Yessss!!!!! I Loved This So Much!!!!

Yessss!!!!! I loved this so much!!!!

Tommy Miller's Stall feat. Marcus Pike & f!Reader

Prompt: Marcus Pike + BBQ + "It's a Surprise. Close your eyes."

a @pedgito challenge fic | Rated: 18+ | word count: 2,852 warnings: swearing, talk of drinking beer, eating, bathroom stalls becoming shrines, Barbequed meats (consumed), broken AC, lack of air circulation, sweating, oral (m receiving), pork steeple in ham wallet (unprotected), bathroom shenanigans, pre-term ejaculation, cumming undone too soon, grey t-shirts

A/N: I know I am a day late with this and I know bc of that, it's probably not going to be included in the challenge, but I needed to release this! Apologies to @pedgito for my tardiness. This is not the previously met Marcus - he's a Marcus all of his own.

Thank you to @strang3lov3, @noxturnalpascal & @bitchesuntitled for their love and support.

Traveling for work meant Marcus got to know all the random hole-in-the-wall eateries and Miller Bro’s Boy Howdy BBQ in Austin was one of his favourites. He loved the laid-back atmosphere and the story of why Joel & his brother Tommy bought the place from the previous owner – Tommy lost his virginity in the bathroom to a line cook named Rhonda and begged his brother to help him buy this drive of a restaurant and save it from demolition. There was even a plaque in the stall where Tommy ‘became a man in Summer ’89’.

Over the years, he’d gotten to know the menu and the Miller brothers. Joel was more aloof, preferring to stay in the kitchen or at the BBQ pit out back, while Tommy was happy to sit out with the customers like they were old friends, playing cards or sharing a few stories and laughs with them. The few times that Marcus had interacted with Joel were mainly to compliment him on the menu and tell him how much he liked the place; Joel would grunt and nod in thanks and head back into the kitchen.

There was another reason he liked coming to this place – you. From the first time he laid eyes on you as he darkened this place’s doorway six years ago, he knew he was hooked. You’d flashed your smile at him, flipped your hair and told him to, “Take any available seat, handsome. I’ll be right wit’cha!”

He’d learned that your nickname was ‘Peaches’ on account of your penchant to recommend the peach and bourbon barbeque sauce that was house made. He also learned that Joel kept an eye on him when you were around - he would catch Joel narrowing his eyes at him through the kitchen service window when you were at his table taking his order. It used to make Marcus nervous, thinking he might get something extra hidden in his food, but he decided that it was too delicious to care.

He'd taken a temporary position in the Austin office and for the last six months, he’d eaten at Miller’s every night and it was apparent. Marcus had assumed you were being kind when you called him handsome, especially now that he was barely fitting into the oversized summer attire he’d packed in late December before he’d come out to Austin and discovered that eating large portions of charbroiled meats at least once a day would alter your waistline so drastically.

His middle had filled out enough that the suits he wore throughout the day had to be tailored repeatedly before being fully replaced to accommodate his new weight. And the summer clothing he was wearing, formally loose-fitting for the heat, were anything but. So, when you winked at him when he entered today and said that you’d be with him in a minute, he internally reminded himself that you were just doing your job.

Marcus sat heavily down and slid into the booth, then waited for you to come over to his table. As he sat, he noticed how warm the dining area’s temperature was and took in the slight sweat ring and patches that were forming on your grey Miller Bro’s Boy Howdy BBQ branded shirt. He also realized he didn’t hear the tell-tale whirling and churning sounds of the too-old AC unit that normally filled the vacant spaces between conversations. He looked up to the vent in the corner, and the streamers that normally danced in the airflow hung limp, and he wiped the back of his hand over his damp forehead. He was getting hot.

“Hey handsome.”, you smiled, a slight weariness in your eyes but your smile shone bright. “Usual or you wanna see the menu?”

Marcus smiled back, and not wanting to make you work any harder, nodded and responded, “The usual please, Peaches.”

His eyes trailed down your body, landing on your butt as you walked back to the service window, then smiled to himself. He looked up, then made direct eye contact with Joel who only offered a scowl followed by a judgemental head shake before he disappeared back into the depths of the kitchen.

*****

Marcus was sweating. After finishing his meal, Tommy had come around and sat with him, ordering more barbequed goodness and beers, telling him the beer was ‘on the house, ‘cause the fuckin’ AC shit the bed.’ This exclamation was followed by you reminding Tommy that the AC was broken because he spent the repair funds on a ridiculous crystal duck as a gift to impress a woman – a woman who happened to be the AC repair tech’s wife.

Even with the cool beer, Marcus felt overly hot. A belly stuffed to the brim with smoked and charbroiled meats while sitting in a hot, stuffy room with still air was getting to him. As Tommy stood, slightly wavering on his feet from all the beer he was consuming to match the beer he was giving away to customers, he heavily patted Marcus on the shoulder and muttered, “Take it easy, big guy… I’ll be back ‘round soon.”

*****

You were hovering around Marcus’ table, checking in on him and Tommy, and every time you moved towards the kitchen with another order, Joel would shake his head at you, much like he would at Marcus.

“One of y’all better make a move soon… fuckin’ pathetic.”

You huffed in response, cheeks heating up. “Shove it, Joel. Mind your business.”

“Jesus, Peaches! It’s my fuckin’ business if I’m payin’ you by the hour and have’ta watch this horse shit pussy footin’ between you and fat boy over there. Just go sit on his lap an’ get it over with.”

You gave him a warning glare and a smug grin tugged at one side of Joel’s mouth. He nodded to you, signaling to look and you saw Tommy leaving Marcus’ table.

“Gonna close early on account of the heat and the fact that I’m fuckin’ done roastin’ myself in this kitchen.” You heard Joel chuckle behind you. “Get’er done, Peaches.”

*****

Marcus stood and stretched after he finished his beer, feeling the weight he'd consumed in his stomach, and looking down, he could see the bulk of it, too. You watched his stand and stretch, exposing a sliver of his rounded-out middle between his shirt and shorts.

Tommy tsk’d, startling you. Turning around, you were met by his slightly drunk, glazed eyes, and a dopey smile. “Joel’s right, Peaches. Just bite the bullet and take that man for a ride in my stall.”

“Oh my god, Tommy!”, you exclaimed with a frown a little too loudly, shoving him back.

Tommy laughed and handed you a shot of bourbon. You rolled your eyes and slammed it alongside him. He then grabbed your shoulders, turned you to face Marcus’ direction and said in your ear quietly. “No harm, no foul in helpin’ him take in the sights Austin has to offer, Peaches.”, then shoved you towards his table.

You caught yourself from stumbling and cleared your throat as you approached him. Marcus turned and looked at you; a small smile spread on his face before a pink blush crept up his cheeks as he tugged his shirt down, closing the slight gap his stretch had caused.

You could feel the energy, electrifying and crackling like a late July thunderstorm, raging in the space between your bodies, pulling you together with a gravitational field that would rival the one caused by Jupiter’s giant spot. Marcus opened his mouth to speak but any words he was going to say were lost in his throat as you moved forward and kissed him. The soft exhale that came after his surprised gasp tasted like beer and barbeque sauce on your tongue that pushed against the seam of his lips. His hands, sticky and smoky, were tethered up in your hair, holding your face against his as he deepened the kiss, granting your tongue entrance in your tongue’s long anticipated dance.

You barely heard Tommy spit his beer out and sputter out choked coughs as Joel grunted then nodded in approval at what you and Marcus were up to. After depriving yourselves of full breaths for long enough, you parted, panting, staring at one another. Marcus’ shoulders and chest were heaving and his lips, parted and pouted, were wet from your combined saliva.  His face was flushed, glistening in the low glow of all the tacky neon lighting adorning the walls, one side of his face pink from flamingos with sunglasses on, the other side flickering orange and yellow from the broken Corona promotional neon sign. He was beautiful.

At that moment, you didn’t think what you looked like, completely enraptured by the huffing and panting man sweating in front of you.

“Peaches…”, Marcus murmured, eyes wide and pleading. “I wanna do this right. I-”

You couldn’t let him finish, not if his next words could dampen the fire that had erupted in your core, making your hole twitch hard enough that you felt it in behind your belly button. You shook your head and shushed him, pressing your index finger against his lips. You grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the men’s washroom, directly into Tommy’s stall.

Thinking back, you would wonder how differently things would have gone if you’d pulled Marcus into a private area that wasn’t designed for single occupancy. The stalls in this restaurant were small, given that the original design of the washrooms did not include stalls at all, and Marcus was no longer a small man. But good god, the feeling of your body pushed up against his as he was backed against the stall door, mashing your mouths together.

You were still taking the lead in this dance, setting the pace and motions, while Marcus finally allowed his hands to touch more than anywhere above your collarbone. He gripped your waist with one hand and the other pushed its way between your bodies to clumsily try and shove it down the front of your pants. You both awkwardly tried to undress one another as you kept your lips and tongues attached, panting and grunting. If someone walked into the bathroom, they might assume there were two dogs quietly fighting over a piece of beef in the stall.

Once your jean shorts were open, Marcus wasted no time in shoving them down enough to shove his barbeque-tinged fingers into them. He eventually found what he was looking for when the tip of his finger grazed your sensitive and twitching nub, eliciting a gasping moan from you as you involuntarily bucked your hips. It was what tipped you over the edge, prompting you to swing him around and fumble with his button fly. He pulled back and his hands gently held yours, halting your mission to get his pants off.

“Marcus…”, you panted against his mouth.

“I haven’t… it’s been a while since…”, he stumbled through his words.

It seemed like time was slowing and you smiled softly at him. “Close your eyes.”

He hesitated, sucking in a breath nervously. “Why?”

“It’s a surprise. Close your eyes.”

His brows twitched and did as he was told and you sank to your knees, sliding your hands down his torso and thighs, and he let out a soft whimper once he realized where you were headed. Once on your knees, you pushed up his shirt and pressed a kiss right below his belly button and steadied yourself with your forehead against his full and rounded out stomach, your hands now free to get his shorts opened and down. His cock was pushing an impressive bulge in his grey boxer briefs, and you could see where the tip was pressing, a dark, damp patch at its peak.

Pulling down his underwear, his cock popped out and slapped up against his heavy underbelly, and without any hesitation, you grabbed it and sucked the tip into your mouth.

Marcus moaned out a surprised gasp and his hand gently rested on the crown of your head.

“I-oh fuck! I won’t… I wont last long. Peaches, please, honey.”, he whined, his fingers curling into your hair ever so gently.

He wasn’t kidding when he said he wouldn’t last long. His balls had just started to lift and tighten as you pulled off, and you looked up at him, marveling at the sight above you. Marcus was leaning back against the stall door, and you could only see his tented brows above his closed eyes before his belly obstructed the view.

Standing up, you smoothed your hands over his middle and leaned in to kiss him. He smiled against your mouth, and took a chance in moving away from the door and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you into him. He maneuvered the both of you, now facing the stall door, ready to push you against it, to get on his knees for you, and pulled your shorts and underwear off completely.

But you stopped him, shoving his shorts and boxer briefs down his thighs, and pushed him back to sit on the toilet.

He fell back on to the lowered seat with a grunt, and you straddled his lap.

“Marcus,”, you breathe out as you start to seat yourself upon his cock. “I’ve wanted this for -oh god! for so long…”

He nodded frantically, and his fingers dug into your hips once your hips were finally flush with his.

“Oh…oh fudge…”, he moaned, clenching his eyes closed.

His breathing was quick and staggered, and his hips twitched and bucked under you. All you had done was allow your pussy to swallow his cock whole. He wasn’t kidding when he said that he wouldn’t last long, and the strain that reddened his face and the sounds leaving his mouth as you began to rock your hips slowly, trying to give him some time to adjust, but you needed to move.

“P-Peaches -”

You shushed him, and gripped his shoulder, starting to pick up the pace. His cock felt amazing - not too big or thick, but absolutely a perfect fit for you - just like him.

“Peaches - please, baby!”

Marcus tried to slow you down, tried to hold you down, tried to gain leverage by grabbing anything he could, tried shifting underneath you, but you were determined. You hushed him again, reveling in the harsh way he finally gripped your waist and hip with his large hands, and the rhythm you’d found bouncing on his cock. It was hitting just the right spot at just the right angle, and you could feel the early stirring of your climax.

But the sound of the toilet flushing from him sitting forward enough to set the sensors off and the loud, long groan that Marcus let out, followed by the feeling of warm cum shooting into you made you still in his lap.

