#idk man it seems daunting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tremendum · 1 year

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where to start

(gif not mine) pairing: din djarin x afab!reader (gender not specified, descriptions of afab genitalia) rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.) requested: yes, here !!! word count: 2.7k summary: Din lets out a shaky sigh, finally turning around in the chair to face you, legs spread slightly, "it's not like- I don't not want to- I just haven't-I don't know where to start." warnings: SMUT. there’s like no plot. teasing, PiV (unprotected), Din has a praise kink, he begs, inexperience, loss of virginity, brief allusion to rough sex if you squint, yall cant convince me Din isn’t a stuttering little mess, riding in the pilot’s seat!!, sliiiight dom!reader, slight discussion of Din being ashamed he’s a virgin, idk what else tbh notes: thank u for requesting this! i just wrote it in like 30 mins haha. i hope yall like it i love my space cowboy boyfriend <3 this is unedited. reblogs/comments always motivate me hehe

[other din fic din series (be like me): masterlist ]

★

you stare at the cold metal in front of you.

it stares back silently.

your hand is itching to just go knock, to raise a few inches and rap your knuckles upon its shimmering, textured surface; it'll be so simple. so easy, definitely one of the easier things you've ever done.

but the conversation that awaits on the other side- well.

that's not so simple.

"why don't you go over there, Din?" a glint of beskar as his head whips to you, alarmed. thrown off. a head tilt of irritation, "excuse me?" a raise of your eyebrows, "oh, sorry, didn't realize we were playing innocent." you jut your chin towards the young woman who stands, twirling her hair and making bedroom eyes at Din from across the bar. jealousy curls up your throat - he'd been staring in her direction since you'd arrived, too. "come on, she's been staring at you the whole time. go- go do your thing."

"that isn't funny." he mutters, causing the chilled pint of ale between your fingers to sear you as you flush. tough crowd. "why do you assume I'm joking, hm?" you tilt your head again and he shakes his head. it's painful, the way you and Mando have been dancing around each other for weeks. a brush of a leather hand on the small of your back, a kind chuckle at something you say, your hands soothing over the thick cowl that hides his sore knots - the ones that form in his shoulders from carrying the jetpack - a murmur of your name when you're in danger, the curling of your hand around his arm in crowded public spaces. you're sure it's torture, but it seems neither one of you can make the move.

"she's not looking at me like- like anything." he dismisses, arms curling over themselves in a cross of defense. you hum a laugh; who wouldn't look at Mando like that?

"oh, c'mon. jus'go up and talk to her. she's probably dying for a big man like you to toss her around." you elbow him, winking. a slick, regretting coil of envy curls around your stomach as you take in the way his helmet tilts from you back to her; what the fuck are you doing? you silently beat yourself up, cheeks hot with the swirling complacency that befalls you following several drinks of ale. you sound like a complete moof milker as you let yourself encourage Mando to- to what, pursue another woman?

how does that make sense to your brain?

there's an echoing thud as Din slams his fist hard on the bartop. you jump, eyes wide as he shakes his head, turning to stalk straight out the doors, leaving you behind in his anger.

yeah. the wall has never been so daunting before.

you know you upset him earlier. he's been cooped up inside his bunk the whole night after you returned alone from the cantina, and no matter how much you've tried to ignore it, you know that it's your fault that you've made him angry.

your fist raises.

the metal whooshes before you can make contact, though, and your eyes meet the hard chest of beskar before you can take a step back. a soft oh leaves your lips as his helmet tilts microscopically down towards you for a moment; he's pushing hard past you with a fierce silence and without a second glance in your direction.

"wait!" you call as he disappears up into the cockpit, the silence sterile in the Crest as he stalks out of view. you chew your lip as you scramble to follow him, knowing you at least owe it to him to apologize for what you'd said.

he's sitting in the cockpit, fiddling with the controls as you soon start to engage in liftoff protocols; a thudding jolt as the Crest lifts off sends you stumbling into the chair as you stare, wide-eyed, shocked at Mando's abrupt behavior. he didn't even warn you that he was preparing your next track.

you try; you really do. seven different attempts - yes, you counted them - to get him to speak, casually commenting on the smoothness of the Crest after your last maintenance day, asking him if he remembered the coolant you'd forgotten a few cycles ago, telling him about Grogu catching a flying-Banda and swallowing it whole mid-air; stupid shit.

all you got in response was silence.

a sigh, maybe - his helmet wouldn't turn anywhere near you, and your glare cuts through the glinting on his head as stars race above you. it was just like when you'd first met, agreeing to go with him and work maintenance or grogu-sit when he needed it, and existing in weeks of silent tension, the man surrounded in so many walls that he could be armor-less and still the most impenetrable person in the galaxy.

he was cold. you'd pushed him back into the shell you'd spent months working to chip away.

"Din." you say flatly, crossing your arms. he doesn't respond; not even a huff, or a grunt, or a movement of muscle to indicate he heard the word.

"look, I just- I want to apologize. okay?" you say desperately, shaking your head. but he catches you off guard yet again as he speaks up, voice heavy and more hot than normal; like he's been stewing with his thoughts for far too long.

"-I don't want some random woman. I don't just sleep with anybody because I think they're attractive." his voice moves through the cockpit in defiance and you sit back in your chair, blinking for a moment. oh.

you clear your throat, unsure how to approach what he's said; a sick, twisted part of you scowls at his insinuation that he'd found the woman from the bar attractive; but of course he did. she was. and you're unable, still, to deny the throbbing ache of desire that dully spreads through you at the very dim prospect that you are not just a random woman to him.

"I was out of line. I over-stepped." you try again.

"do you think I'm upset that you teased me back at the cantina?" he clips, taking you off-guard. your brows furrow, tilting your head, "y-yes?" it comes out like a question of your own, in your doubt.

he sighs. the weight of it smashes you back as you furrow your brows; he will not go into another bout of silence again, you won't let him. no.

"what is it, Din?" you ask gently, leaning your elbows onto your knees.

he breathes out, hand twitching by his side. "I just-"

you're not sure what spurs his sudden admission; be it from frustration or a genuine desire to confide in you, his only companion besides a 50-year-old baby.

