip on the clutch you’ve been carrying all night. The bag drops, scattering its contents all over the floor, stealing Dieter’s attention away from eating you. 

He leaves your warmth, quickly gathering all of your items and stuffing it back in your purse, save for the lone Kit Kat bar you keep in your purse for Dieter emergencies.

He holds the candy up, a thick eyebrow angled up in mirth.

“What?” you shrug, “I know how grumpy you can get.”

“Feeling kinda grumpy at you for what you just put me through in there baby,” he says before bringing the package up to his mouth. 

“Then it’s a good thing I know you,” you counter.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Dieter says through gritted teeth, the Kit Kat package swings from his mouth with each word. He pulls your panties down, fully taking in the sight of you in before opening the candy package. “Though, I am quite hungry.” 

He breaks a piece off and brings the chocolate to your cunt, parting your lips with the thin stick of chocolate. He circles the smooth wafer against your clit before leading it down to swirl against your entrance, Dieter looks up at you and winks before he dips it inside of you for a split second pulling a sweet moan out of your throat. He glides the confection covered in your slick out and brings it to his mouth; his eyes flutter shut when he wraps his plush lips around the candy now covered in you. A boisterous whimper emits from his throat, his whole body shudders against you. It’s filthy and sweet, watching your movie star spouse taste his two favorite things… you and a Kit Kat. 

“Good?” you question, exceedingly turned on just knowing how much Dieter enjoyed his little treat. 

He moans out a long, satisfying “mmmm” before tucking the open candy package into the chest pocket of his linen shirt. 

“Amazing,” he smiles, rising to his feet and unzipping his pants, pulling his cock out, already leaking and hard, definitely due to his prior snack.

You lift yourself onto the potting bench, bundling your dress up and spreading your legs wide, your pulse quickens, your body's already anticipating being stuffed full of Dieter’s thick cock.

He consumes you, his big arms blockade you in on both sides as he slowly enters your cunt. He puffs out a breath of air against your neck when he fully sheathes himself inside of you.

“You feel better than a Kit Kat,” you sigh, adjusting your legs to wrap around his body, opening yourself up even more for your husband to take you in the greenhouse.

He cackles against your neck, his dick rumbles against your walls with each laugh. 

“Better fucking be,” he says, pumping in and out faster as if he has to prove he is in fact better than a tiny stick of a candy bar. 

His thrusts rock into you harder as you open wider for him, soaking his cock with your slick; your hands clutch his hair, knocking his sunglasses off of his head when he begins to pound into you. You’re moaning so loud but you don’t care... Dieter is right, let them hear you, let them see you be taken by your husband. 

“That’s it, taking my fat cock like the naughty fucking girl you are,” he grunts. The table you’re sitting upon shakes under his force, metal garden tools and pots knock against one another. The loud clash of a terracotta planter landing on the floor doesn’t even phase the two of you.

“DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK?!” 

The sound of Dieter’s mega producer friend Jordan interrupts your feverish fucking. Your hands unclasp from Dieter’s hair, you can’t even look over at Jordan, too embarrassed by how he’s found the two of you. You idiot, what did you expect you’re screaming like a banshee and he’s fucking you in a greenhouse. 

“Sorry man, we’re almost done,” Dieter says, his dick twitches inside of you with each word spoken. 

“No dude, people are watching from the balcony, you gotta get out before someone snaps a pic,” Jordan scolds.

“Alright,” Dieter slips out of you, your body already begins craving the fullness of him. “Alright, we’ll get going, so we can finish elsewhere.”

“Jesus Christ Bravo, you could have asked me for a room,” Jordan shakes his head before turning and leaving. 

Dieter turns his head to you, giving you his classic smug grin. God damnit, you love this frustrating mess of a man. 

“Let’s go. The car’s waiting outside, I can fuck you in there.”

He picks your panties up off the floor and stuffs them in his pocket.

“Wait a second…” he turns around and grabs a stem from the bird-of-paradise plant now laying on the floor surrounded by the broken pot.

“Diet–”

“I made that man seven figures last year, he’s not going to miss this,” he says, handing you the flower before leading you to the limousine waiting to take you home. “Plus, every good show deserves flowers at curtains down.” 

___

“Shit,” Dieter says, as he deposits his keys and belongings onto the foyer table. “I don’t have my sunglasses. Pretty sure they’re still in that shed…”

Dieter pretending to be the Hallmark boyfriend for her?! 😍😍😍 YES. PLEASE.

i crawl home to her

rating: 18+ explicit

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8.2K

summary: you bring dieter home to meet your family over the holidays.

warnings/tags: discussions of food, mentions of weight gain, brief biphobia, bad family dynamics, hiding parts of yourself to make yourself more palatable, dom!Dieter when his type-A girlfriend needs him to, smut in places it shouldn’t be, a family can be two people, bad jokes, mentions of marriage and kids, one light booty smack, peep the super obvious bob's burgers reference, minimal edited, you can pry the image of dieter in ugg's from my cold dead hands

a/n: i've caved and finally added to the evergrowing pile of "Pedro boy fucks you in your childhood home". @sp00kymulderr i told you i'd get it out today -- it might be tomorrow for you, but it's not yet midnight! i present to you part 2 of merry thanksgiving nonsense2023!

🤍Masterlist

You nearly miss the exit off the gray-slushy highway because you’re trying to remember Aunt Gayle’s food allergies. 