He gripped you tighter, panting ‘Peaches!’ over and over, and pushed his face into your t-shirt covered chest, and his belly contracted and relaxed at an alarming pace. 

“Oh god… oh no. I’m-I’m so sorry!”, he whined and whimpered into your cleavage, still unloading spurt after spurt into your pussy. “Oooooh! oh my go-I’m sorry…”

He panted out grunts and groans, and his face twisted against the front of your t-shirt in blissful agony with his brows furrowed and his mouth open. Wet, hot breaths and saliva heated up your chest, and his hips bucked a few times, the final drops of cum finally spitting out.

“P-Peaches - I’m sorry.”, he murmured, weak and breathless. “I-I couldn’t - it’s been a-a while… for me.”

You sat silently, feeling his cum leaking out of you. You’d never had a man cum that quickly before. Sure, you’d had guys finish first, but this was a record, and yet, you weren’t mad. You couldn’t be.

“Marcus – “

“Just too pretty... I-I tried… I-“

“Marcus – “

“I didn’t mean to… just so pretty and I-“

“Marcus!”

He finally pulled back and looked up at you, his big brown eyes pleading for mercy. “I really like you and I wanted to do this right; ask you out properly, and - “

“Take me home and finish me, Marcus.”

“I just - wait, what? You want me to-”

“Take me back to your place. Make me cum.”

His eyes widened in disbelief, and his mouth moved slightly, but no words came out, only small, confused breaths.

“I like you, too, and-”

“I want to take you for dinner first.”

You smiled and huffed out a laugh. “You just ate!”

He nodded, raising his brows and offered a small shrug. “Well, yeah, but you- uh, well you got me working up an appetite. And I -”, he looked a little bashful as he continued. “I want to - uh - perform well and I can do that after we get some food in and the beer out of my system.”

You pressed a sweet kiss onto his lips and both of you couldn’t help the giggles that started. 

The door to the bathroom opened and slammed against the wall; Tommy’s slurred voice boomed out, “You two done? I wanna piss’n my stall.”

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They deserved a dog! 🥰

Goober

Summary: On a stormy night, a dog makes a dash for the garage. Frankie is insistent, like all dad's, they are not keeping that damn dog.

Warnings: Cussing, fluff, puppy madness, Nora seems to need her own warning in this fic cause she is sassy!

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday!!! Another installment of the Parents to Lovers AU! Thank you so much @noxturnalpascal for betaing for me ❤️❤️ @jay-zzle, my side kick for all these stories, my personal moodboard maker, one of my best friends that I would have never even met without Pedro Pascal existing, once again thank you for making the moodboard AND the other thing(wait til y'all get to the end)

Masterlist||AO3||Parents to Lovers

divider provided by @saradika-graphics

The thunder was getting closer and closer. You can smell the incoming rain on the air as you close the kitchen window.

“Girls!” You shout, approaching the living room doorway “Did you remember to bring your bikes in the garage?”

“I did!” Missy says quickly, returning to the game on her tablet.

“Uhh…” Nora hesitates, fingers fidgeting against her own tablet, “I forgot.”

“Nora! How many times have we talked about this?”

“Sorry,” she shrugs, “I just forgot.”

You groan, putting your shoes on and making your way to the garage. Frankie won’t be home for another hour or else you’d send him outside to get the bike. Opening the garage door you see the rain already starting to come down in sheets. Thankfully, Nora’s bike isn’t that far from the open door, but running towards it you see something dash past you into the garage.

“Fuck,” you mutter, grabbing the bike and wheeling it into the garage, “Now I get to deal with whatever creature decided to run into here for shelter from the storm. Thanks Nora, you’re the best!”

A clap of thunder sounds just then, causing you to jump, and you hear a whimper at the edge of the room. You reach for the switch on the wall and when the overhead lights come on you see a dog huddled in the corner.

“Hey little baby,” you say sweetly, crouching down and stretching out your hand, “It’s just a little thunder, nothing to be scared about.”

The dog slowly begins to move closer to your outstretched hand. You notice the floppy ears, short legs and long body. Another clap of thunder and the thing darts over, shaking and whimpering.

“Hi there,” you coo, “Let's get you some place warm and dry, huh? That sound good?”

The dog’s tail starts to wag a little as you continue talking to it, grabbing a towel as you begin to attempt to dry the dog off.

“Are we a boy or a girl?” You ask, lifting a leg to check, “Congrats! It’s a girl!” You say to no one but yourself.

The dog begins licking your face as you wipe her paws more to get the mud off.

“Aww, you’re just a sweet girl, aren’t you?” You coo, as the dog continues to lick your face, “Yes, yes you are! Okay, I think we’re good to go inside now.”

You gently scoop the dog up in the towel and carry her inside, bringing her into the living room.

“Is that what I think it is?!” Nora shrieks, smacking Missy’s arm to get her attention from her tablet.

“Hey, calm down, she doesn’t like loud noises,” you explain, “This little girl ran into the garage because of the storm.”

“She’s so cute!” Missy excitedly whispers, “Does she have a name?”

“Well I don’t see a collar so I don’t know,” you say, placing the dog in the middle of the living room.

The dog’s tail begins to wag harder when the girls slowly slide off the couch to approach her, and you notice her peeing on the carpet. 

“Shit,” you hiss, quickly going to the laundry room for a towel, laying it on the carpet to soak up the mess. She’s much more enthusiastic seeing the girls than she was seeing you. You sit on the couch watching the girls interact with the puppy.

“Hi,” Missy whispers, reaching her hand out for the dog to sniff, “You’re very pretty.”

“Yes,” Nora agrees, stretching her arm out, “Pretty and smooshy!”

The dog eats up the attention stretching out on the floor to show her chest and belly. Missy and Nora begin petting her, taking turns rubbing her tummy and scratching behind her ears.

“Momma, what kind of dog is she?” Nora asks, looking at you.

“It looks like she’s what’s called a basset hound,” you grin. You’d always wanted one growing up and thought that whoever owned this girl was the luckiest person in the world. You needed to call Frankie before he got home, that way he could maybe stop somewhere to get a collar, leash, and dog food. You pull your phone from your pocket, tapping on his contact info.

“Hey babe,” he sighed, “Think we’re almost done here and then I’ll be home.”

“So,” you say, getting up and walking to the kitchen so the girls wouldn’t hear, “I need you to do something for me before you come home.”

“What kind of ice cream do you want now?” He laughs.

“It’s not a craving this time,” you whisper into the phone, hand rubbing across your barely there bump, that news you hadn’t shared yet with the girls, “Not a bad idea though, Ben and Jerry’s Salted Caramel.”

“Sure thing,” he says, “I’ll be sure to ge—“

“No babe,” you interrupt, “Seriously that’s not what I was calling about. I need you to get some puppy food, a leash, and a collar.”

“Do what now?”

“Puppy food, a leash and a collar,” you repeat, “and the Ben and Jerry’s! I’ll text you what I said, love you, bye!” You say quickly before hanging up and texting him the list. Your phone pings a second later.

Frankie: What the fuck?!

—

“Babe,” Frankie shouts, entering the kitchen, “I got the st—“

The dog ran into the kitchen, looking up at Frankie, giving a single bark.

“Well, hello,” he says, dropping the small bag of dog food on the table, hesitantly the dog inches closer to Frankie, tail tucked between her legs, sniffing his boot.

“Dad, look!” Missy says, pointing at the dog.

“I see,” Frankie says, eyebrows raised.

“Can we keep her?!” Nora asks, bouncing from foot to foot.

“Absolutely not!” Frankie says, putting his hands on his hips, “She looks pretty young, probably has a family around here somewhere.”

“Obviously they don’t care about her though,” Nora argues, “They left her out in a storm!”

“Yeah,” Missy agrees, nodding her head, “That’s just mean to do to a baby dog!”

“Now, now girls,” you say, placing a hand on each of their shoulders, “Sometimes dogs get loose when they’re scared and just run off.”

“We’ll make some flyers and post them around the neighborhood,” Frankie says, “Until we can find the owners we’ll make sure the little thing’s fed and taken care of.”

“She’s not just a thing, Frankie,” Nora grumbles, stomping past you to the living room, the dog and Missy following right behind her.

Frankie takes in a deep breath before slowly letting it out. You walk towards him, grabbing him around his waist and pulling him close, breathing him in.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper into his neck, placing a small kiss there.

“Why’s she gotta be so damn stubborn like her momma?” Frankie hums, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“Everyone says she looks like her dad so guess that means she has to have my attitude,” you say, shrugging your shoulders with a laugh.

—

“Are you sure we can’t just keep her?” Missy asks while you’re stapling one of the flyers to a pole.

It’s been a couple days since the dog arrived. You’d gotten the flyers made and now you were all walking around the area with the dog and posting them up in numerous places. You’d already hit every business downtown that you could. Now it was time to hit the neighborhoods around you.

“I’m sure,” Frankie said in a stern tone, “We are not keeping her.”

“But I already picked out a name,” Nora pipes up, flicking the leash lightly in her hands like a whip, “Goober!”

“Nora don’t do that with the leash,” you say, “You could hurt her.”

“Don’t name her!” Frankie groans, “She’s not our dog!”

“Why Goober?” Missy laughs, as you all continue to walk.

“Well,” Nora says, looking down at the dog who cocks her head to the side like she was waiting for the answer as well, “Just look at her! Mom always says I’m a goober when I do something funny and she just looks funny!”

“I like it,” Missy says with a small smile.

“No,” Frankie said, “Her name is not Goober.”

The dog barks, ears perked up, wagging her tail, and looking directly at Frankie.

“Oh,” you laugh, “Babe, I think she just told you you’re wrong and that her name is, in fact, Goober.”

“Stop it,” he says, pointing at you before hanging up another one of the flyers.

—

“Would it be such a bad idea to keep her?” You ask while filling the dog’s food and water dish. The dog is patiently waiting for you to place them on the floor for her.

“Yes it would.”

“Frankie,” you groan, hand on your stomach, and bending down to set them on the floor, “She’s so cute though!”

“Doesn’t matter how cute she is,” Frankie shakes his head, “We shouldn’t keep her.”

“Babe,” you say flatly, “It’s been a week and a half and we haven’t heard a single thing from anyone!”

“Good morning, Mom!” Nora beams, coming into the kitchen, “And good morning Princess Goober!”

“Morning,” Missy grumbles, “Goober!” She says perking up a little and petting the dog on the head.

“Stop calling her that!” Frankie says sternly, “She’s not our dog. End of discussion.”

“Oh,” Nora says, glaring at him, “Morning Frank.”

“Are you guys ready for school?” He asks, ignoring Nora’s glare.

“Yeah,” Missy yawns. Nora just grumbles still glaring at him.

“Alrighty then,” you hum, “Come here. Hugs!”

Both girls embrace you one either side, giving them both a tight squeeze before letting them go.

“Have a good day and Nora,” you smile, “Please behave.”

She rolls her eyes, following Missy into the garage with a huff. Frankie shakes his head, walking towards you, wrapping his arms around you.

“That girl’s gonna give me more gray hairs than the baby,” Frankie mutters into your temple.

“That makes the both of us,” you laugh, giving him a chaste kiss before he’s off to take the girls to school and go to work.

—

“Goober!” The girls shriek, bursting into the house through the garage. Goober’s tail starts wagging like crazy and she pees all over the floor.

“Goober Goo!” You groan, “Not again!”

Goober just looks at you, panting, tongue hanging out to the side.

“Can we take her to the backyard?” Missy asks, putting her backpack on the hook.

“Sure,” Frankie grunts, bending down to clean up the pee. Goober pokes her head under his armpit, while he wipes the pee up and begins licking his face, “Okay, okay. Yes, I see you.”

“Think she likes the way your beard tastes, Dad,” Missy giggles.

“Must be leftovers in there,” he grumbles, rubbing Goober’s ears.

“Oh! Watch this!” Nora exclaims, “Come here Goober! Come here!”

Goober pushes past Frankie’s arm, walking in her pee to get to Nora.

“Damn dog,” Frankie mumbles, motioning for you to hand him the Clorox wipes.

Goober plops down in front of Nora. She grabs one of Goober’s ears and begins to scratch the inside of it, causing Goober’s back leg to violently shake. 

“What is she doing?!” Missy asks, starting to giggle.

“You found her puppy spot!” You exclaim with a laugh.

Frankie looks up to see what you are all laughing at, watching the saggy dog’s body jiggle and starts laughing.