"I don't have- I don't have much experience." he admits, voice laced with embarrassment. he sounds much more unsure of himself than normal. "because of the Creed- I have lived differently than others."

oh. oh.

you flood with emotion, eyes flying wide. "oh, Din-" you feel like you're on fire in embarrassment, shaking your head in regret, "I'm- I didn't even think about that. I shouldn't have-"

"please," he almost whimpers it, "stop."

you do.

he lets out a shaky sigh, finally turning around in the chair to face you, legs spread slightly, hands on his lap. "it's not like- I don't not want to- I just haven't-I don't know where to start."

you nod, throat dry. his composure, the sweet genuine tilt in his voice; your underwear slicks as you wait for him to continue. the air feels... thick with anticipation.

he's breathing more shallowly, his hands gripping his beskar thighs as he keeps your gaze. "I don't...know how to get what I want from..." he stops, his helmet fully facing you. your words are dead on your tongue as you stare at him; your heart thunders as you beg him to say it.

"from you." he finishes, body still as he awaits your reaction.

heat spreads through your entire body as you stare at him, fire licking your fingertips. he wants- he wants you. he wants you.

you swallow your fears in one sentence, "have you considered... asking?"

your voice has it's desired effect. his chest almost shivers as he lets out a soft breath, hands clenching as you stand from your seat to walk, slowly, towards his chair. you're more than thankful you'd had the thought to change from your hunting clothes; your shorts, breezy and loose, sit barely below the curve of your ass and you don't miss the way Din's helmet moves with the sway of your hips.

his helmet tilts to stare up at you when you set your hands on each side of his arm rests, leaning in close. you can smell his scent as you smile sweetly, "I would say yes, you know." you whisper next to his helmet as he lets out a strangled noise.

it’s a split second before he shakily groans. "I want you." he finally gasps, "I need you."

you let out your own shaky breath as arousal floods your underwear, arousal swirling in your stomach. "I want you too, Din." you press a soft kiss to his forehead, the cool beskar tingling your heated, desiring lips.

his hands remain clenched until you slide yourself onto his lap, settling yourself to straddle him in the pilot's chair, a fantasy you've imagined almost every night since you've met the man. you don't even suggest removing the beskar; he deserves to be comfortable as possible, and you flush when you realize you like the sharp bite of the metal on your bare skin.

your hands explore the long, sturdy planes of his chest and neck, over the ruched material, threads loose under the tips of your fingers, armor cold. you can feel him under your aching heat; he's already semi-hard, his breath falling from his helmet in breathy grunts as you slowly, gently rock against him. "you can touch me, Din."

it's like he's snapped to life; hands fly up to your hips, tugging your chest impossibly close as he mutters into your ear, "fuck, cyare."

it starts slow; your bodies glued to each other, exploring every inch you'd desire to discover before, the blue-electric lights of hyperspace coaxing the two of you into a dreamlike state.

but he gets desperate quick.

he's groaning, straining hard and thick against his flightsuit; as your hand falls to palm him as you rock your clothed clit over the material, you're momentarily concerned that if you aren't warmed up before taking him, he may not fit. "you're so big, Din." you whisper as your lips flutter along the seam of skin exposed between his helmet and cowl. he lets out a moan of your name, one hand pulling you by your back towards him, the other digging into the plush of your ass, sneaking under the fabric of your sleep shorts.

"cyare, please-" he gasps, voice begging, "need to- need to be inside you."

you smile, kissing the hot skin of his pressure point, tongue slinking up as his heart pounds. "there, that's how you ask, Din."

you press another kiss to him, your hands moving to undo his flight suit, pulling his thick cock out; he ruts upwards with a sharp moan, hand digging into your ass so hard it may leave marks.

pre-cum leaks out of him in beads; he's so goddamn hard, whimpering at your touch. you feel your slick dampen your thighs through your underwear, shivering with desire.

you pull your underwear to the side swiftly, rising onto your knees as he stables your hips up above him. his chest sputters, grunting as you start to move your hips, teasing him with your velvety wet cunt.

broken grunts of Mando'a leave his helmet, his fists tightening as his helmet falls back to thud against the back of his pilot's chair. "please, mesh'la, please." he mutters.

you can't wait any longer; soon you're shifting, prodding yourself over his head, gently taking just a bit of him inside you. your gasps are in tandem at the tight, warm stretch; "Din, y'gonna fill me up so well."

he moans at that, hands rising to hold your shoulders, his thick, muscled arms swallowing your frame as he hums, "fu-uck, n-need you mesh'la."

you nod, your breath fogging up his helmet as you desperately shift your hips, preparing to take him into you. and then slowly, you let your legs relax slightly.

"M-Maker-" Din stutters, the weight of his helmet dropping onto your shoulder as you slowly lower yourself; his cock, thick and warm, eases you open gently, the pain of his stretch curling your toes in your boots. “yes,” you hiss, swallowing dryly as your hands, stabilizing themselves on his neck and shoulder, grip tight.

you have to ease yourself down onto him; his hips buck up harshly, as if he can't help himself, his tip sheathing so far into you that it prods at your tender cervix, causing you to yelp in pleasure.

"s-sorry." he mutters, hands shaking as he holds on to you, "can't-f-fuck, it feels so- you feel so warm. y'so tight. ’m not gonna-"

you nod desperately, starting to move yourself, fucking him slow as his hands hold you.

"feels good. you're so good, you're so good for me." you mutter, causing his cock to twitch deep inside you. he moans loud as you mutter praises, his cock so deep; dragging through your walls, hitting an angle which nudges that delicious spot inside you.

a groan of your name has you smiling as you suck a mark dark onto his neck; you start to build up the pace, the simmering arousal soon spurring you to chase the building pleasure.

"yes, yes." you nod, peppering kisses over his throat, nails clawing to expose more of the forbidden, golden skin. you feel him clench below you; his hard, cold thighs tense under the beskar, the muscles of his abdomen flexing under the protection as the lewd noise of your connection echoes through the cockpit.

he's close, you know it.

you want him to cum, you want him to be consumed by it; you want him to consume you, you want to consume him. you tug him as you maintain your pace, legs burning as you chase your own orgasm.