And Uncle Rick’s preferred way of taking his coffee in the morning.

And the right detergent to use when washing your niece’s clothes, or else your sister will come after you with a hatchet. 

“Baby, you’re gnawing your fingernails bloody.” 

You blink, surprised to find your hand anywhere near your mouth, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel, and to your enormous embarrassment, he was right – you’d pulled up several hangnails, leaving tiny pink gouges, right under your immaculate holiday nails you got for the express purpose of looking presentable in all the inevitable Insta photos your sister demands every year. 

“Fuck,” you mutter and curl your fingers into your fist as if to hide temptation. From the passenger’s seat, Dieter frowns.

“Twizzler to make it better?” He spins the red, bendy candy enticingly. Your mind suddenly flashes back to the time you both got way too high on his new bong and he made the exact same motions with his dick. You had never laughed so hard in your life. 

The red candy whipping around in a circle, you groan into the steering wheel. 

“I’m turning around. This was a terrible idea.”

“What are you so nervous about?” Dieter half-way laughs. He pulls his Ugg-stuffed feet off the dashboard and sits up. Crumbs from the Starbucks Christmas sugar cookie spill off his “Kris Kingle My Jingle” sweater and onto the seat, but it’s those fucking earnest, curious eyes that always seem to rock your world. You occasionally don’t like to be touched when you’re stressed, so out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand waver before falling back in his lap. “It’s just dinner.” 

“Yeah, but it’s holiday dinner with my family. They’re all so judgy and mean and every time I come home for more than twenty-four hours, I’m reminded exactly why I fucked off to California.”

“Maybe they’re jealous you’re a hot shot director,” Dieter suggests. “Or that you have a ruggedly handsome movie star boyfriend.” Eyebrow raised, he twirls the Twizzler again and manages to bite it out of the air. You half-way expected it to smack him in the face. “They know I’m coming, right?”

You bite your lip, the last phone call with your mother still achingly heavy in your chest.

“You know what she asked when I told her I was bringing home the one and only Dieter Bravo as my boyfriend to meet my family?” You don’t need to look at him to see the furrow in his brow, the slight curve in his shoulders. You prop your elbow up against the window, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. “She asked if it was a career move. If I was dating you to get ahead in the industry . . . like I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.”

There’s a fraught silence. You listen to the wheels churn dirty black snow so you don’t have to look at him. 

“Then why in the world would you start with my dumb ass?”

Despite yourself and despite what’s coming, you smile. But you fight it, wrapping your lip up between your teeth. So he continues:

“If you really want to make it big, you gotta date someone at least forty years older than you. So, what? We’re talking seventy. But, wow, think of the money. Bet he has his dick dripped in gold just to keep it hard–,”

“Dieter!” You swat at him, smile too big to contain, and he grins, grabbing you by the wrist. “That’s terrible!”

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

You smirk. “Barely. More like ha ha than a big chuckle.” 

He nips your palm, the rough hair on his chin scraping the soft skin. 

By some minor miracle and a forcible act of God, your mother is allowing you two to share a bedroom. Not out of respect for your relationship, of course, but there is simply not enough room to spare. You watch those perfect lips imprint themselves in the cup of your hand and you’ve never been more thrilled to have to share a double bed. God, you cannot be this wet before you have to look your mother in the eye. You retract your hand with a breathy exhale. 

“We don’t have to stay long,” Dieter says, a weight to his gaze that proves he hasn’t completely blown off your concern. He twists his body in the seat and crosses his arms, his shoulder pressed into the seat. He watches you with his head against the headrest. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m already on thin ice because we’re just staying two days.” You shake your head. “My sister and her family have already been there since Monday and plan to stay the rest of the week.” You inhale, hold, and exhale until you can feel your shoulders drop. “It’s just . . . I’ve worked so hard to make something of my life, to be someone I can be proud of, and it just doesn’t matter to them. They want me to marry a banker or something, and quit my job to do cutesy family blogging on Instagram. They’ve never, ever liked the real me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something come over Dieter’s face. Not annoyance, or irritation, but as if someone kick started his brain. But it passes and he brushes the back of your hand resting over the gearshift with his fingers. 

“I like the real you,” he says quietly. “In fact, I really, really, really like the real you. I gotta keep you around. Who else is gonna remember the name of the best Chinese food place when I’m high?” 

Dieter is sweet, knows the wonders his smile can accomplish, with a twinkle in his eyes. A bit crude, a little distractible, but ultimately, well-meaning. However, he seemed physically incapable of maintaining sincerity. Which in the beginning, was also cute, but now, in a moment of crisis, it was boyish in a way that made you worried. A little scared. Like too much pressure and he’d break.

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

You smile at him and return your hand to the steering wheel.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The car squeals as it stops in the driveway, wheels crunching the cold ice. You look up at your childhood home with the same unease and trepidation that’s been there since childhood.

“Go let ‘em know we’re here,” Dieter says as he unbuckles his belt. There’s still crumbs in the knit of his sweater. At least his sweatpants are clean. But there’s nothing you can do about those Uggs right now– 

His hand squeezes yours, centering the universe that’s spinning like the inside of a martini shaker. You can feel the weight of his gaze press into your chest – heavy, warm, forgiving. He smiles, then slides into a smirk.

“Chillax, bro. Your vibes are not gnarly.”