“What the hell?” Frankie laughs, shaking his head, “Think she is a Goober afterall. Go on, take her outside now, I’m sure she’s got more pee in her. Don’t want her pissin’ in the house more than she already has.”

The girls take her outside, taking turns throwing the floppy stuffed animal they gave her that she had ripped the stuffing out of.

“Babe,” You smile watching the girls play with Goober outside, “I think we have a dog now.”

“I think you’re right,” Frankie groans, standing up, throwing away the Clorox wipes and throwing the towel into the hamper in the laundry room.

“We can’t get rid of her,” you pout, “The girls love her too much. Frankie, I love her too much and no one’s claimed her!”

Frankie finishes washing his hands at the sink, turning around, crossing his arms with a big sigh.

“Fine,” he sighs, “We’ll keep the damn dog.”

—

“What ya making, babe?” Frankie asks, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, “Smells really fucking good.”

“Spaghetti,” you grumble, “Only thing the girls seem to want to eat right now.”

Nora rushes into the kitchen, observing the fridge, rearranging some of the pictures on it.

“What are ya doin’ kid?” Frankie asks, looking behind his shoulder.

“Moving some stuff around,” she says snarkily, “This coupon is expired. Can I throw it away?”

“Yes,” you and Frankie say at the same time.

“Cool,” she says, throwing it away and running out of the kitchen.

You continue stirring the sauce, trying not to let the smell get to you.

“Need me to take over?” Frankie asks, kissing your temple.

“Oh my god,” you huff, “Please.”

Frankie laughs softly, kissing the spot on your neck that meets your shoulder. Then moves you to the side when Nora and Missy come rushing back in. Goober following closely behind them.

“I think we should put it here,” Nora says, pointing to the empty spot she made.

“What if though,” Missy says, rearranging different pictures, creating a new empty space, “We put it here?”

“Hmm, yeah, I like that better,” Nora agrees.

Missy grabs one of the magnets off the fridge, placing a new picture on the fridge, right alongside the picture of the four of you together, underneath the picture of Missy and Nora, and above the picture of Frankie with the guys.

“There!” Nora beams, “Goober is on the fridge, that means she’s family!”

“No take backs!” Missy says, pointing at Frankie.

The pistachio crumb?!?! 🤣😂🤣

God I love you’re writing so much Kiki! You have such a way with story telling that is both hilarious and down right hot 🥵 🫠

DEEZ NUTZ feat. Dieter Bravo & f!actress reader

a @happypedrohours challenge fic | Rated: 18+ | word count: 1,522 warnings: no fat men in this fic, smutty smutty smut smut, slight angst/enemies eventually leading to smashing pissers, pistachio theft, pistachios in places pistachios should be A/N: Thank you to @strang3lov3 + @sweetenerobert for their eyes and minds 💜

If you’d told your last-year self that you were going to be stuck on a film set in Oklahoma with the Dieter Bravo for nine weeks during one of the hottest summers on record, past you would be just as unimpressed as current you with the situation. Dieter was known for being out there in his methods and morals, and he did not disappoint. In fact, in every way you were warned about him, no one could have prepared you for how exhausting and annoying he was to work with. But you seemed to be the only one with an issue with him, given that everyone else on the set took his different and strange ways of approaching anything in stride and good humor.

By the third week, you thought you were going insane with how little notice everyone paid to him and his antics, and how much he got under your skin. There were times that he teased you or tried to play around, making you understand – even for a moment – what his allure was; but then he’d take it a step too far and you’d immediately be reminded that he was a thorn in your side.

You hated that you couldn’t get enough of him.

“Fuck off, Dieter!”

“What?”, he snapped, trying to catch up as you stormed out of the sound stage and into the parking lot filled with trailers. “Oh, come on! You can’t be serious!”

You snarled and clenched your fists, stomping towards your trailer. For a man with so few pockets in his wardrobe, you had no idea where Dieter managed to store all the audacity he carried.

Just as you got to the steps of your trailer, he grabbed your elbow, stopping you from opening the door.

“Are you really doing this? Did you really just storm off set? It’s not even 10 am!”

You glared at him, ripping your arm from his hold. Narrowing your eyes, you spit out at him, “Fucking cute that of all the people to ask me that, it’s you.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”, he breathed out harshly. “It was just a fuckin’ kiss!”

“Just a kiss? No. No, Dieter, I am not mad about a fucking kiss.” You turn around and step towards him, finger digging into his chest, forcing his retreat. “I am a professional and I can handle when you pull your bullshit, but you giving me directions on how to accept your kiss? That was you – once again! – overstepping your boundaries.”

“I – no! I was just giving you some point– “

“Pointers?!”

“I’m committed to the craft! I take rehearsals seriously!”

“No. No no no. Dieter, you are an entitled shi – what?”

The smile that crept across his face stopped you in your tracks and he leaned back, crossing his arms.

“What?”, you yelled, face pulled into a scowl and his smile opened up as he laughed.

“You liked it.”

You instantly saw red, feeling the dangerous buildup of animosity and need boil over inside you; your whole body felt 10 degrees hotter than before at his blatant and upsettingly correct assessment.  Dieter’s smile continued, seeing how you reacted to his declaration.  He took a step forward and leaned in, and said lowly before walking away, “Don’t worry, baby. I liked it, too.”

*****

You spent the rest of the day keeping as far away from Dieter as possible. Thankfully, he seemed to take the hint – or at least his assistant, production staff, and the entire crew did and kept him occupied between shots and during breaks.

Finally able to decompress in your trailer before your car would be there to pick you up, you put on your headphones and listened to a meditative app to try and de-Dieter your mind, body and spirit before moving into your weekend. In doing so, you missed the many messages from your driver telling you he was stuck in traffic. What you didn’t miss was the banging on your door.

You ripped your headphones off and pushed the door open, knowing exactly who knocked that obnoxiously.

“What, Dieter?”, you barked.

He flashed you a grin and pushed past you into your trailer. You rolled your eyes with a growl and turned to look at him.

Dieter held his hands up and gave you an apologetic and small smile. “Look, I know you’re mad at me, and I know today was – you got pistachios?” His eyes were trained on the small charcuterie board on the kitchenette counter, and he looked perplexed. “I didn’t get any pistachios.”

You scowled at him as he moved over to the counter and grabbed a handful of the little green, de-shelled nuts and shoveled it into his mouth.  “What do you want, Dieter?”

“Pish-tah-shos.”, he said muffled, mouth full and chewing. “Ma fuh-ken fa-reet.”

You jaw clenched and your mouth pursed so tightly, your lips turned white. You weren’t sure who was more infuriating: Dieter with his nut lust or you with your Dieter need.

He cleared his throat after he swallowed, and his big stupid brown eyes looked at you, wide and apologetic. “Like I was saying, I know you’re mad at me, and I know today was a lot, but I want to clear the air. I want us both to be in a good vibrationary stasis with each other so we can harmonize our chi’s.”

You tilted your head as you stared at him, confusion written on your face, not really sure what he just said to you.

“Fuck it.”, he threw his hands up, facade dropped. “I like working with you and you’re hot. Sorry I was an ass.”

The tension you didn’t realize your body was holding released, and your shoulders dropped to a neutral position. And Dieter wasn’t stupid -  he saw the relief wash over you and his mouth tugged on one side with a smirk, nodding at the double bed in the back of the trailer.

“You wanna have sex with me?”

***** 

Dieter had made you cum no less than four times with his mouth before he finally sunk into you, hips flush with one another. The long groan that left his mouth was accompanied by his eyes rolling back in his head and a dopey half-grin bloomed on his face.

If it weren’t for the delicious stretch and pressure he was creating in your own body, his euphoric state would have brought you there on its own. You urged him to move and he let out a content sigh before he looked down at you, eyes soft and hazy.

“Don’t rush me, baby. I worked hard to get here, I’m taking all the time I need to get the most of your sweet pussy.”

You squirmed and whimpered,  pathetically trying to coerce him into giving you something more than a cockwarming, and all you got in response was a deep, throaty chuckle, rumbling from the depths of his chest. 

Leaning forward, he captured your mouth with his and you tasted yourself and pistachios -  an odd combination that you never thought you’d have to decipher and put words to in your mind. Dieter pulled out, barely leaving the tip touching you, then slammed it back in, the force shoving you up the bed. And he did it again… and again… and again, setting the pace and speeding up.

He grunted,  “Taking Daddy so well -”

“No… no ‘daddy’ shit.”, you groaned back.

“Sorry… thought I’d take a chance… should’ve called it.”, he panted, “Don’t look like a Daddy’s Girl.”

“D-Dieter - just shut up.”

He smiled as his unruly curls moved and his huffing breath panting out of him in time with his thrusts. His brows then crossed in concentration as his hands dug into your hip and thigh, holding you in place as he pounded into you. Any further communication between you was wordless, conveyed with your eyes, sounds and hands pushing and pulling one another.

Your orgasm began to crash down on you, and Dieter suddenly pulled out, leaving your hole clenching on nothing and your climax fizzling out. Before you could ask ‘what the fuck?’ at his sudden removal, his own spend splooshed on your mound, hot and sticky.

“Fuck… I’m sorry.”, he panted, sitting back on his knees and wiping his face with his large palm. “You got a good pussy, baby. I just couldn’t help it and raw doggin’ is fun and all, but not chancing any little DB’s running around.”

You nodded slightly out of breath yourself. “It’s fine. I mean, you made me cum already and I-”

Your sentence was halted by Dieter lowering his face to the crux of your thighs and licking up his cum. Slack jawed and in awe, you watched him clean you up with his tongue.

When he dipped his tongue into your sensitive folds, he stopped and his eyes went wide. You felt him lick at something then he sat back, chewing on something.

“What-”

“Pistachio crumb. Must have left it behind when I was down there earlier.”

Your face skewed in amusement and disgust and Dieter just smiled.

“Waste not, want not.”, he smugly proclaimed before diving back in. 

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Well damn, this was written beautifully! The way you captured his grief 😭

12:32 PM (Marcus Moreno Drabble)

Rating: PG

Summary: Marcus likes to think he's moved on with life.

Tags/Warnings: Grief, loss of a spouse (Wife), fluff

Notes: Written off the prompt "I've always wondered why it had to be you" as an exercise with with some friends where we were assigned a prompt and Pedro boy and given 30 minutes to write. Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the divider!

Words: 700

Author Master List | Daily Clicks for Palestine & Other Resources

Marcus goes every Thursday at 12:32 pm. Rain or Shine. Sleet or Snow. Sometimes when he was still the leader of The Heroics, he’d have to miss his standing date, but his watch would ding in reminder instead. 

Now that he’s retired, he never misses it. 

Every Thursday at 12:32 pm, Marcus visits Marissa Moreno’s grave with a bouquet of her favorite flowers and a tuna melt. The exact day and time he spotted her across the greasy spoon he frequented, favorite sandwich inches from his mouth. The exact moment his life changed forever. 

He’d been young and arrogant at the time, twenty-two and ready to take the world by storm as the dashing young superhero he was. Marcus is confident, always has been, but the moment she came over and asked him if he needed a refill, his mouth went dry and he stumbled over his words like a damn fool. It was two months of tuna melts before he finally pulled it together enough to ask her out. 

She had laughed, his favorite sound in the world, the prettiest music to his ears, and winked at him. “Took you long enough.”

Marcus never looked back after that. They got married a year to the day after he first saw her. They’d welcomed Missy into their lives a few years later, and life was perfect. A dream. Marcus knew he was the luckiest man in the world. He treasured his wife and daughter. He still does. 

He still feels the sharp jab of pain in his heart every time he thinks back to that rainy Tuesday night. 

“I’ll be back by 10.” She had smiled at him as she dropped her lipstick into her clutch. Mom’s night out. He’d made a good attempt to keep her home with sultry words and a kiss that required her to reapply her lipstick. Had he known it would be their last, he’d have never let her go. 

She’d kissed Missy’s head, declared her love for both of them, and rushed out of the house. At ten o’clock, she wasn’t home. Marcus hadn’t been concerned at first. Then, the clock hit eleven. At twelve, her phone had gone straight to voicemail. Before he could call Christine, there was a knock at the door. 

He caught the flash of police lights painting the walls of his home before he ever saw the police officers. He’d known. It felt like a dream sequence. He didn’t hear a word the officers said. 

The next year of Marcus’s life had been like that. A living dream that to this day, he can only recall in blurs and flashes. Finally, one day he’d walked into that diner, sat in the same booth, and sobbed. His poor waitress. Apparently, it had been her first day. That had only made him cry more. 