"y'gonna cum, Din?" your voice is laced sultry and aroused, fogging his helmet as he nods, broken moans of ecstasy leaving his helmet. "yes, f-fuck- I-"

"yes, cum, baby." you mutter, his hips soon spurring to thrust up and meet your own movements, the pet name making him shiver. you let out a yell, cracking with pleasure as he holds you immediately to you, his whimpers echoing with your moans.

he finishes with a moan of your name and a slam of his fist hard onto the console next to you; all of the lights in the cockpit shut off at his action but you can barely notice as his orgasm paints your channel, hot and thick. you're out of breath as he rides out his high, ropes of cum filling you.

he twitches inside of you as you stutter to a stop, your wetness causing a stain on his flightsuit below you.

his head lifts from your shoulder, voice wrecked, chest panting. "you didn't- you didn't finish." he sounds confused, embarrassed.

you flush at his statement - he just had sex for the first time, and is disappointed you didn't cum? you let your hands rub soothing circles over the parts of his shoulders that aren't covered with armor.

"n-no, Din- that was 'bout you." you sigh, pressing a gentle kiss to the contoured beskar of his cheek. "we have next time." you ensure him, gasping as his hips still rock up into you gently, his softening cock pushing his cum deeper inside of you; holding it there.

keeping him inside you.

he stiffens, head rising to look at you. "no." he mutters, his hands dragging down your spine, catching on your hips, sliding back up to grope your breasts. "show me how to make you cum now. please, mesh'la."

another rush of arousal floods you, shivers running down your body as you grin with a flush. resisting a loud moan of desire, you nod gently. "okay."

requests open

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heavenlyvision · 6 months

Note

hi lovely !! idk if your requests are open or not (if not feel free to just ignore this🤍)

okay so !! bi-han x fem!reader (or gn!)

maybe bi-han and the reader do not like each other (LIKE at all) and are always bickering/making snarky remarks at each other but maybe the reader sees bi-han hurt and turns soft on him, cleaning his wounds ect while also still making sarcastic and snarky remarks at each other? (maybe smut but if not that’s okay as well 🫶🏻)

My requests are open! And I am very happy to receive requests or any messages in general! I love your idea, I just hope I did it justice <33

Bickering

Wc: 3.7k

Pairing: Bi-Han x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, grinding, dirty talk, mentions of injury, I think that’s it!

The man makes you mad, Bi-Han that is, you can never seem to get along with him long enough. You try and create openings to better your relationship with him, but they always seem to fall flat, and you both end up at each other’s throats. Living at the temple and helping Liu Kang as an advisor of sorts, unfortunately, means you are regularly exposed to Bi-Han and his less than stellar moods. The man is unbearable, and you’ve tried so hard to tolerate him for Liu Kang, but he could put in some effort to respect you. Dear God, the man has the manners of a, well… there is no comparison, he is mannerless and rude.

Some people might disagree with you, but that just means they haven’t actually spoken to him before. Even his own brother Kuai Liang gives you sympathetic looks when Bi-Han starts having a go at you for things, that frankly, you were not even involved in. Today is no different, Liu Kang, Kuai Liang, Tomas, Bi-Han, and yourself are currently in the war room. Considering your next moves regarding a small group of ‘rebels’, they’re just some people throwing a fit and attacking the Lin Kuei. The whole thing is more annoying than it is daunting, Liu Kang has offered support, which means that you have offered support.

Bi-Han rolls his eyes dramatically, “Terrible, your plan is… terrible.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose in response, you’re getting tired of this. This is like the sixth plan he’s shot down; it is the first plan he has called terrible though. Probably because it was your plan.

“Maybe you should think up your own plan then, instead of shooting down all of ours.” You’re sharp with him, usually you wouldn’t snap back so quickly but today you’re tired, hungry, and sick to death of his entitlement.

“I thought you were here to be helpful; I would not have asked if I had known how bad your plan would be.” He doesn’t even look your way as he insults you.

You can’t help the massive eye roll he invokes from deep within you.

He grunts in your direction, “don’t roll your eyes at me, think of something useful and I will be pleased.” Then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “Surprised, but pleased.”

A large groan is pulled out of you in response, “ahhhhhh! oh my god, stop being such a dick and make a plan, and then leave, preferably for ever.”

“I think, you would miss me.” where he got that idea, you have no idea, probably the same place he got that massive ego he drags around with him.

You make a gagging noise, “I am sorry, but you’re fully deluded by your own ego.”

He side eyes you with a knowing glance, what he thinks he knows, you aren’t sure, like you said, the man is deluded.

“Mhm, why don’t you become useful and think of a worthwhile idea, that or go make some tea.” He’s amused, you can tell in his tone, he finds himself hilarious.

“Why don’t you turn in for the day? I think you might be sundowning in your old age.”

“I am not that much older than you!” He’s turned to you fully, getting closer to you. You touched a sore spot, you guess.

“If we’re lying to each other, then sure.” You shrug your shoulders at him.

You’re both engaged in an intense stare down, both pissy with each other, it always ends this way. Both so annoyed with each other you end up glaring and hoping for the other to walk away. Usually, because you’re the bigger person, you will walk away but not this time, you’re standing your ground.

Your idea was good, and he knows it, he’s just pissed he didn’t think of it first. The group is small and they’re camping not far from the Lin Kuei’s base, the only trouble is getting to them before they can realise and either, kill themselves, taking anything they know about their orders and plans with them, or kill the suspected hostages they have. The situation is an upsetting one to be sure but it’s not a particularly difficult mission.

They’re only being so cautious because this group is being especially bold, but they’re stupid. They were spotted days ago, the only thing they have going for them is their audacity. The answer, to you, anyways is obvious, but you’re also not particularly emotionally invested. In fact, right now you’re bored and still hungry.

Liu Kang breaks the stare down up, ever the mediator, “Okay, I think that’s enough from both of you.”

A hand on your shoulder has you turning your head to the side and seeing Kuai Liang standing beside you, “I’m sorry about him.” He nods his head to Bi-Han.

“Do not apologise on behalf of me, I am not sorry,” He huffs out at his brother.