You huff, trying to offer a smile that’s not a grimace. This was such a bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late to go pay for one of those mail-order boyfriends and keep Dieter in his nice California, hippie plastic wrap. 

You hear your name being called from the porch and that smile fully plummets into a grimace. Gathering from that reserve of confidence that makes you look at male writers, directors, and (yes) actors and tell them they’re idiots and get the fuck off your set, you open the door and head around the corner to the front of the house. 

Yeah, in the face of your mother, that reserve is basically a trickle.

She’s waiting for you on the porch, red dish towel in hand. 

“I thought that might be you, darling! I’d recognize that squeak from that rust bucket anywhere.” She smiles, arms wide, as you bend down to give her a hug. You've had to bend down to hug your mother for years now and you still feel about two feet tall. “How are you? You’ve been good? You look pale, but you’ve definitely been eating, haven’t you?”

She pinches your cheek as if to show you all the extra fat you have on your face. 

“Where’s Dad?” You try not to look like you’re tearing your face out of her grip and glance into the surprisingly quiet house over her shoulder. “Aren’t Emma and Dan supposed to be here?”

“Your father is out finishing his latest woodworking piece. He’s been at it for days, no matter how much I beg him to help with the food or the house. It’s all on me again to save the holidays.” 

As it is every year.

“Your sister and her family went out to get more sweet potatoes. They eat sweet potatoes in California, don’t they?”

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

“Oh good, I thought it’d be considered a carb.” She frowns, hands on her hips as if you’re about to get a proper scolding. “Now you told me you’re going to be bringing your fancy actor boyfriend. Damian Bravado, right? I cooked for exactly seven people, darling, a single empty chair will throw the whole thing off!”

“Yes, Mom, my boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is here. He’s just in the–,”

Someone, distinctly not your boyfriend, or at least not the boyfriend you left in the car, waltzes up the front steps.

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

Gloves that would make Ryan Gosling seethe with envy covering the tattoo on his hand.

His hair slicked back and curling deliciously around his ears, his dark jeans cover the laces of maroon Timberland boots. His black turtleneck clings to his wide chest, the leather jacket broken in enough to be soft, but not so used there’s tears in the seams. And, to top it all off, his cream-colored scarf curled around his throat looks like it came out of a Hallmark movie.

Maybe you are in a Hallmark movie. Maybe on the way up the porch, you slipped and banged your head and all of this is a bizarre, weirdly-erotic dream. Maybe someone actually did call in a mail-order boyfriend who looks exactly like Dieter and the real one is hog-tied in the trunk of your car. Maybe – 

You’d heard of quick costume changes, but this is ridiculous.

“Debbie!” He calls out, like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. He flourishes a wrapped bouquet of flowers, bright red against the white snow, and hands them to her after bouncing up the steps. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’d run the block, but without a drip of sweat on him, he’s simply glowing with what could be presumed as the holiday spirit. 

To your never-ending and horrific surprise, your mother squeals as she takes the flowers. 

“Poinsettias! My –,”

“Favorite, I know.” You stumble out of the way when he leans down and kisses her on her cheek. “And they’re fake, so you can reuse them next year. But you’d never know it at $300 a pop.”

Okay, yes, this is a clone of your boyfriend, a walking holiday Ken doll – Dieter never, ever brags about money. 

“I’m not a banker or anything, but I like to spoil my girls.” 

The bastard winks at you. 

Your mother has turned to gooey, drippy putty in his hands. She’s redder than the hand towel and the poinsettias combined. She flounces, flutters, eyes springing back and forth between the ruby-red flowers in her hands and Dieter’s achingly handsome face – one that hasn’t dimmed that thousand gigawatt smile since he first arrived. 

“Oh, oh my goodness – well, this is just lovely – it’s so nice to finally meet you – I can’t believe she’s been hiding you from us all this time – please, please come in, you must be freezing!”

She backs into the house, still staring at the flowers, then as if she hadn’t been living here for the past fifteen years of her life, she bounces towards the dining room, then on a quick turn, heads for the kitchen, then turns again to the hallway closet. 

“Oh gracious – where did I put – it must be – come in and shut the door behind you – you know where your room is, darling, I’ll be back in just a second, I just have to – ah, these are spectacular –”

A door down the hallway finally swings shut and muffles your mother’s insane rambling. 

So dazed, you don’t see him move until he’s pressed you up against the glass etching of the door, his hand palming your hip and the other diving to cup the back of your neck. He tugs you down into his mouth before you have time to blink.

Jesus Christ, mint? His breath smells like mint??

God, he even fucking kisses like a Hallmark Prince. His mouth pulls you into him and your brain whites out – careless of the little whimper you make, careless of the fact that literally any one of your family members could walk in right now, careless that you’re teetering into him as if on string. Your breath flutters down his throat and he huffs through his nose. The tips of his fingers are chilly enough that you shiver at his touch.

He edges the bottom of your lip with his tongue before pulling back and tightening his grip in your hair. 

And there’s that Dieter smirk you are all too intimately familiar with. 

“How’m I doing?” He mutters. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your nose, and your kissed-pink lips. “I’d say I got Mama Bear on my side.”

Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t always like this. Between the fresh breath scent in his mouth, the fragrance of his much-too expensive cologne permeating your senses, and his thick thigh shoved under your groin, you are embarrassingly boneless in his arms. You pluck your fingers over the soft leather collar at the back of his neck, just as much to inspect the jacket, as much as to release more of that delicious smell. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You mutter, smirking, as you wind your fingers into his curls. “Spoil my girls, what the fuck was that?”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha,” he gloats as he lowers his head to your neck. You expect a warm kiss in the length of skin you’ve exposed to him, but instead his teeth lightly tease your throat above your pulse point and you feel your knees buckle as your face warms. “I can be very charming when I want to be.” He squeezes your ass as if to make a point. 

You hold back a moan, flattening it to a shudder in your chest. You can feel his grin in your neck and he shifts you, pulls you closer and compresses you deeper into the wooden door. You can feel your conscious thought melting through your fingers so you blink, lick your lips, try to wiggle out from under his teeth.

“This isn’t a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. This is Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” You gasp his name into the foyer of your childhood home when he licks you from the curve of your shoulder up under the soft place below your ear. Your hips jerk unconsciously, baser instincts seeking out the friction of his jeans, and you push against his biceps. “Dieter, she’ll be back any minute. She can’t – can’t see us like this.”

You’ve never heard him chuckle like the way he does, so darkly pleased with himself.

“Once I’m done schmoozing her, your father, your sister and her – what did you call him – cardboard husband, we’ll fuck in front of them and they won’t say a word.”

“Dieter!” You shove him just as your mother returns from the kitchen.

She frowns and you feel the scolding coming, the scent of Dieter so obviously entangled in you. You might as well be wearing a sign that reads, hi, yes, I’ve been recently groped why do you ask?

“Did you forget where your room is? Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, follow me and I’ll remind you.”

Schmooze he did. 

From the same magical bag of weirdly specific and perfect gifts, Dieter presents a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and two very illegal, but very Cuban cigars. Your father forgets to scowl in the face of some of the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

For your sister, he somehow senses that material objects won’t go as far, so he endears himself to your niece first. Asking her questions about her doll, about her school, what she likes to play with her friends and how crazy it is that hopscotch is his favorite game too. 

In twenty minutes, he’s on his hands and knees, black sleeves pulled up over his immaculate forearms, and etching out a hopscotch board with pink chalk. He nods and interjects while your niece runs around him, demanding a dragon in the corner, or a crown in another, and suddenly your biological clock starts blaring like an air-raid siren. 

“He’s so good with kids,” your sister mutters to you from the door to the garage. A single glance tells you she’s under the same effect of watching a hot man play with a child. You’re so aroused and confused you can’t even eye her with jealousy. 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

“When are you going to have some of your own?” 

And you’re back inside before you can see the look on his face as he lifts his head.

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

It’s not like he’s physically incapable of smelling clean, or dressing nice, or even combing his hair. You’ve seen him do it time and time again for galas and interviews. Hell, that time he took you on a date to get sushi in the tallest building in Toronto, he didn’t look that much different from how he does right now . . . and yet . . .

You feel your face scrunch in suspicion when he remembers your aunt’s food allergies, how your Uncle Rick likes his after-dinner coffee. 

Dieter might forget to put on pants, but he’s never forgotten the important dates of your relationship. He remembers what you were wearing the first night you kissed, but can’t remember to take out the pizza before it burns in the oven. 

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

You watch him laugh with your father and uncle by the fireplace with brandy in his hands as you work with your mother and sister to unwrap a dozen saran-wrapped pies. He comes by later and takes the stack of plates from your mother’s hands and assures her he’ll do the dishes, as thanks for such a wonderful meal.

This Dieter Bravo needs a smoking jacket and uses words like “wonderful meal”. 

Initial surprise at his near magical transformation from the car this morning long gone, you sit with this uncomfortable feeling, as everyone around you eats pie and laughs and looks all the part of a fucking Hallmark card for “joyful festivities”, long enough to finally understand it for what it is:

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

You look at the man who’s invaded your boyfriend’s body as he charms the pants off your mother and father, and ugly, heavy embarrassment boils over in your chest. Washing the knife in your throat down with your fourth glass of wine all night, you excuse yourself with the last bit of breath in your lungs before ducking upstairs, then stumbling to your childhood bathroom you once shared, and share again, with your sister. 

You lock the door forcefully in lieu of slamming it shut and sit down on the tile, your head against your knees. Rationally, there’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t affect you like it is. Women would kill for a boyfriend like this – your sister very nearly jumped him in the garage. 

But that’s just the thing – this isn’t your boyfriend. This isn’t the man you spend your days and nights with and this isn’t the man you fell in love with. This isn’t the Dieter you want to show the world. 

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door and it breaks you out of your self-deprecating spiral. 

“Just a second,” you call out as you stand. You flush the empty toilet (this night is filled with ruses after all) and twitch the faucet on for two seconds. But when you open the door, you’re immediately cowed back in. 

“Dieter, what are you–,”

“Are you okay?” Beneath the veneer of the Million Dollar Man, his eyes are soft, coaxing the anxiety out of you. “You looked pale when you left.” He tucks an escaped strand of hair over your ear, watching how his fingers brush up against your skin. He gently tangles his fingers in your hair as he pulls back. He smirks. “Mom’s dressing wasn’t that bad.” 

White-hot shame blooms again and you turn your head from him, tugging your hair out of his reach. You catch his hurt expression out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

“You’re not a good liar. I’ve told you that.” His voice is clipped. Not irritated, but not interested in lengthy bouts of misdirection either.