Marcus can’t tell you how long he cried in that diner. Only that it was daylight when he walked in and the black of night greeted him when he emerged. 

He’s done better since then. He’s been better since, now 20 years removed from the night that took his wife from him. 

He keeps her up to date on everything. His life, Missy’s life. He laughs over some trouble the twins got into and cries over the fact that she doesn’t get to be here for it. He tells her how much Missy reminds him of her in everything. Her mannerisms, her glow. She’s always been the bright shining, light leading him out of the darkness, just like her mother. 

He likes to think he’s gotten past it and moved on with life. He doesn’t tell her how he wakes up missing her each morning, the sheets cool on her side of the bed, or that he still sets her coffee mug out on the table each morning. He tells her he’s okay, when deep down he doesn’t know if he ever will be again. 

He sets a hand on top of the tombstone. The ache never dulls. Despite the countless times he’s said goodbye, the words always echo in his head with tears flicking in his eyes. 

Why did it have to be her?

Oh this was absolutely wonderful! I love reading stories in Joel’s POV 😍 You did a fantastic job conveying his feelings for reader! Just UGH! Then throwing Javi into the mix as well?! 🫠

Privates

Joel Miller AU x Javier Pena x AFAB Reader/You

Word count: 9k

Joel takes a second job at the local strip club, hoping to cover Sarah's fees for her fancy new private school. He just has to make sure no one's gettin' too rowdy, and watch out for the girls. It would be really simple. If it weren't for you.

Warnings: porn with plot, this is a Joel Miller story but it's about a strip club so obviously Javi is there, reader is a stripper, no shame get your dollars ladies, MMF, Oral (f receiving), slow burn then smut, also a couple of other cameos, reader has limited physical descriptions other than in reference to her lady parts, this is really filthy even for me, pining while Joel really trying to hang on to some semblance of morals, Javi says maybe two words? Explicit. Minors DNI.

He thought his hearing was bad before he took the job, that years of construction work; drilling, hammering, screaming at Tommy for fucking up the A-frame, would be the thing that robbed him of one of his more essential senses. But it turned out it wasn’t that, it was the incessant bass, the thrum of the sub-woofer reverberating around his skull. The way he felt it jolt his spine, Mikey the DJ hell-bent on obliterating the patron’s ability to think straight with sound alone, as if the watered down booze wasn’t toxic enough to cloud their judgement.

But Sarah needed to go to the fancy school, the one with the uniforms and the shiny brochures, and he hadn’t figured it would be all that mentally taxing. He could do without the late nights at his age, but he got paid after-hours rates to basically walk around and look menacing, and only once or twice a night did he have to actually step in and boot a guy. Sarah had just joined the debate team. Like she needed any help with arguin’.

He'd only told a handful of friends, Tommy so that he knew if he was late to a job it wasn’t because he was on a bender but just because he was working late, a couple of the guys at poker night because he thought they might get a kick out of it. They had, immediately asking him to get them in without the cover charge. He’d refused, but in a good-natured way, and so far they’d steered clear of the place.

He wasn’t sure why he was shy about it, if that’s what it was. Giving the air of authority, trying to be respectful while the girls did their work. He mostly ignored the stage, felt his cheeks burn if he happened to look up to see a girl bent over, thong waving in a guy’s face. He scanned the floor, walked the halls outside the privates, kept his eye on the clock and the bar, waited for his break so he could take a load off and get away from the kick drum assaulting his temples.

The guys kept telling him he’d won the lottery, lucked out on a dream job. And he would agree, except for you.

He’d met you on his third shift, right when he was allowed to walk the floor without a supervisor. He was already learning how to read the floor, how to pick up on cues from the girls that a guy was trouble, was figuring out that just standing with a scowl on his face and his black shirt on in a darkened room was often times enough to keep a blowhard in line. He was getting used to the girls tipping him at the end of a shift, although it felt weird to take their money when he’d just seen how they made it. He was getting used to the dull ache in his knees, in the soles of his feet, reminding himself not to complain when he saw the six-inch plastic heels the girls traded in.

He was learning that each girl picked their music, that often times the songs they chose reflected their dance personas, the girls dancing to pop songs going for the cutesy vibe, the girls dancing to heavy guitar riffs and shouty lyrics dressed up in black and red lace, dangerous and menacing. He was getting used to the way the room shifted in response to whatever was going on stage, was noticing he needed to pay more attention when the younger-looking girls, the blondes in pigtails, took to the stage.

He felt the room go quiet, a kind of hush when your name was called. The shift was enough to make him pause, mid-stride, moving his gaze from a man trying to buy a drink for a girl he suspected was under 21, to the stage. The heavy bass hit him in the chest, the stage lights purple and red, when you emerged, thigh first, from behind the tatty little red curtain. You were all hips and cleavage, all gentle curves and smooth lines, skin glowing and buttery soft under the stage lights. You moved slowly, your hands ghosting over your breasts, as you made eye contact with every patron in the room, your red painted lips curling into a knowing smile as you regarded them, as you took purchase of them, as you measured them and found them all wanting. You were selecting your prey, he could see it in your eyes, and he was fully prepared for your gaze to skip over him, to see his outfit of black and his number around his neck and know that he was a non-starter, except that as soon as your eyes landed on him they stared there, and he could swear you added an extra little wiggle in your hips for him, an exaggerated dip as you held the pole to you and swivelled around it, as you winked at him, fucking winked right there in public like it wasn’t the most obscene thing you could have done in this environment, and he felt it then, that the two of you were in it together, that you had let him in on the grift, that if you were his Bonnie he would do everything he could to be your Clyde.

He turned as you got busy, gave you the privacy he felt you deserved as you shimmied your skirt down, and he found he had no idea where to look now, had forgotten his rotation, had been thrown completely from his rounds. He wanted a shot of hard whiskey, the proper shit that they kept for the high-rollers, he wanted to go out the back to the employee bathroom and dunk his head into the sink. He wanted to march up that stage and pull you off it, bundle you into his car and disappear with you into the night, his fingers nestled in your wet, wanting cunt as he drove, claiming it back from all the men you’d ever shown it to.

He balled up his fist, wondering what exactly had just fuckin’ happened to him, lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye he could see you revolving around the pole, your legs curling into the air in front of you so that, if he were to look, he would get a perfect view of Eden between your thighs.

He figured he should check the back room. It had probably been a while since anyone had.

--

You weren’t there every night. From askin’ around, none too subtly he suspected, he’d learned you were studying your master’s degree, taking classes in the daytime then coming by to work some shifts. You’d been there for a while, degrees are long and hard to get, and you mostly kept to yourself. Sometimes on slow nights you read your textbook in the dressing room until someone dropping cash came by. He felt his pulse quicken at this, at the earnestness of it, the innocence in it, and he resolved then that it would go no further. He would stop. He wouldn’t check the roster to see which nights you were working, wouldn’t watch the back door until he saw you appear, bundled up in a winter jacket and a heavy bag over your shoulder, in sneakers and jeans and somehow all the sexier for it, wouldn’t make shitty mistakes on the job site because he was distracted, waiting for your next shift to roll around, wouldn’t stalk the floor sullen and moody on the nights you weren’t in. He would do none of that, because he was too old for a schoolboy crush, because you were both working professionals, colleagues even, because it could never go anywhere without some sort of destruction, because Sarah was doing so damn well in her new school.

He watched out for you. That was his job, to watch out for all the girls. He watched out for you when you started to approach a guy who was already four drinks deep and threatening to get handsy, stepping in before you got to him to redirect him to a glass of water, then the door. He watched out for you when another girl got too drunk or too high and started causing a scene right beside where you were standing at the bar, pulling her away gently by the biceps before she could shatter a bottle and ricochet any glass into your general direction. He watched your back when you were in the privates, kept a respectable distance outside the open doorway, the little U-shaped couches meaning often times all he could see were the guy’s legs, sometimes the cream of your thighs as they dangled over his, the curve of your calf easing into the point of your heel. He watched out for you as you retreated to the dressing room for a break, kept an eye on the door to make sure no patrons tried to slip in while you were resting. He steered clear of the dressing room itself. That was your private space, you and all the girls. He had a little office back there, but he would just make sure to take everything he needed with him at the start of his shift, take his breaks in the back room amongst the toilet rolls and broken sound equipment.

He watched out for you when he wouldn’t let you tip him, figuring you needed it for school, gently pushing your hand away when you tried to pass him a twenty at the end of every shift.

--

Sunday nights were dead.  Most of the girls never worked it, preferring instead the busier nights, the bucks’ parties and the bigger crowds. There was only a small subset of girls who worked the Sundays, the ones who tended to have regulars come in to visit them, the ones who liked the chilled-out vibe a little more, who used the downtime to practice new tricks on the pole or discuss hair removal and boob jobs right there on the floor. Those were the nights when he felt everyone was a little more themselves, that the grift was a little lesser, when the patrons were generally more well behaved so the girls could let their guards down. No one felt like getting up to all that much bullshit on a Sunday.

But his feet didn’t know any of that, protesting all the same despite the more relaxed vibes, and he was hovering behind one of the booths on the floor resting his hip on it to ease the pressure off one foot for a moment, before shifting his weight to the other. This little method meant he could stay standing, more or less in the same position, for sometimes up to an hour. But on the quiet nights, with so many empty booths around, it was all the harder to resist just sinking down into the cushions and stopping the blood pooling in his shoes.

Candy Jane was on stage, shifting her hips without much conviction, a couple of regulars already with their girls. He could see you, propped up in a corner booth, your eyes on the stage but unmoving. He thought you looked tired, wondered if your feet were hurting as much as his were, and he thought long and hard about sliding in beside you, pulling you into his lap and nudging your head onto his shoulder.

You looked up, then, swivelling your eyes to him and he felt his stomach drop. He was about to start another round of the privates just for something to do but you were getting up on your feet, strolling over to him, the singles and twenties strapped to your thigh by your garter.

‘Joel,’ you said, grabbing his hand and pushing him into a booth behind him. ‘Come sit by me, I’m bored.’

He had seen you flirt with the patrons, a kind of hyper-sexualised bunny thing that promised them every sexual desire they could ask for without ever actually delivering, the art of the tease so acute in you that none of them seemed to even realise they’d been played. He marvelled at that, always kind of admired it, at the street smarts of the girls extracting money from the men who thought they had any power in the situation. He looked at you now, sitting an arm’s length away from him, and felt almost entirely under your spell.

‘Not s’posed to sit on the floor when I’m workin,’ he said, almost apologetic, and you shrugged your shoulders at him.

‘It’s dead, Joel-y,’ you said, and you weren’t flirting with him now, you were just yourself, and he liked you all the better this way, all the more for the earnestness of you, for this version of you none of the other men ever got to see.

‘Just don’t be offended if I have’ta get up and leave quick,’ he said, and you smiled at him.

‘I don’t think you could ever do anything offensive,’ you said, and you were kind of teasing him but also really meant it, and you watched him blush, shifting his body in his chair to face a little further from the stage. ‘Why don’t you watch?’ you asked, rolling your ankles and feeling the tendons stretch. You were hoping your regular would show up soon so you could finally earn something, the house fee already putting you in the red.

‘S’not right to watch, not here for my…jollies,’ he finished, and you grinned at him.

‘Your jollies?’ you teased. He huffed out a shy laugh, looking down at his lap.

‘Y’know what I mean,’ he went on. ‘M’workin’, we’re all workin’.

‘You aren’t curious to take a peek?’ you asked, leaning closer to him. If he was a better man, he would have been able to resist the urge to peak down the top of your dress, the silly little spandex straps barely holding you in, your tits heaving with your breath and with how heavily you were teasing him.

‘Course I am,’ he confessed, almost hissing it out over the bass thumping through his body.

‘A man of principles,’ you appraised, moving back to give him a little break, wondering if he was hard yet. You knew he watched you closely, knew that he lingered outside the doorway for you more than any other girl when you were in a private, knew that he was going out of his way not to look at you when you danced on stage, and the innocence of it, the thrill of it when you had everyone else’s attention except his, it fascinated and annoyed and scolded you, tickled you around the collarbone. You watched as he scratched at the salt and pepper patches dotting his jaw, at how he swallowed so hard his muscle ticked and strained under the force of it.

‘Why don’t you take my tips?’ you asked. Candy’s dance slot was nearly over, and you were waiting to see Destiny. She’d promised to show you one of her new pole tricks hanging inverted, and even after all this time you still hadn’t worked up the courage to do that.