Ignoring Bi-Han you reply directly to Kuai Liang, “I am used to it.” You pat his hand on your shoulder in assurance.

You turn towards Liu Kang, “I trust I am not needed here any further?”

“No, you may go, thank you for your input.” He replies, his eyes also sympathetic.

Walking away you give a thumbs up to the group and when you lock eyes with Bi-Han you stick your tongue out at him, scrunching your face up in his direction, he raises an eyebrow at you in response.

As you continue towards the door you pass Tomas on your way out and he looks at you like you’re a kicked puppy. You give him a pat on the chest and smile on the way out. Bi-Han’s brothers are two of your favourite people so your disdain for Bi-Han himself is kind of hilarious to you, in a ‘the universe is one big joke’ kind of way.

❆˖°

You enjoy your time with Liu Kang, but you aren’t really an advisor; you think it’s more of a glorified assistant kind of a role, but you love it all the same. And though he doesn’t look like it, Liu Kang loves to gossip, to a certain extent anyways. He is adamant that it is not gossip and is just him keeping you informed on topical events occurring within the temple and amongst the people that could be relevant to you, but that is literally what you call gossip.

But his penchant for keeping you informed is how you know Bi-Han didn’t use your plan but spent almost all-day agonising over what he should do next, he was indecisive but had decided he wasn’t using your idea. You get satisfaction from knowing it took him longer to think of a plan solely because he refused to use yours.

“Try not to look so happy about it when they get back, I am sure he does not need you being glib after a mission that could result in casualties.” Liu Kang tells you; he’s basically telling you to have some decorum.

“If it were anyone else, I would not be feeling this deep sense of glibness.” You add, “Plus I am not that big an asshole, I genuinely hope all goes well, I won’t even say anything when he gets back.”

You sincerely don’t plan on saying anything to him about his plan, you want it to all go well. But just knowing that he bent over backwards thinking of a ‘better’ plan made by himself is really vindicating for you, internally.

“It would be better if you both could get along, he will be here more frequently, after I gather my champions of Earth Realm.” He reminds you, it’s not the first time he has brought this up.

“I am aware, and I have really tried but he’s sooo grumpy and mean. You know how much of a delight I usually am! It is literally just him.” You’re whining at him a bit.

There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, he finds you amusing, “Maybe you two clash because of a different… underlying reason.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.” You don’t really know what he is implying but you don’t like it, “we clash because he sucks and is rude.”

He chuckles a bit at your sulking, “Well, if things go well, they will be back this afternoon or evening.”

It’s been a few days since the meeting in the war room and the boys have been gone for two of them. The timeline checks out, assuming all goes well on their end.

You nod your head in reply to Liu Kang, “sooo, lunch?”

“Fine, but I am not making it this time,” is his reply.

“Ughhhhh, fine.” You wanted him to make it, “only if you make the tea.”

“Alright.” He’s shaking his head at you, but you take the small victory.

❆˖°

The evening air is nice, a cool breeze freely flowing as you walk through the temple. You couldn’t sleep, the guys didn’t come back in the afternoon or early evening like you originally suspected they would. And you’ll admit it, you are a little concerned, for all of them, unfortunately. You are aware of how skilled they are but you can’t help but stress a little bit, you’d feel uneasy if Liu Kang was gone and you know he is more than capable.

You pace past the front steps of the temple for what feels like the fiftieth time in the last hour, and then finally, you see them walk up the steps. You feel a sigh of relief come from you at seeing them.

“oh, thank god,” you whisper out.

All three of them walk up to you, both Tomas and Kuai Liang put their hands on either of your shoulders, giving you a small smile. You sag with your relief at seeing them, it feels a little dramatic, but they usually are on time, compulsively so.

“I’m glad you’re all alright.” You tell them.

Bi-Han grunts at you off to the side but you ignore him, “It all went well, but we’re probably going to turn in for the evening.” Tomas informs you.

Nodding your head at the pair of them, “All good, I just wanted to see you guys get back safely.”

Bi-Han has already walked away from the three of you, but he’s oddly not walking towards his quarters.

You’re brought back to the two men in front of you when Kuai Liang says, “The mission was successful, but it wasn’t… smooth, Bi-Han’s in a bad mood over it.”

“Maybe you could talk to him, cheer him up?” Tomas adds.

You make a face at that, “I don’t really think I would be the best person for that.”

Tomas smiles a little, “I don’t know, I think he likes you; I mean he actually talks to you.”

“Yeah, but he’s an ass when he does talk to me.” Is all you can reply with.

They both share a knowing look between the two of them, a secret brother communication happening right in front of you, rude.

Kuai Liang breaks the moment of silence, “We are going to turn in for the night but thank you for worrying, good night.”

“Alright, I’m just glad you came back safely, get some rest.” You smile politely at them, and they both walk off towards their chambers. The interaction was quick but you’re just grateful to see they’re okay.

You consider for a bit if you should follow after Bi-han, an internal argument occurring. Your relationship with him at best is strained, so you aren’t sure it should be you going to talk to him and offering comfort. Well, you suppose if you cannot offer comfort, you can at least give him something to focus his anger at.

Letting out a large sigh, you turn around and follow after where Bi-Han went, as you walk through the temple you realise, he went in the direction of the medical room. There are no doctors here or anything, but they have basic medical kits kept in that room.

The pace of your steps increase to get to the room quicker, if he got injured why wouldn’t he say anything, god he is such a stubborn, loud mouthed, egotistical –

Your internal ranting is cut short as you get to the room and see him sitting in one of the chairs shirtless. Using his mouth to hold a bit of suture, trying to thread the needle with one hand, while simultaneously trying to keep pressure on the wound in his side with his other.

“What do you want?” Venom in his voice that would hit harder if he wasn’t mumbling around a piece of string.

You sigh at him, “Let me help.” Tentatively, you move closer to him.

He grunts at you, “don’t need your help.”

“You’re being stupid, just lemme help stitch you up,” placing your hands in front of him, you’re waiting for him to give you the needle and suture.

He stares at you for a moment, sizing you up before yielding and placing them in your hands. You look around for an extra chair, pulling it in front of him. As you sit down you shuffle the chair close to him, your legs between his spread ones.