“Well, I don’t feel like bearing my problems to Mr. Perfect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms, shoulders swelling in the space of the tiny bathroom, and he leans on the sink. 

“It means you’re a better liar than me so I guess you’ll have to do it for the both of us.” 

You know it’s ridiculous to try and move around him – but maybe this Dieter wouldn’t care if you left angry. Even sober, he could manhandle you without a second thought, but between the heat of the drink in your throat and he’s blurred at the edges, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Dieter, please, just –,”

He stands his ground, effectively blocking the door, and you huff, pushing up against his waist with your hands, your teeth bared behind your lips. He steps back, you think you’ve won a mile, but then his hands grasp so firmly around your elbows, your entire consciousness is pulled into where his fingers curl against your skin.

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

“Stop fighting me. You tell me what I did wrong and we’ll talk about this.”

The past two weeks of dread, and fear, and worry, and shame – shame that this is your family, this is how you go to pieces around them, this is all you can offer him – slam into your chest and your breathing hitches. The fingers at his chest dig into his shirt. The fourth glass of wine makes your eyes hot and tight.

“This isn’t you.” 

You grimace in the bright light of the bathroom and your confession. But beyond your closed eyes, his demeanor hasn’t changed. 

“What’s not me?”

A tear slips out the moment you open your mouth, your throat closing and gagging on your words. You swallow and try again, eyes peeling open to stare at the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re Dieter Bravo. You dry-clean your favorite pajamas to preserve the material. You do astrology charts of people who piss you off to find out how to best get back at them. You paint until four in the morning and sleep in our bed until I wake you up–,”

Your heart thrusts its way into your airways and cuts off your ability to speak. You know you’re not making a lot of sense, but all you can think of right now is how much you want to peel this fucking black, Steve Jobs-esque, goddamn ugly-ass turtleneck apart with your bare hands. Like freeing a mermaid from a net. He squeezes your waist, his broad palm settled in the curve of your lower back. 

“Darling, I don’t see why this has you so sad –,”

“They won’t fall in love with you like I did.” You lift your watery gaze to him, unable to stop the spilling of tears. You always got teary when you drank a bit too much, but fuck, if you didn’t love him so much, you wouldn’t be so mad . . . at yourself. “I hate that you feel like you have to do this to be accepted by my family. I hate that they can’t see what makes you so special to me. I hate . . . I hate that they don’t see the real you.” 

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

Never one to shy away from bodily fluids, Dieter kisses your tear-soaked cheeks, his hands rising up your back, taking their time to press into the curve of your hips, the bones of your ribs, the high arch of your spine, before settling on your cheeks. He kisses your wet mouth, thumbs against the corners of your lips like a soft leather bridle. He holds you, just like that, until your heart eases, stops racing in your chest, and you lean more into the kiss, chasing instead of hiding. You wrap your fingers around his wrists as he pulls away.

“With all due respect, this is just another gig for me.” His gentle smile hides no bitterness, no anger. No disgust. “I know what people like this are like, how they think, what they want. What they value.” He smears away the cold tears from your skin with his thumbs. “It’s fun, in a way, to infiltrate their little circles. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit, and fortunately I’m fantastic at bullshit.”

You let out a watery laugh and he reaches behind you for some toilet paper to dry your tears. He blots your eyes for you before you can even take the tissue. 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, baby,” he murmurs. “My family was exactly the same way, so I know how the game is played.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk to them anymore. I just wish I had your bravery to cut them out of my life like you did.” 

Dieter’s mouth twitches. “Well, that had more to do with the fact that I like to occasionally make out with boys, than dysfunctional family dynamics.”

You squeeze his forearm as he continues to clean your face, trying to catch his eyes but they’d gone hard where a moment ago they were soft. He thinks, using the silence to carefully fix your make up with his thick thumb under your eyelashes to lift off the smeared mascara. 

He didn’t talk much about his life before Hollywood, but when he did, you understood why he was so closed off about it.

“Let’s put it this way: they did the cutting off, not me. And even if we have to be completely different people, your family still talks to you. I’m not saying that to guilt you, or compare trauma scars, but . . . most times we can’t pick who we love, but sometimes we have to.” 

You nod, a sense of ease washing over you. His small, I don’t know if I should say this but I’m gonna smile widens across his mouth. 

“It’s okay if they don’t see the real me, because I know you do.” He finally pulls away the tissue, his mouth pulled up in sweet earnest. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

A physical string connected between your ribs and his could not have tugged you faster. Tripping into his wide, warm chest, you drop your head onto his collarbone as you wrap your arms around his torso tighter than his own rib cage.

“Just . . .”

His bulky arms pull you into his chest, the bristles of his beard scratching at your temple. It’s not until you sink away from your own thoughts, into the silence in the bathroom, that you realize your breathing is synced with his. 

That realization hits you particularly hard, that without trying, without meaning to, you become one with him – you turn and bury your face into the pulse of his neck. If you can get to his heartbeat, maybe that’ll calm you too. Dig through the crust of the earth and end up in China. You shift in his arms, and he does too. Dieter cups the back of your head, thumb rubbing the arch of your skull. His entire arm circles your back. 

“What do you need, hm, baby? What can I give you, huh?”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the girth, the weight of his voice has your toes curling in your shoes. His rasp is so often used to light that first spark. 