‘You need to save ‘em up, get your degree,’ he answered, without thinking, finding it so hard to think through the want for you, for the proximity of you, now that he could smell your perfume and feel your body heat along his side.

‘You know about that?’ you asked, surprised.

Oh shit, he thought. Just like that he’d fucked it.

‘One of the other guards, he mentioned it. Said he saw you reading a textbook one time,’ he covered, as quickly as he could given the circumstances. You nodded at him, as if this satisfied you, but he wasn’t sure if he’d actually pulled it off. His throat was dry, and it was so hot in the club, was it always this hot in the damn club? First chance he got he was gonna call his HVAC guy.

‘What are you studying?’ he asked, but you were smiling then, eyes bright and over his shoulder.

‘Hey, Javi!’ you squealed, giggling and rising from the booth, pushing your chest out and wiggling towards the man Joel had come to recognise as your regular. The lucky bastard always wore aviators, his jeans so tight Joel was surprised he didn’t burst a button when he got a hard on, his moustache quirking up in greeting to you. Joel wondered if you would ever squeal and rush towards him like that, not caring for one second that it was just part of the grift. 

--

You’re not on shift, haven’t been on shift for a week, and his bones itch under his skin, his feet pacing up and down the carpet outside the privates, patrolling the floor like it insulted him. He hates that he checks the roster at the start of every shift and doesn’t see your name listed, hates that he’s worried about you; that you’re sick, that you’re hurt, that you’ve fucking left. He’s useless at his real job, nearly degloving his entire hand with a band saw he was so distracted wondering if he’d see you that night. This can’t go on, and he knows that, but he just needs to know what happened to you, just needs to know that you’re OK, and then he can get back to being dead inside.

Because that’s what you’ve done to him, he realises. You’ve made him feel alive. He can’t resent you for it, you didn’t know it was what you’d done, but it sets his teeth on edge and it unnerves him in a way that makes him consider quitting, finding another club, maybe not a titty-bar, maybe something he can actually put on his resume. He considers it while simultaneously knowing he won’t do it, would never do it, that he’s too far gone even while he can’t go any further.

He stops checking the roster. It hurts in a way he can’t quite get his head around, a pain he doesn’t have any room to accommodate sitting tight and hot in his chest. He keeps his eyes on the patrons and the clock. He takes his breaks in the back room. He feels tired down to the bone.

--

Two weeks after he’d last seen you, he starts his shift the way he always does, going into the back before too many girls arrive to put his bag in his locker and fill his pockets with whatever he’ll need for the rest of the night. He’s busy trying to put a protein bar in his pocket in such a way that it doesn’t look like he has a hard on when he hears footsteps behind him.

‘Joel-y’, you say, and he swings his head towards the sound so hard he thinks he hears something snap. You’re smiling at him, dressed in your jeans and a Fleetwood Mac tee, and he has to consciously remind his heart to keep beating. You’re holding one of your enormous heels in your hand.

‘Where have you been?’ he blurts out, not caring that he sounds needy. You blink at him, surprised.

‘You missed me?’ you ask, and you’re teasing him but he doesn’t care, because he’s glad all over that you’re back and he’ll take all the sass in the world from you if you just stay there.

‘You didn’t…’ Didn’t what, he thinks. Didn’t check in with me? Say goodbye? There’s no reason why you would have. Didn’t promise you weren’t grossed out by him, that he’d made you so uncomfortable you’d gone to work at another club? ‘You didn’t mention you were taking a break,’ he said, eventually.

‘Oh, I had mid-terms,’ you say, breezily. He’s stepping out of his little office now, trying to put space between you before he says something else blatantly insane and stupid, hoping to go back to just looking at you from dark corners while he furtively hopes you don’t see.

‘Wait,’ you say to him, grabbing him by the arm. You hold your shoe up, and he can see where the strap has come away from the base. He takes it from you, feels the brush of your fingertips as he does it, tries to ignore the little flip in his tummy.  

‘Leave it with me,’ he says, stepping towards the backroom where he knows there’s superglue. ‘You got another pair?’

‘Yeah, but those are my favourites,’ you say, looking up at him carefully, watching his face for something. You haven’t got your heavy stage make-up on yet, haven’t curled your hair into gentle waves, and you’re so beautiful like this, he thinks, when he can see the actual colour of your lips, your cheeks.

‘Twenty minutes,’ he says. You smile at him. He wonders if you’ll put your hand on his arm again. You turn away.

--

In the backroom he sits on an upturned milk crate, holding the strap to the base so the superglue will affix to it. If he had his tools he would try and nail it down, but there’s a chance he could shatter the base and these heels seem expensive for something that makes all you girls look so darn cheap.

Your shoes are so small in his hands, and he imagines just for a second its your foot he’s cradling in his lap. He has the presence of mind just enough to wonder what fucked up version of Cinderella he’s trying to live.

He checks the strap, pulls hard on it three times, before he’s satisfied enough to give it back to you.

--

He realises his error, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. He had mentioned to the guys at poker that Sundays were the quiet ones, that the music was just low enough to be able to think, that the girls mostly entertained themselves while their regulars paid them to chat, sometimes to dance. Where you could always get a seat at the tipping rail, could even swing a three song dance out of a twenty if the girl was bored enough.

He feels the drop in his stomach when he sees them, approaching the bar en masse. He can’t remember where you are, he’d lost sight of you between the booths on the floor and the privates, and he tries to remember what time your stage slot was, having checked the roster again despite swearing black and blue he wouldn’t. They haven’t seen him yet, and he wonders if he can just slip out the back and make a break for it, tell them he was sick so he wasn’t working, and they need to fucking call him first. He knows them, knows that they’re not bad guys, that they’re here to keep him company and maybe see some butt while they’re at it. But it stirs in him a deep panic, that they will see you, that they’ll get their eyes on you before he’s really even let himself have a chance to, before he can make you all his own.

A silly little delirious part of him, right at the back of his skull, whispers that it’ll make your wedding really awkward. He shoos it away like an errant mosquito.

Benny sees him, then, is waving him over.

‘Joel, we made it!’ he yells over the music, the guys turning to him to welcome him into the circle. Tommy is already at the bar ordering the beers, but he nods to his big brother. Joel worries for a second that you’ll like his brother better, before he remembers you don’t even like him at all.

He stalks over to him, his jaw aching from the strain, while he looks through the darkness to try and find you. He’ll just have to run interference for a while, keep them busy while you work the floor, try and bundle them back out into the cold before your stage slot.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says, laced with irony, and they’re slapping him on the back, welcoming him in. He reminds himself these guys are mostly Tommy’s friends. Wouldn’t be that sad if he never saw them again.

Frankie tries to hand him a beer but he pushes it away. ‘Workin’.’ He says, simply.

‘More f’me,’ Frankie grins from under his cap.

‘So where’s the best place to sit?’ Benny asks, surveying the room. There are a couple of girls walking the floor, Amber on the stage twisting her hips to the music while staring out over all of their heads.

‘You gotta tip if you sit on the rail,’ Joel says, simply, and Benny nods.

‘I got singles!’ Pope says, ever the responsible one, always the one planning. ‘Sorry, hermano, not enough for you.’ Joel grins at him. Pope can stay, he thinks. Pope will keep his mouth shut.

‘Look, you sit in that booth there,’ Joel says, pointing them to the centre of the room, ‘you can see the stage perfect. You wanna tip a girl though, you gotta get up onta the rail, make sure they know about it.’ He leans in a little, like he’s sharing a secret. ‘These girls work real hard. Make sure you treat ‘em right, ok? They’re good girls. Smart girls. You don’t come here just to look and not sling ‘em some hard earned.’

‘Yes sir,’ Pope says, making a salute that Joel considers might actually be real. He can’t be sure. Tommy was the one who spent a few years in the army with them, not him.

‘Vamos!’ Pope calls, rounding them up and shoving them down onto the cushions. Now Joel just needs to figure out where you are.

--

You keep fuckin’ evading him. One minute you’re in a private, the next you’re at the bar chatting to a patron, trying to get him to buy off the top shelf. Electra is on the stage, and Tommy is entranced by her, the bills practically falling out of his hands while she bends to pick them up with her teeth. It’s distracting Joel, trying to keep an eye on them while also trying to keep distance between you, and the boys are inviting girls over to them, beckoning to them from the stage to come sit by them, and he knows it’s not long before your dance slot is up, knows that as soon as they see you they’ll want you, that they’ll beckon you over, that you’ll fuckin’ go.

He can’t be everywhere, can’t keep doing his job while also trying to manage this situation, has to keep pacing the privates to keep the other patrons in line. He never thought there’d be a time that he wished that fuckin’ Javi guy would show up just to keep you out of sight for a while.

They keep calling to him, too, trying to get him to come over and sit down no matter how many times he explains to them he’s working, that the girls need him to keep an eye on things. Will’s trying to keep a straight face but he’s snickering up at him, and Joel wonders what’s so damn funny.

‘Bet you do keep an eye on things,’ he grins, a little shit-eating thing that makes Joel’s hand curl into a fist. He shakes it loose, the music making it so hard to think, jarring his nervous system. He’s about to say something, about to find a reason to throw the lot of them out, when your name gets called over the loudspeaker. You’re being called to the stage. You’re up next. On the stage.

He has approximately thirty seconds to do something. He is completely rooted to the spot. At the tipping rail his little brother is waiting, dollars in hand. He thinks he might pass out or puke, possibly both and not in that order. His head is swimming. ‘Not like this,’ he thinks. He just doesn’t want you to meet his friends like this.

‘Holy shit,’ he hears Pope say, and he turns to the stage. Your thigh is appearing around the curtain, the shoe he fixed for you running up and down its raggedy edge. You’re all swagger and tits tonight, your hair swept over one eye, and he’s transfixed for a second, completely unable to move, as you shimmy up to the centre of the stage, take the pole in your hand and swivel, kicking your legs out behind you so that you corkscrew down to your knees. Pope is moving to the tipping rail, Benny following close behind. Tommy is leaning forward on his elbows, pulled in by you almost on instinct, and you’ve clocked him now, crawling on your hands and knees towards him.

For a second, Joel sees you pause, studying Tommy’s face, before you search for him in the crowd. You’ve noticed the family connection, and he freezes, terrified of your reaction. Are you going to be angry? Feel betrayed? Hurt that he’s brought his friends here to ogle you, to watch your hips shimmy and your tits bounce? Has he broken some kind of professional code, could he get fuckin’ fired for this, will you never speak to him again? He tries to communicate to you with his eyes that he didn’t bring them here, that he doesn’t want this, that whatever the fuck’s going on with these guys he wants no part in it. He wants you to know he sees you, you in jeans and a tee shirt, that it’s that you he wants.

For a long moment you stare at each other, Joel’s pulse heavy and thick in his ears. You lean back, rear up so that all your weight is on your knees. You run your hand up your side and into your mouth where you bite down on your index finger. You keep your eyes fixed right on his. You wink.

--

So, this is what its like to have a heart attack, Joel thinks. It’s slower than he expected. It’s been hours, and the guys are still here, and by some stroke of divinity or possible the opposite, so is he.

The number of times he’s reminded the guys they have work in the morning. How he’s complained that the music is giving him a headache, and man that pounding base makes it hard to think, and wouldn’t it be fun if they all went to a sports bar, see if the replay of the Knicks game is on? But they can’t leave yet, won’t leave, because they want to see you on stage again, want one last look at your creamy thighs and your bucking hips before they go home and jerk off thinking of their tongues in your cunt. He’s going to have an aneurysm right here on the goddamn floor of this fuckin’ strip club. Sarah’s gonna find out where he’s been workin’ all this time.

The one thing his brother has done for him, the one thing Tommy has done right in his life, is to lay down a rule before they got there that they can’t get any private dances.

‘Didn’t come out here to see ya’ll with hard-ons’, he reminds them, and they snicker but begrudgingly agree, and Joel won’t lie that he feels a surge of pride in his fuckin’ idiot baby brother and his one good idea.