It occurs to you now; just how large he is compared to you. Pushing the thought to the side, you put the needle and suture on the small table beside you, and instead begin looking through the first aid kit for something to clean the site with. You find a bit of gauze and rubbing alcohol, it’ll do, you think.

You nod your head in the direction of his wound, signalling him to remove his hand. He does so and you warn him before you begin cleaning it, “this is gonna hurt, quite a bit.”

“Mhmm,” he has a scowl on his face.

“Was just trying to give you a warning.”

“I’ve been stabbed before, I know what to expect,” he’s being short with you.

You’re too tired for his attitude, and as much as he annoys you, you don’t like seeing him physically hurt.

He sucks in a sharp breath at the feeling of the gauze on his skin, but other than that, silence falls over the room as you begin cleaning the area, you’re trying to be as gentle as possible while also attempting to adequately clean it. The whole thing is a lot more intimate than what you’re used to.

Grabbing fresh gauze you place it over the stab wound, “hold this for a second.”

His large hand places itself over top of yours and it makes you feel warm, you pull your hand out gently and move back to the needle and bit of suture.

Your hands shake as you try to thread the string, Bi-Han’s eyes are watching you closely, “this is possibly the most abysmal attempt at threading a needle I have ever witnessed.”

You roll your eyes at him, “shut up, I’m trying to help you here, don’t bite the hand that feeds you and all…” You trail off, placing your hands down for a second before taking a deep breath.

“Mhm,” is all he says.

You shoot back quickly, “You were not doing any better than me,” attempting to thread it again is successful.

You shoot him a spiteful smirk in response to your success and he rolls his eyes in response. With how often he rolls them, you’re surprised his eyes aren’t at the back of his head.

Leaning forward again you ask him to remove his hand, and you begin carefully suturing at the wound. It isn’t serious, and it doesn’t take too many stitches to close up.

It’s all over fairly fast, and it’s helpful that Bi-Han has what seems to be an amazing pain tolerance as he sits stoically for you throughout the whole thing.

Grabbing another piece of gauze and some medical tape, you cover the stitches and look up at him. Both of your faces close to each other as he looks down to you at the same time, you take in a sharp breath, before leaning back and looking away from his eyes.

“All done, it wasn’t that bad but next time, you should just ask someone for help.” You tell him.

“Would’ve been fine.”

You turn back to look at him, gaze scrutinising, “in these situations, usually the person who received help would thank the provider of help.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he shrugs you off.

“Arghhhh, how am I meant to put up with you for, god knows how long, when you can’t even manage a single thank you after getting my help.” You stand up to walk away from him, exasperated with his audacity.

His hand reaches out and grabs your forearm, “thank you, I guess, I mean I would have done better.”

From this position you’re looking down on him, “you’re unbelievable.”

“What? I said thank you!” He looks annoyed but he doesn’t get to be annoyed because you’re annoyed.

“What do you mean ‘what’? you immediately undid the ‘thank you’ by telling me I did a bad job!”

“I did not say you did a bad job.” He states simply.

“I am going insane; you are driving me insane.” You’re shaking your head at him.

The hand on your forearm drags you down, face closer to his now, “you’re the one driving me insane.”

“How??? I have repeatedly tried to reach an olive branch out to you, and I just stitched you up! I can’t believe I worried about your well-being.”

“You worried about me?” He asks.

“I did,” you confirm.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I just did. It’s not like I hate you, I don’t want you to die. I care if you live.”

You’re so annoyed at him, is it such a foreign concept to him? A person wanting him to be okay, uninjured.

His eyes are intense as he looks at you, faces so close now you can feel his breath against yours. You aren’t sure why you do it, it doesn’t even feel like it’s you who does it, but you move forward that extra inch and place you mouth on his. Kissing him.

He doesn’t react straight away, and you pull away, “I– I don’t know why I did that, I’m sorry.” You feel embarrassed.

You go to move away but you don’t get far, both of his hands come up and grab your face, pulling you into a passionate kiss. His lips take your breath away, his thumb pushes into the hinge of your jaw, pulling your mouth open. His tongue is invading your senses, making you dizzy.

He doesn’t pull back from you, instead he starts grabbing at you, pulling you into his lap. You’re sat on top of him now, thighs spread over his. The shiver that rolls over your body can’t be helped when your heat makes contact with his crotch.

As he continues kissing your breath away, with you sitting in his lap, you feel him moan into your mouth. You realise, you’ve absentmindedly started grinding down onto him. He pulls back from you, head dropping to your chest.

His hands grab at your hips, and he slowly starts to drag your clothed cunt against his covered length. A small gasp of pleasure leaves you as he presses you down harsher against himself.

“Mmm, you’re a needy fuckin mess,” he hums into your neck.

His words effect you in a way you aren’t proud of, “shuddup.” Is all you manage at him, nowhere near malicious enough for him to actually shut up.

“You gonna cum in your panties hmmm?” he asks you, teasing you cruelly. “Gonna cum in the lap of the man who drives you insane?”

You shake your head at him, telling him no. He chuckles at your disagreement, full of himself.

Both of your hands reach out and grab onto his shoulders for leverage, his hands on your hips still encouraging you to grind down onto his cock. Small suppressed moans and whimpers leaving your lips.

He bites your neck, and it has a gush of slick leaving your cunt, a gasp pulling from you.

“Bet you’re so fucken wet right now, leaving a wet patch on my pants. Messy little thing.” His dirty talk is making your face hot.

“Bi-Han, I – ngh – need you–”

He cuts you off, “–I know you do,” you groan at him, he knows that isn’t what you were going to say. You were going to tell him to shut up again.

One of his hands leaves your hips and reaches behind you, threading into your hair, pulling you back by it. He takes the opportunity to bite and suck marks into your neck, it has you squirming down onto him.

“mmm I can feel your cunt fluttering on me through your panties,” he noses at your neck, taking in the smell of your skin.

His words are so filthy, you’re going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. You hate how much he’s getting you off.

The hand on your head trails back down your body, reaching its previous placement on your hip. Then both his hands reach around to your ass, he pulls your cheeks apart and it has your pussy spreading on him more.