“Dieter –,” the moment shifts and so do you. You squirm, itching for his face in your hands, his mouth over yours, but he holds you steady. Holds you firm. So firm, you can feel he’s half-hard in his jeans. 

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

You press your tongue against his pulse point, your fingers splayed across the back of his rib cage, and he shudders. You’re about to bite down, when his hands peel your fingers from his back and pinch your wrists in one single, meaty grip. Heart suddenly thundering in your chest, he steps back to allow for just enough room to turn you – barely any at all – and pushes you face down on the sink counter, your wrists clasped over your ass behind you.

Cold marble pressing up against your tits, your face turned towards the window and the towel bar where you used to hang your Barbie swimsuits when you were seven, you feel his other massive palm dip under your sweater and press flat against the ridges of your spine. He hums when you let out a small whine. Flexes his fingers when you wiggle your ass against him. You seek out the marble with your cheek, heat rising under your skin, arousal suddenly burning hot in your low belly. 

“This is what you need, hm, baby? Need me to touch you? To feel you?” He murmurs. Dieter always did like playing with his food. You nod helplessly, cheek sticky against the marble. He shifts his hips into the crack of your ass, with just enough pressure to have you bucking back against him, but not enough to find relief from the stirring between your legs. 

He strokes your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing over your collarbone, gaze languid and slow. Like he can see where he needs to pluck to unravel you. 

“Why is my baby so tense?” He muses quietly, patronizing. His hand maps your spine in a single palm, edging slowly up your back until, with two fingers, he pinches your bra open. You feel the snap of the release and you rub your nose against the edge of the counter, whimpering. “Don’t I take care of you?”

You gulp. “Y-y-yes, you treat– treat me so good. I want it.” 

He has you pressed too tightly against the counter to slip his hand down your front, the edge pinching your hips. So, instead, with your hands still pinned against your tailbone, he palms your ass and rubs a thick finger down between your legs and up over the seam of your jeans. The whine building in your throat breaks into an open moan when he presses your zipper teeth into your clit.  

“Want what? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” 

“F-fingers – tongue – fuck – y-your cock. Anything inside me.” 

The surprised, breathless chuckle that reverberates down to the button of his jeans seared against your ass has you bending, stretching, just for a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His mouth open, tongue curling back and forth over his bottom lip, he’s hungry. Wants so much. Can’t satiate this need without something between his teeth. Grinning around a mouthful of incisors. Patience has never been Dieter’s strong suit. 

With a firm jerk around your wrists, your back arches up off the counter, shoulders pinched, hands caught low near his groin. You know he wants you to watch him touch you in the mirror – he’s stopped before when you close your eyes – but it’s hard to look at the woman reflected back at you, with her bleary eyes, mussed hair, heaving chest, and exposed belly button where his hand hovers between the waistband and a green sweater, and recognize yourself. 

  “No one can take you from me. Do you understand?” He dips his head, arched nose dragging up the curve of your neck, breathing hot through his teeth against the lines where your hair and your skin meet. You can’t help but arch up into his waiting mouth. “Not your family. Not mine. You’re so greedy for me – who else is gonna make you feel this good?” 

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

His hand rising under your sweater, thumb first at your belly button, then up between the spread of your ribs, and finally, it catches under the wire of your bra and he tugs it down. The material rubs against your sensitive nipples – it almost stings, your body pulled taught like a bowstring – the straps falling low off your shoulders, but your sweater keeps it from falling off completely and he goes no further. You whine, eager for something other than the scratch of the bra – something warmer – and push your sensitive tits into his soft hands, but his hand drops, fingering the waistline of your jeans instead. He ignores what you want to show you what you need. 

This is a thing he did. He watched you wind yourself up with deadlines and scheduling and meetings and arguments on set and and doubt and worry and fear and then he took it upon himself to tire you out enough that all of it shattered – crashed and consumed under the white noise in your head. Dieter liked to play however you needed it.

You can feel the seam of his jeans hover just beyond your fingertips, as though his hips swing unconsciously forward while he nips and sucks on your neck. God, you’d give anything to have the weight of him between your palms. 

When he speaks again, you realize at some point you squeezed your eyes shut, forgoing sight to chase the sensation that sparks across your skin every time he touched a new bare patch of skin on you. He pulls his head up from fixating a tender purple blush just below where your sweater covers your shoulder to catch your gaze in the mirror. Panthers do not watch with such hungry eyes. 

“Arms up.” It’s not a command, a request, but the words drip from his mouth, rich and sweet. He lets go of your wrists and your arms flutter above you, his fingers already rolling up the edge of your sweater. He drags it up, snagging your loose bra with it, and peeling them both off you. The immediate heat of his chest on your bare back is so hot, it burns cold. 

“Dieter,” you cry, nipples hardening in the cold air, goosebumps spiraling out along your skin. He’s there for you in an instant. 

He bites the soft, invisible hairs at your jaw, thick paws coming up to clutch your breasts, the sudden swap in temperature making your head swim. He pulls you against his chest, a new outer skin that breathes and moans and gasps, one that has a steady heartbeat your own has synced to. 

With his eyes fixated on you in the mirror, he molds your breast to his palm, rounding your nipples with his thumbs before sliding down between the curves of them. He licks the back of your neck. 