Joel knows the girls are on a roughly two-hour rotation, that by the end of the night all of them will have been on stage about three times. The only problem is that if a girl’s in a private she gets skipped until she’s ready, so sometimes some girls might even need to do more. It seems especially cruel to him that if a girl’s having a bad night, not reeling anything in, not making any money on her own that she gets paraded out even more to the baying crowds of disinterested patrons. He’s seen a few girls with tears in their eyes on the way to the dressing room, complaining of an off night. He’s been around long enough to know that these happen, that there’s no rhyme or reason to them really, just that sometimes that particular girl just isn’t flavour of the night. He’s never seen it with you, though. Never seen you fail to take a man by the hand and lead him down the dark corridor to the u-shaped couches if you deem him worthy. It burns him up with jealousy and also he’s proud of you for it. His good girl taking no prisoners.

He wonders if he can tell the DJ to take you off the rotation, if you’ll notice if you just don’t get called again, but he also knows it would be messing with your money, that Pope and Benny and Will are making good on their promise to tip well. That you’ve got bills and a college degree to earn, that the fact that he’s sick in the guts with a jealous want doesn’t matter, should never be part of the equation when it comes to you.

He does another round, still hoping to see you, still hoping to find you in a private somewhere, but you’ve made yourself scarce and he wonders if it’s because of him, because of his friends being here, worries that he’s embarrassed you. There’s only one other place you could be, tucked away in the dressing room hiding out, unless you’ve just got dressed and left completely, not even bothering with the attempt to tip him tonight.

He shouldn’t but also he needs to, knocks hard on the door and calls out that it’s him before he pushes it open. With all the lights on around the mirrors the place has a warm glow, and he scans quickly to make sure he’s alone before he pushes himself into the room. You’re not here, either, which means he doesn’t know where you are, and he feels a little flare of panic in his sternum. He rests his hand on it, trying to steady his catching breath. He should check the roster. Maybe you had an early finish.

He nearly steps on you when he rounds the corner into his little office. You’re lying flat on your back on the floor, headphones over your ears. For a terrible second he thinks you’ve passed out in here before he realises you’re tapping your feet, your head swaying back and forth to the music only you can hear. He leans down and pushes, gentle, at your shoulder. Your eyes snap open and you startle, pulling the headphones free.

‘Jesus,’ you say, and he steps back again, hangs around the door.

‘Sorry,’ he says, hands up in appeasement. ‘Didn’t mean to scare ya.’

‘No, no, I’m sorry,’ you say, scrambling to stand. Your heels are catching on the carpet and you waver, Joel coming forward to steady you. ‘Sometimes I come by here and stretch out my back a little, the heels are…hard work,’ you say, and he realises you’re blushing, that you think he’s mad. He shakes his head at you, brows saddled.

‘S’ok,’ he says, not letting go of your arm.

‘You’re just not normally in here,’ you say, and you look up at him then, fixing your eyes on his.

‘You can come here any time you like,’ he says. Wants to add that everything you ever wanted he will get for you, that anything you ever asked he would do.

‘-nks,’ you say, feeling shy all of a sudden, realising the size of his hands for the first time.

‘I didn’t know they were comin’,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady, and you blink for a second, trying to understand. ‘I didn’t invite ‘em, they just showed up.’

‘So, he is your brother,’ you say, smiling now. Joel nods his head at you, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

‘He’s cute,’ you say. ‘Runs in the family.’

Joel grunts at this, can’t quite believe he’s heard it, tries really hard to think straight. You’re wearing practically nothing in his little office on a quiet Sunday night while his brother and four of his friends throw dollars at random half-naked women. It’s a lot to take in.

‘They’re not getting dances,’ you observe, and Joel shakes his head.

‘Their decision, outta respect or somethin’, I guess.’

‘Respect for you?’ you clarify.

‘Each other, I think.’

‘Oh, that’s silly,’ you say. He feels the heat up his neck, a bloom of something worrisome in his tummy. ‘That’s like going to Disneyland and not getting on any of the rides.’

‘I’m gonna have to beg you to rephrase that,’ Joel says, and you grin at him. He can see that flirty sex bunny emerging in you again, can see that you’re up to somethin’, his brain too addled with the smell of you in his office to figure what.

You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you smile, your little dimple on your right cheek popping up when you’re thinking of something sneaky. He wants to kiss it every morning in the warm light of dawn. Wants you wrapped up in his sheets, hair stretched over his pillow, his hands on your tummy and your breast while he eases his fingers between your thighs.

‘Breaks over then, I guess,’ you say, and you’re practically bouncing out of the room now, his brain working just enough to remind him to follow you. He’s three or four paces behind, alarmed at how fast you can go with those heels on, and he sees it now, that you’re making a beeline for them, that you’re a woman on a mission to finally tip him over the edge, to send him right to his grave.

He can only watch, helplessly, trying to figure which one you’ll reach for. Prays it’s not Tommy. Or Will. Or Benny. Or fuckin’ Frankie. For some reason he thinks Pope might be OK. He watches, his pulse hard and racing in his throat, as you approach, six paces from them, then four, then three. Tommy’s noticed you, is pushing back his chair.

And right before you get to them, right before you’re within grasping reach of his brother, you turn, pivot on your heel to the bar, where fuckin’ Javi is waiting for you, cigarette hanging out of his mouth and beer in hand, one knee cocked to the side. You melt into his arms, resting your head on his shoulder, and somehow Joel is relieved and also it’s so much fucking worse then he could ever imagine, burns him brighter than if you had chosen one of his friends, knows that it’s both a lifeline and a spool of barbed wire you’ve thrown him, knows that he’s latched onto it anyway, can feel the tug and tear of his skin.

--

He's hovering outside the privates. His friends have finally packed it in, it’s nearing 1 AM, and in all the commotion he’d forgotten that his feet are killing him, and they’re really crying for his attention now. But he ain’t leavin’ you alone with that Javi guy, doesn’t trust the way his shirts never fuckin’ fit.

He’s so tired, the adrenaline of the night leaking out of him just to leave him wavering and empty, and he feels like he’s on his last nerve, the stress of the evening, the strangeness of it, wearing him down to the stub. But your little shoe sat right in the palm of his hand, but you went to this office to relax when you thought he wouldn’t know about it, but you fuckin’ winked at him like the rest of the room wasn’t even goddamn there, and he ain’t leavin’ you now.

And if he leans on the wall a little, takes the weight off one foot and transfers it up into his shoulder, if he cocks his head to the side, he can just peek you, see Javi’s tight jeans and the plush of you bottom as you grind it on him, your arms up over your head to make your sweet little tits sway in his face.

He shouldn’t be hard at work. Shouldn’t be leaning like this, crowding himself into the corner to get a better look. He knows there are camera in the hallways, as much to keep an eye on the staff as to keep a watch on the patrons, and he knows that somewhere footage is being collected of him right now peeping in on you. He doesn’t fuckin’ care. He can see the way your stockings are banding too tight across your thighs, and he wants to sooth the skin with his tongue, pull the nylon off you and kiss his way around the angry red rings in your flesh. He can see your hips rocking to the music, your hair swaying down your back. Your hands moving to grasp behind you, pushing your chest up and out into Javi’s face.

And he sees it then, the way Javi’s hands are hovering, lifting off the couch and threatening to come down on your skin. The club has a strict no-touchin’ policy, it was drilled into him on his first day. That’s an infraction worthy enough to get him booted out of here, never allowed to set foot in this fine establishment of dirty tomfoolery ever again. Joel swallows, his eyes now fixed on Javi’s hands, waiting for the moment they brush against your soft, glittering skin, takes a step forward towards the doorway, doesn’t even notice that you’ve pivoted, your hands on Javi’s knees as you grind your bottom down, leaning back to rest your head on Javi’s shoulder. Locking eyes with Joel.

His cock is throbbing in time to the music. The bass thrums in his chest. You hook your knees over Javi’s, first the left then the right, and push them open just enough to give Joel a tease. You’re still in your thong but it’s enough for Joel to see the sheen of the fabric, that you’re wet down there in the valley between your thighs. He licks his lips, a hand coming to rest on his chest, as he gazes at you with the kind of want that sets your nervous system on fire.

You’re swivelling your hips on Javi, can feel that he’s hard underneath you, but you want it to be Joel, want more than his eyes on you now that you’ve got them, want his hands and his tongue and his cock. You whimper, and you hear Javi groan behind you, as if any of this is for him. Javi pulls his knees further apart, unknowingly opens you up for Joel, and there’s a moment where you feel more naked then when you’re topless in front of fifty strange men. Joel has stripped you bare, to the quick. You can see how fast he’s breathing by the way his hand rises and falls on his chest. You time your movements to it, jerk your hips as if he’s breathing his touch into you from across the room.

Except he’s mad, now, you can see the way his brows have furrowed, the way his jaw has set, and you’re too hot and too overwhelmed to realise until the last moment that Javi has his hands on you, is cupping your breasts from behind, trying to reach from behind to tweak your nipples, pulling you further down into his chest to rub more fully on his cock.

Joel’s with you in four strides and you reach for him, both arms lifting up to his as he wrenches you free, screams at Javi to back off, pulls you behind him and shields you with his body while he threatens to beat Javi to a pulp before throwing him out onto the street, then beating him to death where the cameras don’t point.

‘You don’t fuckin’ touch her,’ he’s yelling, and he can feel that his throat is raw, dry, but he can’t fuckin’ think over the crushing beat in his ears, realises after a couple of stilted moments that it’s not the music that’s deafening him but that it’s his heart, that he’s vibrating with fury and want, that Javi has backed up a bit on the couch and lifted his hands in the air but hasn’t scurried away, that he’s not scared or worried at all, that he got to put his hands on heaven and will do nothing to apologise for it, and something snaps in Joel, something feral and needy and primal, something that has been chewing at the bars of its cage for months.

He pulls you to him and you gasp, can feel Joel’s pulse through your back as he manoeuvres you to rest on his chest, lifts one foot up onto the couch while he strips your thong from you, spreads you open for Javi, your body weight leaning on his as he holds you with just one arm around you.

‘This is how you fuckin’ touch her,’ Joel seethes, pushing his hand down over your belly and onto your waiting cunt, cupping your slit and teasing the slick gathering there up and over your clit. You gasp, the leg you have planted on the floor shaking as he strums, gently but somehow so firm, and you can feel yourself opening up to him, your cunt wet and aching, trying to draw him in.

‘You seein’ this, see how wet she gets for me?’ he’s saying, and you glance down to see that Javi is indeed watching, shock on his face and locked in a kind of paralysis, his eyes flicking between your cunt and Joel’s furious face. ‘You couldn’t get this from her,’ Joel is saying, and you’re leaning back into him because your knees are definitely going to buckle, but he holds you firm and steady, and you lift your face up to the ceiling and gasp.

Joel isn’t thinking, just listening to you, just letting his fingers finally touch what he’s dreamt about for months. Your sopping cunt is probably dribbling onto his pants and he doesn’t care, wants it there, wants you deep down in the fibres of the fabric where he’ll never scrub you free. You gasp again when he pushes two fingers in, feels your walls expand to accommodate him, raises the heel of his palm to ease the stretch by rubbing quick little circles on your clit.

‘Slide right in,’ he says, his unhinged commentary gritting out over the music, loud enough for just you and Javi to hear. ‘S’what happens when you’ve got her achin’ for ya,’ he says matter-of-factly.

You’re rolling your hips now, unable to help yourself as you arch your back, wanting to twist in his arms and sink your teeth into his neck, lick and lave at his collarbone, keen into his skin until the sound of it attaches itself to his bones.

‘Look at that pretty cunt,’ Joel is still saying, almost frantic now, the heat on his skin making it impossible to think of anything else, anything so complex as consequences. He’s lost in the touch of it, in the way Javi is looking at him imploringly, the way he can see that this pompous fuckin’ arsehole is getting a schoolin’ on pleasuring a woman, in the way you’re gasping and whimpering just for him. ‘S’mine,’ he says, twisting his fingers up to the knuckle in you, hooking into the spongey spot he knows will make you see stars.

He wants Javi to beg him to stop. Wants him to get down on his knees and apologise, wants him to swear he’ll never come back. But he’s distracted, because you’re calling to him now, the sound of your sweet cries of his name echoing through the vacant halls of his brain.

‘Joel-y’, you’re whimpering, babbling. ‘Joel-y, please,’ and you’re not even sure what you’re asking for, just that he’s torturing you, setting you on fire right here in the privates, that the pleasure he’s wringing from you is too much, too overwhelming, that you want to collapse into him but you’re still trying to bear some of your weight, that your thighs are wobbling and your body is screaming at you to let go but you can’t, not in this position, no matter how good it is, because you can’t get purchase, you can’t grind, the heel of his hand is too blunt on your clit.