The feeling overwhelming, you keep rutting down into him, so close to finishing. You look down to his lap, you’ve left a large wet patch on his pants. His hard cock straining harshly against the material of his pants.

Your hole briefly catches on the head of his cock, so close to penetration and so far. He keels over at the feeling, a moan coming from him in response. The moan he let out spurring you on.

“Bet you’re so fucken close, aren’t yah? Go on, cum in your panties.” He lifts his hips slightly to grind up into you.

His words and actions have you cumming, moans coming from your mouth, you bite your lip to keep them quiet. You’re shaking in his lap from your orgasm, it’s the best one you’ve ever had, and he didn’t even fuck you. After shocks thrumming through you as you come down, your panties feel so wet.

He pulls your face back and plants a wet kiss on your mouth, “such a good girl, there’s your fucken thank you.”

❆˖°

A/N: Is it hot in here or is it just me? I would’ve liked to have made the smut longer, but I am running on little to no sleep lol. Either way I hope you enjoy the story and thank you again to anon for your request <33

#subzero smut #bi han smut #subzero x reader #bi han x reader #bi han x you #subzero x you #bi han x reader smut #mk1 smut #subzero x reader smut

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beenbaanbuun · 2 months

Note

Hey Bunny! I hope you’re doing well <3 so I got this thing with that one interview Hongjoong and Mingi did during his Halazia hair phase.. he looked so damn good with the styling and outfit and the ROSARY 😫 I was wondering if you would be open to the idea of Priest!Mingi and assistant reader, Mingi degrading the reader when she confesses that she thinks of a certain someone in an unholy way. MEAAAN dom Mingi, punishing her for the way she looks at him during service and being told of such sinful things by his assistant. anyway! Thank you so much <3

warnings - priest!mingi, sex in church, oral (m!recieving), throat fucking, degredation, mean dom! mingi, oh god i’m going to hell…

so idk if any of you have seen fleabag but hot priest!mingi is not something i knew i needed until now.

like i’m just thinking about the whole confession scene where fleabag ends up on her knees in front of him, and whilst the hot priest has it in him to walk away, i just know mingi does not.

because for all his talk of being a holy man, this man knows deep down that he is nothing but a slut. perhaps he thought becoming a priest would cure him of his sexual cravings, but instead the abstinence just made it all worse. especially when you started working in his place of worship. such a pretty thing willing to do anything he asks for? you’re sent by the devil as a temptation, he’s sure of it.

the way you look at him during service only proves his theory. how you sit there with your lips agape, practically begging for him to shove something between them, and the way you clench your thighs whenever he speaks to the congregation; it all works against him, reverting him back to the depraved man he was before becoming holy.

so when the two of you end up in the confession booth one evening, he can’t help but hold his breath in anticipation. he prays to his god that he has the courage to power through whatever it is you’re going to tell him. he prays for the ability to control himself, and promises to make up for his sins in any way he can. for a moment, he thinks it’s enough, but then you start talking, and just your voice is enough the make his dick jump in his pants. that’s when he knows for certain you were sent by the devil.

“forgive me father for i have sinned,” you mutter, breath bated as you wait for him to respond. this is a bad idea, you tell yourself. getting horny every time mingi steps into a room is bad enough, but telling him about it feels so much dirtier. perhaps you should keep it a secret; take it to the grave. beg for forgiveness at st. peters gate.

“tell me your sins,” mingi responds, voice breathy. it’s enough to send your mind stumbling into that dark place again. you thought church to be a holy place, so why did you feel more at kin with the devil right now.

“i’ve been having… thoughts, father,” you begin, “sinful thoughts. thoughts i shouldn’t be having outside of wedlock.”

mingi sucks in a breath, tipping his head back until it hats the back of his side of the confession booth. the thud makes you jump in place, but no more so than the noise that follows. a low grunt that seems to echo through the booth. images of what he could be doing in there fill your brain, and you desperately try to shun them away.

“and who are you having these thoughts about?” you’re sure that behind his gravelly voice you can hear the sound of a zipper. you cant help but let your mind spiral even further as images of the man, sweaty with cock in hand, fill your brain. you struggle to hold in the whimper that crawls up your throat.

“you, father,” you whisper, feeling nothing but ashamed of your confession, “i have these thoughts about you.”

silence follows, eerie and daunting. you cant blame him for that; it must be a shock to find out his assistant has been thinking about doing unholy things with him. you can’t help but feel immeasurable guilt for thinking about him in that way, and perhaps you were right when you pondered just taking it to the grave. his silence doesn’t help soothe your concerns in the slightest.

but then the curtain before you is ripped open, and mingi stands before you looking like sin itself. his black shirt is wide open to reveal the smooth skin of his chest. his zipper - you knew you’d heard it - is open, making space for his hand to palm at his boxer-clad crotch. you swallow down your drool as you look into his eyes; dark and menacing as he stares into your soul.

“get on the floor,” he spits. you quickly shuffle off of the bench, dropping to your knees before him. you watch as his thumb circles the wet patch on his boxers, a guttural moan exiting his plush lips as he digs his thumb in slightly. it’s a sight to behold, the way he bites into his bottom lip and scrunches his face up in pleasure. you can’t look away.

“fucking slut,” he pants to himself as he hurries to push his trousers and boxers down past his hips. his dick bounces as it’s freed from its material cage, and upon seeing it you moan. long and hard and thick and everything you’ve ever dreamed of it being. you want to crawl forwards to take a closer look, but before you can, mingi takes a step forward.

his cock it eye level now, and you can’t help but study it. the perfect pink mushroom tip that drips pearlescent liquid from its slit. the silken skin that covers the shaft, glistening with sweat as the dim lights from the confessional booth shine down upon it. the thick vein that runs from his sack to the top, throbbing as it begs for your touch.

“father,” you whisper, looking up at his face with wide eyes.

“what is it, slut?” he spits down at you, “tell me what you want.”

you glance to his dick before looking up at him again. he chuckles darkly, “where has that slutty little tongue gone?” he taunts, “you seemed to have no problem telling me about your sinful thoughts a minute ago, yet now you can’t even tell me what you want? perhaps you’re dumber than i gave you credit for.”

you open your mouth to say something, but clamp it shut when you can’t find the words. mingi just tuts at you from where he stands, waiting impatiently for you to say something.