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

“But it’s cold,” you huff, pouting. You smooth your hands over his, his angular wrists, his broad thick forearms entombed in long back sleeves, then settle with your fingers in his hair. His height over you has your torso stretched, your tits bare and ripe, and he palms your stomach to the top of your ribs in two hands. He grunts when you twist his curls, keeping his head still so every bruise and wet spot on your shoulders and throat are all too visible. “Don’t you want to see all your good work?”

He blinks, slow and purposeful, his eyelids heavy, mouth parting. You can’t be sure of his decision, of what he wants, what he’s going to give, when his hands arch up the cradle of your arms, soft enough to tickle below your elbows, then around your wrists. He’s done this enough for you to know he wants you to let go.

You do. 

Fast as venom moves from fangs to flesh, he plants your hands on the counter, forcibly gripping the edge. This is how you hold on. 

He steps up against you again, iron-hot cock pressing without hesitancy between your ass cheeks, and unbuckles your pants without preamble.

“I’d rather just show you.” 

Broad hand bending your shoulders forward, fingers pressed flat over your shoulder, you gasp when your tits make contact with the cold counter, and an instant later, he’s filling your open mouth with his fingers. He wets them against the slip of your tongue and grabs your jaw. 

Your mind fracturing like cracking ice, you don’t hear the zip of his jeans, the groan as he takes himself out – barely feel the rub along your wet slit, the arranging of his fingers around your bare hip, the widening of your stance with his ankle. 

But you do feel it when he’s suddenly hilt-deep inside of you. 

You lurch forward with the weight of it, whining as though scalded at the sudden blinding pressure of pleasure and pain, and you slap a palm against the mirror to keep yourself from shattering through it. Behind you, Dieter looks like someone dislocated his kneecaps. 

“You good, baby?” He pants, drawing his hand out of your mouth, wet spit between his fingers as he cups your hanging breast. The sensation bleeds hot, then cold. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles your shoulder blades. 

You nod, eyes shut, the magnetic north sense of you spinning wildly off-kilter as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. You know you’re about to lose it anyway. He stands upright, not so much as inching out of you, when he plants his feet and nestles your ass against his hip bones, hands wiggling you further down his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

It’s said with such wonder, a breathless reverence, that you think he might not have realized he said it out loud. You glance over your shoulder, turning your head instead of finding him in the mirror. 

The facade of the Brooklyn banker is gone. Your Dieter stares, awe-struck, at the body he’s got impaled on his cock like it’s the first time he’s seen a naked woman. Soft, pliant, eager to please, your Dieter lets you collar him, peg him, and give it to you exactly as you ask.

“How do you want it?” The phrase is so familiar, so intimate when spoken from his pink lips, you shudder, a Pavlovian response that’s got you drooling somewhere else than your mouth. He lifts his gaze and finds you staring. 

There is no one else in that moment. Not a single living soul besides you and him in this white-tiled bathroom. You can almost hear the absence of people ringing in your ears. His open, hot mouth draws your eyes away from his and you want every bit of him as stuffed up inside you as you can handle. Twisted around, you lick his bottom lip over your shoulder before offering your tongue for him to suck.

He groans, and you breathe in intimacy you’ve never experienced before. A flushed ache rises from your chest, a precursor to the aches he’ll leave you with by morning. 

You tip your head back and thumb the bristly skin against his chin.

“Hard, baby. Please.”

For all his faults, for all his forgetting, Dieter switches brain waves as fast as you do, tethered together like the gravitational spin of space rocks in the wake of a gleaming comet.

“Okay.”

He distracts you from the pain of that first rough thrust by biting down on your shoulder.

His motions are short, targeted, and right up into the cradle of your cervix, the pace driven, unrelenting and hard. You shake with the force of them, as fragile as silverware on a table near the drop of an atom bomb. 

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

He pins your arm that had touched his chin to your chest, then his chest to your back, sealing your damp skin to his shirt. The curl of that wretched black turtleneck scratches deliciously against your low back. 

Grunting in low, short bursts, Dieter sabotages his own breathing by crushing you so tight to his chest. He sucks on your neck as if to draw the oxygen straight from your blood. The fingers on your hip steady you, just for his cock wrecks your insides. 

“You wan-na – ngh – you wanna know why it doesn’t bother me?” 

Each word is spat out from between his teeth. He’s giving you your requested punishment as much as he is sprinting after his own release.

“Tell me. Tell me please.” Your voice is scraped raw, breathless and gooey at the same time. 

“Because when you’re my wife, they won’t be able to do a fucking thing about it.” 

Around him, your cunt squeezes, his words sending shocks through your nerves. You whine as if he’d smacked your ass. 

“I fucking felt that. You like that. You want that. You want my fucking cock every day.”

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

“Push back against me, baby.” You anchor yourself, ass out, elbows and knees locked. “That’s it, that’s my fucking good girl.”

He lifts his body up right, off your sweaty neck and back, and with both hands pinching your waist, he yanks you up and down on his cock in long, rough thrusts, knees bending with enough force to send you onto your toes.  

“Gonna have to take it. Just – fucking – take – it –,”

His leaking cock drives up against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and body tense again and again, but yanks back before that hot feeling swells. It’s so close you’re dizzy from it. 

You want to fuck yourself on his cock but you can’t time your aching hips right, so you stop trying and bend forward more, exposing more of your cunt to him. 

“Dieter, please –,” 

“Baby, you gotta be quiet. I know you feel good, but you can’t let them hear us.”