He can sense it, that he’s trapped you right where it’s too much and not enough, and a part of him wants to leave you there, wants to make you feel what he’s felt all those weeks he spent waitin’ for ya, checkin’ that fucking roster like a goddamn fuckin’ dog, causin’ all those little fuck ups at the job site thinkin’ about this little cunt wrapped so tight around his knuckles.

But he’s not cruel.

‘Lick it,’ he barks out, gesturing down your body to Javi while he pushes you forward, shifts your weight more fully to the couch. You instinctually hook your knee over Javi’s shoulder, the extra leverage finally giving you purchase enough to properly move. ‘Suck her little clit ‘til she fuckin’ soaks me,’ Joel says, and there’s no arguing with him, not that you would, not that Javi would by the look on his face.

He's looking uncertain, like this might be a trap, and you reach down and grab his hair in your hand. ‘Please, Javi,’ you say, and he’s on you then, without further hesitation, his lips catching your little bud and grasping it between his teeth. You scream, feel Joel jostle you until your head is twisted around to bury in his neck, and you can feel more than hear the little rasps of encouragement as he talks you through it.

‘Such a good girl f’me,’ he’s saying, and you’re barely registering it, but your cunt is listening, clamping down hard on his fingers as Javi grips you with his mouth. ‘Teachin’ us both a thing or two, ain’t ya, baby? Showin’ us just how to treat a sexy little cunt like yours.’

You’re going to die. You’re going to burst into flames. There’s just no question in your mind that this is how you go, but you just fucking hope that you’ll get to come before it happens. It’s like every single nerve ending is now in your pussy, like you are only breathing Joel and Javi, your body sandwiched between them as you grip Javi’s head to you and twist in joyous agony against Joel’s chest.

‘Wanna hear you, baby,’ Joel’s whispering again. ‘Wanna hear it when ya come f’me.’

You open your eyes, look down your body to Javi, where he’s watching you, his eyes travelling up your body to rest on your face. He’s palming his cock, you can see the way his arm is moving up and down slowly, and you can feel Joel throbbing behind you.

‘Don’t look at him,’ Joel admonishes, and you slam your eyes shut, turn again to bury your head in his neck. ‘He can’t help ya,’ Joel goes on. ‘S’just there to make you come, baby.’

God it’s fucking debauched, is what it is. It’s filthy and sweaty and you’re so wet, and you feel sexier than you ever have, feel the power in your body and in your desire, feel the way you have finally, finally brought something feral out in Joel. You’re going to come, because Joel has determined that you are going to, and you just know without him even telling you so that he won’t let you go until you have, until he is satisfied that he has wrung out every last whimper from you, until you are sated and he is confident his job is done.

Javi’s licking hard at your clit now, sometimes sucking on it, and you slam your hips down onto Joel’s hand when he does it, rock your knee to bring Javi closer to you, try to swallow him with your cunt and your hands in his hair.

You can’t get enough breath to warn them. It’s just going to happen, they’re just going to throw you over the edge and into the abyss and you can’t even tell them they’re about to do it. Joel sees it though, feels the way your cunt is gripping him.

‘Do it, baby,’ he’s gritting into your ear, catching every roll of your hips so you won’t fall. ‘Show him what it’s like when I wreck you.’

And you do, then. Harder than you ever have in your life, your lungs pillowing out in your chest to suck in all the air available to them, your wails lost to the music as streams of your slick press into Javi’s face, where you soak him and Joel behind you, shivering and convulsing as you topple over the peak, dimly aware of Joel’s words in your ear as you go, calling you his pretty girl, his beautiful, perfect girl. His girl, his girl, his.

--

There are too many broken workplace safety rules to count, so Joel doesn’t bother. He knows he’s lost his job, that the cameras will have picked up all of that, that as he drops his ID badge and set of keys on the desk in his little office that it was worth it, that you were worth it. He’ll get another job, find a bar open just as late as this one even if it’s further out of town, will travel and will keep Sarah in school and will keep the memory of your sweet little cunt fluttering around his fingers locked up tight in the back of his brain for when the nights are cold and lonely.

When he drives you home, bundles you up in his car and puts the heater on full blast to keep you warm, you tell him that you finished your degree weeks ago, that you were lying about the mid-terms, that you had actually been down in Florida helping your mother move your grandpa into care. It hadn’t seemed necessary to talk about them in that environment, you said, and he rests his hand on your knee because he understands, and also because he likes you.

He doesn’t ask for your number. Knows you probably wouldn’t give it to him, is too afraid that you’d regret everything that you did together, that you were humouring him with even letting him drop you home, that this isn’t even your house.

He only found it later, written in your neat writing, your number and your real name, when he was stripping his pants off himself and dumping them into the hamper, his come collected on the inside where he exploded as he rutted against you, as he listened to your desperate, whimpering cries for him.

He tacks the little piece of paper to the mirror, memorising the digits in case one day it falls. He isn’t gonna call it. He just wants it there, a reminder of you and what you’ve made him feel, how you’ve lifted him, freed something in him. He just wants it there. Proof that you were real.

Yes he does! We know how much I love Dieter and it was so hard to write him this way 😭

I might? But it’ll be awhile 🤣😂

I love you!!! ❤️❤️❤️

Some Broken Hearts Never Mend

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!actress reader

Warnings: Language, mentions of drugs, pregnancy, lovers to enemies, angst angst angst

A/N: Huge thank you to @noxturnalpascal and @beefrobeefcal for helping me with this! ❤️ I don’t usually do angst but trying to play around with it and I needed the practice. This is for @tightjeansjavi's June Writing Challenge. Also tagging @jay-zzle because she is my permanent cheerleader

Masterlist||AO3

divider by: @saradika-graphics

The lights are flashing everywhere, hearing your name and Dieter’s being shouted left and right. Where to look, what to do, you love sharing this moment with him, watching his smile beam as the congratulations are being shouted out.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Dieter whispers in your ear with a smile, rubbing the bump of your belly.

Paparazzi is shouting out excitedly, seeing you two together along with your prominent bump on display. You both kept this news under wraps until you couldn’t hide it anymore. It’s too hot in the summer to try wearing the oversized hoodies you’d been wearing all spring. It was decided between both of your teams that the best thing for an announcement was to show up to Dieter’s premier with a dress that would show off your bump, letting the world know that Dieter Bravo was about to take on the most important role of his life - a family man.

“Dieter! Dieter over here!” You see Adam from Entertainment Tonight waving you both down.

You nudge Dieter, motioning towards the host, and make your way over for the first interview of the night.

“Hey guys! I’m just so excited to see you two! Wow,” Adam says your name, “You look absolutely glowing. Is there maybe a reason why?” he teases.

“Well, I don’t know,” you laugh, shrugging your shoulders, “Babe?”

“Hmm…” Dieter says, rubbing your bump, “I think because you’re having my baby?”

“I can’t believe it! First, you get this man sober, and now,” Adam says with an amusing smirk, “You’ve gotten him to have a baby with you?”

“She’s a witch!” Dieter exclaims with a massive grin, “I swear. She put me under some sort of spell!”

The interview went on for a little longer, delving into Dieter’s role and how he prepared for the movie. Interview after interview, the baby was brought up.

What are you hoping for? Boy or girl? Healthy.

Have you thought of any names? Yes, but not sure yet.

Do you know what the sex is? We want it to be a surprise.

The same questions were asked repeatedly until it was time to go inside the theater.

—

“Hey babe, I’m gonna be going out, hanging with some friends,” Dieter says, waltzing into the living room with his phone and keys. You pause the TV, scooting to the edge of the couch. “You don’t need to get up.”

“What friends?” You ask concern etched on your face. It always makes you nervous when he is going to hang out with friends solo. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Dieter, it was just that he’s had his fair share of relapses.

“Sam, Claudia, and Percy.”

You make a disgusted face as soon as Percy’s name is mentioned. Sam and Claudia, you trust. Percy, you do not.

“Babe,” Dieter starts, “I know you don’t like the guy but he just got out of rehab. No drugs will be around, everything will be just fine!”

“He just got out of rehab that was court-mandated, Dieter,” you seeth, “You really think he took that shit seriously?!”

“Baby,” Dieter sighs, placing a hand on your stomach, “You gotta watch your blood pressure. Not good for Peanut.”

Inhale. 1 2 3 4. Hold it. Slowly exhale. 5 6 7.

This has become your mantra lately, the doctor was getting worried about your blood pressure and stress levels. He had said that it could cause early labor. Six months along, and you needed to start paying more attention to this stuff. The last thing you want is for Peanut to come before they’re ready.

“I just don’t trust him,” you explain, “The last time you hung out with him you relapsed and went down a rabbit hole.”

“I know,” he said, head dropping, “I’m sorry. I really am, but I promise it won’t happen again. There’s not supposed to be any hard drugs, maybe some weed but that’s it.”

“Fine,” you groan, “I mean it though Dieter, you can’t have any more slip ups. Gotta think about Peanut.”

“I’m always thinking about you and Peanut,” Dieter grins, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. “I’ll behave and be home before ten.”

Dieter wasn’t home before ten, or eleven, or twelve. It was nearing two in the morning when you finally heard the front door open. Sliding your feet into your slippers and grabbing his tattered green robe to wrap yourself in, you made your way to the living room.

“Fuck,” you hear Dieter say sniffling, “What the fuck did I do?”

“Babe?” You ask, coming into the living room, Dieter slumped on the couch, “Everything okay?”

“I fucked up,” he whispers, pushing his hands against his eyes, “I promised yo-,” he chokes on a sob, “I promised you I wouldn’t and I fucked up.”

“Dieter,” you sigh, approaching the couch to sit next to him, “Look at me.”

He shakes his head, looking down at his lap, fingers twitching against his face. He looks so helpless like this. You grab his hands, and pull them into your lap.

“Babe,” you try again, “Look at me,” reaching your hand to cup his cheek, forcing him to look at you. Watery bloodshot eyes stare back at you.

“I’m so sorry,” Dieter whispers, closing his eyes, a lone tear running down his cheek, “I should’ve listened to you.”

He tells you what happened. You nod in understanding, this was just a slip-up, you can forgive him yet again. You know it was just a bad judgment call to go out tonight. He will get through this just like he has every other time.

—

“Looks like you’re doing well, baby is right on track and appears to be growing as they should,” the doctor says, looking at your chart, “Only about two more months to go and then we can start looking to induce you. I want to see you in two weeks.”

You give a small smile and nod, rubbing your bump, slinging your purse over your shoulder, willing the phone inside to buzz as you make your way to the receptionist’s desk, making small talk with her and getting your next appointment set. You thank her as you take the appointment card, sliding it into your purse as you walk out the door.

Inhale. 1 2 3 4. Hold it. Slowly exhale. 5 6 7.

Dieter’s been missing, three weeks to the day now, and no one can find him. His management team and assistant have been on a hunt trying to find him but of course, Dieter has gone off the grid. Last you knew paparazzi had gotten pictures of him somewhere in Europe, but that was last week. His PR team and your own told you not to look at the pictures but you couldn’t not see them when a pregnancy craving hit and you got ice cream late one night.

Dieter Bravo, Trouble in Paradise?

Sources close to the actor state he’s not ready to be a father and ran from his relationship to [redacted], fellow actress who is pregnant with Bravo’s first child.

The small article included pictures of Dieter exiting a club with one arm around a blonde woman’s shoulders and the other arm around a brunette man’s waist. The three of them were walking down the sidewalk. The final pictures in the article showed Dieter kissing both of them.

Stars has tried to reach out to each of the couple’s publicists for comment with no response at this time.

You felt your heart breaking in the middle of the checkout line. He was the one to bring up having a baby. He was the one to convince you to get pregnant. He was the one who time and time again reassured you this is what he wanted and only wanted it with you. 

You felt so stupid, like a poor pathetic girl, when everyone had warned you about him. They’d all told you so many times. Dieter Bravo is a mess. Dieter Bravo can’t be tamed. Dieter Bravo isn’t  meant for relationships. As it turns out, they were all right, and you’d just ignored every warning given to you.. Dieter had kept using after the last slip-up. What was an accident became once a week, then three times a week, and then turned to daily use. Slowly but surely you were giving up, giving up on the one person who you trusted the most.

He made you feel loved, cherished, and special. He always made you feel like no one else could compare to you or your love for each other. Now though, he makes you feel like a fool. He makes you feel like the dirt underneath his shoes. He makes you feel like… like, like—

Your thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing in your purse. The number wasn’t one you recognize but you answered anyway in hopes it was Dieter.