“please, father,” you feel your face heat up at you stumble over your words, “please may i touch you?”

he scoffs.

“touch me?” a hand grabs your chin, fingers digging into your cheeks in a way that makes your lips pucker. there’s bound to be red crescents on your face, left by his fingernails that show no mercy, digging in to the point where it makes you wince, “you think i’d let a whore like you touch me?”

you whine.

“pathetic,” he grunts as he lets you go. you can’t find the courage to move your hands to massage at your aching jaw. you let it hurt as he presses his fingers to your lips, forcing themselves into your mouth to pull down your bottom jaw. when it’s completely slack, he let’s go and steps closer yet again, “you’re going to pay for what you’ve done, little girl. just sit there and take it, and maybe if you please me, we can talk about your forgiveness.”

he waits to see if you’ll close your mouth, but you don’t. you want this.

and with that, he presses and hand to the back of your head and forces his dick into your mouth, pushing it forward until it hits a barrier at the back of your throat. you choke, but he doesn’t pull back. he just lets it sit there, effectively gagging you until there are tears pooling up in the corners of your eyes and drool threatening to cascade down your chin.

his face is stony as he stares you down, watching you struggle for air so prettily. he pulls back briefly, taking a little mercy on you before pushing back in just as hard as the first time. you barely have time to gasp for air before it’s ripped away from you once again.

he pushes in further, feeling your tight throat clench around his cock and he almost cums on the spot. so warm and wet and tight around him that he can’t help but cry out in pleasure as he pulls back once more.

you’re grateful as he lets you take in a few breaths before delving in once again, this time thrusting messily back and forth. you gag every time he hits your uvular, but it doesn’t seem to deter him. it only eggs him on, driving him to go harder and faster with every single thrust.

he’s close, he realises as he feels you try to swallow around him. your face is already a mess with spit and tears, but he can’t help but feel like you’ll look even prettier with his cum painting your face too.

he pulls out completely, thrusting into his fist a couple of times. the dam breaks quicker than he expected, and the white spurts of liquid that erupt from his tip fall perfectly on your face. you close your eyes just in time for some to land on your eyebrow, dripping down to mix with the tears that have yet to stop flowing.

“pretty little slut,” he hums once he’s finished cumming, and his cock begins to soften in his grasp. he chuckles, “go clean your face up, okay? you have five minutes before i come looking; i want a taste of that slutty little hole next.”

#ateez x reader #ateez smut #mingi x reader #mingi smut #ateez hard thoughts #ateez hard hours #mingi hard thoughts #mingi hard hours

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s3thwrit3sstuff · 3 months

Text

❝ you make me feel like I am clean again ❞

yandere!mob leaders x gn!reader | how you met | not proofread

warnings: graphic description of violence, guns, power imbalance (r! is part of the gang but they are a low-ranking member), yandere tendencies, mentions of drug dealings, very brief mention of r! getting felt up by someone in JH's section

masterlist ;

authors note: doing some oc writing feels lowkey daunting but I hope you guys enjoy it, I wasn't exactly sure how to format this aaaa but! I hope it isn't too confusing. I wanted to go more into depth but I suppose this serves as an introductory post to them??? IDK, I've never written this kinda thing before. * here is the better-quality post of the illustration * song on repeat: Love Song by Mariee Sioux

Kim Seo-Yun —

Seo-Yun would be unimpressed the first time she laid her eyes on you. It wouldn't be due to your looks, mannerisms, voice; she's just been hardwired that way.

Wants and needs are hard to convey when you're running one of the most dangerous businesses one could run. Drugs, gambling, skin, weapons — Seo-Yun's a busy woman.

Over time, however, she'll let her gaze linger on you.

Have you always looked so good in that colour? It really does bring out the shine in your eyes, and the suppleness of your lips. Seo-Yun's gaze is intimidating but seeing you squirm is all a part of your charm.

That's right. You're only dressing and acting this way to grab her attention, correct? Why else would she find it so hard to rip her sights from you?

Honestly, she shouldn't be making such frequent trips to the lower ring of her gang. This warehouse was meant to weed out the weakest of her guard dogs. It reeked of sweat and blood and cigarettes and cheap booze. The constant sounds of wrapped knuckles beating down on sandbags and bodies falling on thin mats gave her a headache.

Yet. She stands here on the second floor, gazing down at the sweaty men, a handful of women, and most importantly; you.

Favoritism comes slower than her interests. Seo-Yun will shove her feelings down until it bursts like a fucking volcano. All of a sudden, it's as if she's a hound that's caught the scent of their kill.

"What?" The man before you is wearing an expensive suit, luxury adorning him from the shimmering cuffs to the stitching that holds it together. "Madam Kim is requesting your transfer," he says curtly.

The transfer promotes you from doing grunt work near a polluted harbor to one of Seoul's most expensive penthouses in Gangnam.

It's jarring. She does not give you time to adjust. One moment you're setting down your duffel bag of things and the next you're in the back of a luxury car driving through Seoul's wealthiest district.

The guards (who are double your size and proudly show off their facial scars) push you toward the door of a seamstress. The very air you breathe smells like money.

When you see Seo-Yun, your eyes widen and you kneel to bow.

She muffles her amusement with a slow drag of her cigarette.

"They're very pretty, Madam Seo-Yun," a kindly old lady says from behind her. Her hands were bony and delicate, and the pin cushion she wore around her wrist looked heavy. Everything about her seemed deliberate and put together.

Despite that, despite the glamorous patterns she had on her and the jewelry hanging from her ears; Seo-Yun called for eyes on her with no more than a simple wave of her hand, flicking the ashes away from the cigarette.

"Aren't they? Such a gem."

Seo-Yun orders you to be a part of her security team. Dresses you in custom-made suits to blend in with the rest of the capable men and women. She gives you new weapons and arranges for you to have an apartment near hers. New fake IDs in store, local beat cops turning their gaze away as you smoke in alleyways with an obvious bulk under your jacket.