The words are out of your mouth, breaking through the thick, drowning fog and through the hindbrain barrier.

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

Dieter’s hips slow, punch not as deeply, as if he’s curious what you’re going to say next.

“Take off your shirt. I wanna feel your skin.” 

He listens immediately, a very good boy at heart, and the first press of his soft chest against you nearly has you coming then. 

“Harder again, please.” 

Again, without a second’s hesitation, he kisses your ear before grappling your shoulder with one hand and your hip with the other and he takes up his position as owner and keeper of your sloppy cunt. 

You cry out, high and wrecked, some semblance of sanity knowing you’re being far too loud, and he bucks the words out of you.

“I wanna suck on your earring, Dieter.” He grunts as he doubles over as if trying to yank back an unrestrained and early release. He rubs his damp forehead in the patch of soft skin by your shoulder blade. 

“Say it again.” 

With every rock of his hips, you swing up higher, and higher, your thighs tensing, nails scraping the counter. 

“Wanna put it between my lips and suck until you’re cherry red. I wanna choke on your rings. So far down my throat I gag. Wanna – wanna – lick your tattoos – all of them – ‘til the ink blurs from my spit. I –,”

The noise he makes is pained, weak, a man at the end of his rope.

He pops your ass. “Shut up. You’re gonna come now.” 

His sweaty palms slip against the soft skin of your hips, and he keeps slipping with no leverage. 

“Stand on your toes.” You do and for an absurd second, you think he’s going to pick you up in a bear hug. He wraps his arms around your rib cage, his face nestled into the hot, sticky curve of your neck, in the flipped image of when he takes you after your legs get sore from riding him. Your tits spilling over his forearms, he keeps the ludicrous bend in your spine as well as the short, rough pace. You reach your fingers around the back of his head and hold on for dear life. 

The change in angle has stars blowing across your eyes, has you whimpering strings of pleas, veneration, and curses all threaded together. His own thighs shaking, he rubs the pads of three of his fingers across your clit and you’re over the edge. 

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

The electrical storm that’s been building one wiry shock at a time finally bursts and you go rigid from head to toe, turning to marble, to steel, bright and sharp. You can feel your own release dribble down your thigh, Dieter stuttering behind you.

“Wait – fuck,”

He tries to speed up, or press harder, but he’s coming so hard you feel it expand your cunt and ends up just making a leaking mess. The sensation shivers you through another minor wave. The crest goes high, then crashes, and you slump forward, cold nips be damned, and he follows you down a second later. 

The heated weight at your back and hard, cool marble squishing your tits is too much for your dazed brain to handle. Any looser and you might slip off the edge of the earth. 

Dieter seems to be in a similar state. He not so much pulls out of you as he goes weak-kneed to the floor. A single tug on your hip has you stumbling down with him.

Despite the garland around the stairs, despite the smell of cranberries in the air, despite the veneer of perfect holiday wholesomeness, it’s the slick layer of sweat, grime, and cum over your skin that has you finally smiling. 

You recognize you have been gone far too long – there’s not enough spiked hot cider in the world to ignore two missing bodies and a locked door. Dieter puts his barefoot preemptively up against the door frame and you giggle into his shoulder. 

“Oh, there’s the sound I’ve been missing!” He nuzzles you, a blissful smile breaking open his face, sunlight over storm clouds. He wiggles beneath you, trying to tug you on top of him, but with your jeans constricting your thighs, and his barely below his hips, all it really accomplishes is the two of you rolling around on the bathroom floor.

In a heap of limbs, slick skin, his knee catching the button of your jeans, you bump your nose against his chin, there’s something bright building in your chest – it’s twisting your mouth, pinching your cheeks – his fingers grab your elbow, his eyes lock into yours – 

And you’re laughing. 

You’re laughing too loud, all pretense gone. You can’t honestly care what they’re thinking downstairs.

He manages to get you under him, his damp hair clinging to his temples and tangling down in frizzy strands. 

“I’m gonna say this and I need you to actually hear me.” 

You nod, grinning up at him and lightly tracing his clavicle. 

He swats at your hand and holds it to your chest. 

“Don’t wait until it’s that bad, okay?” You chuckle and he bites the tip of your nose. “Listen to me, you little goblin, I’m trying to be serious for a second.”

You settle under him, fingers intertwining with his over your chest. Sincere Dieter is a beautiful thing to look at. 

“This holiday bullshit can be a lot. Spent a lot of them either in coke up to my eyeballs, or in the bathroom the next day. It fucking sucks that these are the people we can from, but we can’t change that. What’s important is the family we build right now–,”

Your mouth drops open, his words suddenly illuminating a future that had always seemed so blurry and distant. 

“Dieter, I –,”

“I’m gonna marry you someday, so let’s start with us.” He kisses the back of your hand. “We carry each other, okay?” 

You nod, the white light of that future searing a hole in your chest, exposing your heart to the open air, and bringing tears to your eyes. You nod, more assured, before kissing him on his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

The next few minutes play out just like they would if you were at home: cleaning each other up, trying on clothes only to realize he grabbed your sweater instead, and bumping affectionate kisses wherever they could reach. 

At the top of the stairs, you don’t know what awaits you in the living room. What exactly you’ll be returning to. Who will catch you and who won’t.

But it doesn’t matter. His hand is around yours and he’s grinning petulantly against all the world. 

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

Your heart says yes.