“Hello?”

“Baby,” Dieter’s voice sounds through the phone, “I wanna come home.”

“Dieter?” you ask, “Where are you?”

“I’m at an airport in Paris,” he says sniffling, “I wanna come home.”

“Come home, please,” you beg, “Just come home.”

—

Dieter came home the following day, detox in full swing. He was shaky, sweaty, and puking, and you were staying by his side the entire time. Doubt begins to crawl into your brain, this being the fourth or fifth time you’ve helped him through detox. Is this going to be how your life plays out? Private doctors, in and out of your home like a revolving door. Make sure he’s comfortable, providing you with the necessary instructions to get Dieter through this so he doesn’t have to go to a facility again.

“I think he should consider going to rehab again,” Mark, his manager, says.

“Mark, I don’t know what else to do,” you sigh, shaking your head back and forth. “He doesn’t want to go. He told me every single hiding spot he has here at home and I went through all of them and flushed everything.”

“Just think about it, think about your baby and your own health,” Mark says firmly, “I’ve worked for Dieter for many years and this isn’t going to be the last time this happens.”

“I know,” you whisper, tears threatening to spill over, accepting defeat. You hadn’t meant to fall in this deep with Dieter if you’re being honest with yourself. It was supposed to just be a summer fling but as time went on he squirmed his way deeper and deeper into your heart, making room for himself to curl up inside, and making himself a nice little home there. It was becoming too much to handle, the stress weighing you down more as the days passed by.

If anything was going to prepare you for a newborn it might as well be this. Dieter shouts for you from the guest room in the middle of the night, waddling through the doorway you see him sprawled out on the bed. A thin sheen of sweat covers his chest, turning on the bedside lamp he winces.

“Baby,” Dieter groans, reaching out for you, sitting on the bed you give him your hand, “I love you. I love you more than anything in this world.”

“I know, D,” you murmur, the tears already threatening your waterline as he grasps your hand like it’s his only lifeline, “I know.”

“Hey,” he says perking up some, “Once I’m through with this we should go on vacation somewhere!”

“D we can’t,” you sniffle, rubbing the hand he isn’t holding onto against your nose.

“Why not?”

“Peanut,” you say, giving him a small smile.

“We’ll just take Peanut with us,” he smiles, moving one of his hands to rest on your stomach.

“That’s not really how it works, D,” you groan, “We can’t just up and leave whenever we want to. Not with Peanut.”

“Fine,” Dieter says firmly nodding, jaw going rigid, “Guess it doesn’t matter what I want to do then.”

“No,” you whisper, “It doesn’t.”

For the first time in your entire relationship, Dieter looks angry. He lets go of your hand and rolls over, his back facing you.

“Dieter,” you say softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Would you consider going back to rehab?”

Dieter doesn’t respond. When you repeat yourself he just grunts and shoves your hand off his shoulder.

Inhale. 1 2 3 4. Hold it. Slowly exhale. 5 6 7.

The next morning when you wake, he’s gone again. A note with his chicken scratch left on his bedside table.

You’re right. Checking into White Oak again. Things will get better. I promise ❤️

Love, D

—

It took four days. Four days for Dieter to check himself out of rehab and go missing again.

“I can’t fucking do this anymore!” You wail into the phone, leaving yet another voicemail on Dieter’s brand new phone, “Dieter, I need you to come home. Please. If not for me then for Peanut.”

“Fuck!” You shout, throwing your phone across the room, and beginning to pace back and forth. There is nothing you can do besides wait. Wait and hope that Dieter’s not lying in a ditch somewhere. You can feel your heart breaking into a million pieces.

You reach down, trying with all your might to grab your phone and then you feel it. A sharp pain in your groin and liquid rushing down your legs.

“Ahh!” You groan out, the pain sending you to your knees, reaching for your phone and dialing 911, waiting to be put through to a dispatcher, “No, no, no. This can’t be happening. It’s not time yet, it’s not time,” you clutch your stomach, telling the dispatcher you need an ambulance and your address.

Inhale. 1 2 3 4. Hold it. Slowly exhale. 5 6 7.

While you lay on the floor waiting for an ambulance to arrive the only thing you can think of is Dieter and how he should be here. You pick up your phone one more time and try calling him again.

“Hey, it’s Bravo, can’t come to the phone right now but you know what to do after the beep.” Beep.

“Dieter, I’m going into labor. An ambulance is on the way. I need you, please,” you continue through tears, “I’m so scared and I need you. Please come back. Please.”

—

It’s almost been a month since you’ve been home from the hospital. Dieter still hasn’t shown back up, has yet to meet his beautiful baby in person. You started seeing a therapist to help you process everything you’ve been through with Dieter. Looking over at Peanut sleeping peacefully in the bassinet beside your bed, you can’t help thinking about how it’s so unfair to this little baby to have a father who would choose drugs over them, but there’s nothing you can do besides be the best parent you can for Peanut. 

It startles you to hear a crashing sound coming from the kitchen. Slowly making your way out of bed to grab the baseball bat from the closet, you glance over at Peanut one more time before leaving the bedroom to see who dared disturb your peace.

“God damn it,” you hear Dieter groan, “I could’ve sworn I had some in here.”

You try to calm your heart rate, peering around the doorway to see Dieter rummaging through a kitchen drawer. He’s finally shown up. Not for you, not for his baby, but only to try and find drugs. He’s literally only here for the damn drugs. Your therapist had warned you about this moment.

Inhale. 1 2 3 4. Hold it. Slowly exhale. 5 6 7.

“Where the fuck is it?!” Dieter hisses, still not noticing you in the doorway, flipping on the lights.

“Gone,” you state firmly, setting the bat against the wall, and crossing your arms, “I flushed everything.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Dieter shrieks, facing you in the doorway but barely focusing on you. “You had no right to do that!”

“I did it because you asked me to when you were detoxing the last time.”

“I never said anything like that,” he seethes, stalking towards you, pointing a finger in your face, “I would never ask you to flush my shit.”

“Dieter, where have you been?” you ask, noting his blown-out pupils, and the wild look in his eyes. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Needed some space,” Dieter scoffs shrugging, “It’s not that big of a fucking deal.”

“Peanut.”

“The fuck?” Dieter asks, looking at you with malice in his eyes.

“Peanut,” you grit through your teeth, pointing down the hall, “You fucking promised me, Dieter. You promised.”

“Oh get off your high horse,” Dieter yells, “Don’t hold that against me when you baby trapped my ass!”

“I- what?” you say through gritted teeth, “You wanted this just as much as I did! It takes two to make a baby!”

“Fuck that!” Dieter laughs maniacally, “I never wanted to be a fucking dad!”

“D, you don’t mean that,” you say, shaking your head, tears brimming your eyes, “That’s the coke talking. You haven’t even seen Peanut, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m Dieter-fucking-Bravo, baby!” He shouts, throwing his arms up into the air, “I’m not gonna be held down by some relationship and a baby at home!”

“Fuck you,” you point to the door, face serious. “Get out of this house.”

“My fucking pleasure!” Dieter roars, walking out of the kitchen and slamming the front door.

—

Five years later.

Dieter was flipping through the channels, trying to find something interesting to watch on tv. His high was still lingering, not quite sober but not quite as high as that first hit. The ET channel starts blaring your name, with a picture of you, Peanut, and some guy.

“Looks like there’s an engagement in town,” the host says with a smile, “Looks like she’s got herself a type, but who is this mystery man? It’s rumored they met when he was doing some remodeling work on her house two years ago.”

“That girl’s been through enough!” The other host announces, “Bout time she gets her happy-ever-after!”

Wait, what? No, you’re his. His love, his fairy-tale ending, his forever. Dieter’s world is twisting sideways, Peanut is the spitting image of him. His baby, his baby he has never even met.

“No, no, no,” Dieter groans, picking up his phone to try and call you, the phone goes straight to voicemail. He tries calling your publicist next, again straight to voicemail. Next, he tries your manager, with the same results, over and over again until giving up and calling the one person he can trust.

“Mark,” Dieter cries into the receiver, “Please tell me it’s not true.”

“Dieter,” Mark grunts, “It’s three in the morning, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Is she really getting married?”

“Dieter,” Mark let out an exasperated sigh.

“I need to go back to rehab,” Dieter announces, “If I get clean and do all the steps she’ll have to take me back right?”

“Dieter,” Mark says firmly, “That’s not how it works. Let her go. She’s had to change her number fifteen different times now because you somehow keep getting it. Her entire team has your number blocked.”

“She’s the love of my life, Mark,” he whines, “I can’t just let her go. Starting tomorrow, I’m sober.”

Dieter begins cutting ties with most of his friends or really it was more cutting the people off who encouraged him to use. He went through the detox, he went through the steps as best as he could. He wants to impress you, he wants to get you back, get his kid back, fuck this guy who swooped in while he was away.

---

He’s six months sober. He hadn’t been sober for this long since before Peanut was born. Dieter found out from a friend of a friend’s friend where exactly you were living for the right price, Hollywood would never change. He makes the drive to your house, flowers in the passenger seat for you, and a teddy bear for Peanut. He’s ready to grovel at your feet if that’s what it will take. Pulling up to the curb he sees a nice suburban home. It’s nothing like what you two had shared, no ornate bushes out in the front yard, no massive gate surrounding the house keeping you caged in, kids freely playing in the neighboring yards. The front door opens and he feels like he’s been sucker punched. You’re standing there, staring daggers at him. He watches you leave the doorway, and as you walk towards his car he can’t help but think you look just as beautiful as the first day he met you.

He opens the car door, grabs the flowers and teddy bear, and gets out.

“Stop right there,” you state firmly, shoulders back and head held high, “What the fuck are you doing here Dieter?”

“I’m sober,” he says, “I thought- I thought maybe I could come and try to talk to y-”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You laugh, but not the soft laugh that fills him with so much light like Dieter remembers, this laugh doesn’t bring him comfort, it only brings him a sense of loss.

“I haven’t used in six months now, I’m trying to change, I really am,” he sighs, “I know I fucked up, I know I’ve been gone but I can’t think of you marrying someone else. I can’t”

“You’ve been gone?” You ask, shaking your head, “You were more than gone, it’s been five years. What did you think was going to happen Dieter? That I would still be in that house, taking care of our baby all on my own just waiting on you to come to your senses? Don’t act like you were just gone on a business trip, it’s been five damn years!”

“No, that’s-” he starts, swallowing the lump in his throat, “That’s now how I meant it.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

“I haven’t been good in a long time. The last time things were good was when I was with you.”

“And?” you ask, gritting your teeth together, “What does that have to do with anything? You left Dieter. You left me. Alone, pregnant, I almost lost Peanut because of you.”

He hates this, he never thought he’d see a side of you like this. Angry, mean, spiteful. You were always forgiving, tender, and always cared about his feelings. What happened?

“What happened to you?” Dieter asks, shaking his head, “When we were together you were never like this. You’re being so hateful.”

“What happened to me?” You shout, “Dieter, you! You happened to me!”

“Babe,” Dieter looks past you to the man at the door, “Everythin’ a’right?”

“Yeah, Joel,” you say giving the man a warm smile, the smile that was once for Dieter, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Daddy look at this!” Dieter hears a kid shout, and the man named Joel responds to the kid’s voice with a “Comin’ kiddo!”

“Is that-” Dieter swallows, feeling his mouth go dry, “Was that Peanut?”

“Yes,” you reply coldly.

“That’s not Peanut’s dad. I’m Peanut’s dad!”

“You lost the chance to be Peanut’s dad when you never showed up for the birth,” you say stepping closer to him, “You lost the chance to be Peanut’s dad when you decided to break into our home to look for drugs when they were a month old,” pushing against his chest, flowers and teddy bear falling to the ground, “You lost the chance to be Peanut’s dad when you fucked off for the past five years. Don’t you ever call yourself Peanut’s dad, got it?”

“Biologically I am Peanut’s dad,” Dieter protests.

“You may be the sperm donor but that makes you just about as much of a parent as a toilet seat does,” you spit out, turning and storming off.

Dieter watches you walk away back to your home, his heart heavy with regret. You were the last reason he had to get sober and get healthy and you didn’t want him. He ruined it. 

He turns around placing his hands on top of his car, closing his eyes as his head fills with dark and sad thoughts when he hears a small voice say, “Momma, why was the man you have a picture of in your bedside table here? And why’s he look so sad?”

Dieter’s head perks up and a hopeful grin spreads across his face.