A gem she called you. And like a gem, she cannot keep her eyes off you.

Stares at you as if you were put on display. Relishes in the way you keep your gaze down, squaring your shoulders, straightening your posture — squirming under her gaze.

"Come inside," you freeze at her words. The other security guards stand stoically in the private entryway of her penthouse and she stands on the threshold of that obscenely large and heavy door.

"Madam?" you squeak out. She narrows her upturned eyes, like a goddess with no mood to be asked twice.

This is a nightly occurrence. It becomes a routine.

She invites you into her home, leaving the door open for you to close on your way in. She sits on the tufted leather sofa, and her grin is expectant.

You kneel. Then, you bring your palms to the floor and crawl towards her. Only stopping when your chin is on her knee and you bring your eyes to meet hers.

"Sweet thing," she'll coo. Her palm is soft and cared for, but there is the slightest bit of callousness here and there. That roughness that comes with holding a gun to someone's head.

The first time she had told you to kneel, you'd been so confused you stood there like a statue. Seo-Yun gives you a minute to let it click, and she tilts her head as you jerkily kneel on her expensive floors.

"Crawl to me."

"Sweet darling," she continues. Your eyes flutter close as she traces your cheekbones with her thumb. "So good for me, so obedient, aren't you?"

How could you not be?

In the weeks you'd been with her, your life took such a drastic turn. Well-fed, well-cared for, and pampered in little but big ways. You were the runt of the litter, a stray, she told you.

She had seen you, she said. She had seen your potential, your drive, your passion.

"I was...I just, I just needed the money, Madam," you sheepishly admit that first night, balancing your chin on her knee.

Who would choose to become the grunt of a dangerous gang? Miniscule soldiers with dreams of dying a movie-worthy death, of brotherly bonds between hardened criminals — Please. You were at the end of your rope, this was the only option before the noose.

"Money is life," Seo-Yun strokes over your cheeks. "You fought to live, climbed through the muddy filth of the pier, and here you are. In my lap."

"I see you, (Y/N)."

"Are you tired?" the shake of your head earns a firm squeeze on your jaw. Your eyes flutter open so she grins sweetly.

"Bathe with me." She lifts your chin and you stand, taking her into your arms as she tugs on the shoulder gun strap you wore, leading you along like a leash. A security guard's job does not include such tasks. You're aware. But how could you say no to the most powerful woman in Seoul?

Your relationship starts off with a clear dynamic. You belong to Seo-Yun, no ifs or buts. No matter how dubious your feelings towards her are, you cannot deny there is such a lovely prospect of being a powerful person's beloved.

Or gem. Or pet. Or...whatever it is Seo-Yun considers you as.

All you know is you are hers and she expects nothing but loyalty and excellence from you. She dresses you in the best, feeds you the best foods, your mattress is hers and therefore it is fit for a Queen.

How spoiled are you, (Y/N)?

So spoiled you do not even realise the pretty cage she's put around you. Don't realise that those pearly white gates are her own teeth as she closes her jaws; too distracted by the gifts, the love, she showers you in.

Exactly how she wants you to be. Pliant, demure, and hers.

So what if your old friends suddenly never contact you again? Or your financial dependence has suddenly been transferred to her? If you never hold a gun in your hands ever again.

"Crawl to me, baby."

And you do. And she grins as she holds your face.

"Good pet."

Kim Jeong-Hyun —

Jeong-Hyun is a peculiar man. Some would argue he's barely a man; others would chime that he's barely human. The sight of the deep scars on his body; the mutilated side of his face. His left ear was chewed off, his left eye cloudy, and a good chunk of his lips ripped off to reveal gums and teeth.

Even if he wasn't a monster; he looked it. That was enough to set people on edge. Seemingly unaware of how he plants the fear of God within people, Jeong-Hyun stares at everyone with a dark gaze that could make the devil shiver.

Unlike his older sister, who hides her emotions until they spill over the edge, he makes his interest known from the beginning.

His good eye, lighter than any brown you've ever seen; a molten hazel that flashes gold in sunlight, devours you as he stands before you.

Although Madam Seo-Yun attends the funerals of her fallen men, she does not linger for the drinking and eating. Jeong-Hyun does.

You'd excused yourself from your circle, the drinks making your body warm enough to endure the cold night air as you light up a cigarette.

The clicking of nails on the brick ground forces you to look at the whimpering dog. Mangy, fur matted, and with its stubby legs like rubber as it paws at your shoe. It was someone's pet, left on the streets. Judging from the overgrown fur, it's been a while since someone's given it any kindness.

Jeong-Hyun had just walked out for a breather (he enjoys spending time with his men, but the noises and the scent of booze could get overwhelming), a bag of meat in hand as he set his sights on feeding the local strays.

But then he sees you crouched by an alleyway, pouring some cheap kibble you bought from a nearby convenience store onto some newspaper. Jeong-Hyun's footsteps are ghostlike, you don't even notice he's there until you feel his breath whisper along your ear and when you spin he's statue-like.

"B — Boss!" He's not the boss — he's just her brother. He still outranked you (by a whole league) so, he doesn't correct you as you bow your head so far down it's between your knees.

He looks silly crouched down in his two-piece suit. You're dressed formally, though the two of you were in different financial brackets. Jeong-Hyun does not speak. The pinkish scar that runs across his neck peeks from the collar of his button-up. It has your toes curling just imagining what had caused it.

He nudges the plastic bag your way, and you cautiously take it from him. To your surprise, he squishes his eyes into crescent moons, and despite his scarred cheek lifting from behind the black surgical mask he wore he looked so...innocent.

The rounded shape of his eyes, the deep crease of his eyelid, and his brows - it all makes him look boyish.

You turn your attention to the strips of expensive beef he had gotten, feeding the poor puppy in silence.

Jeong-Hyun's interest begins with him accompanying your crew as you were tasked to make a show of a traitor. He shoves the blade your way, hilt tilted your way as he connects his gaze with you.

The leader of your crew informs him you are new. He does not even pretend to hear him.

You took the blade, the forged metal heavier than you expected it to be but not impossibly so. It seemed as though it was his favorite, a little longer than a dagger but still small enough to hide under your clothes. Weighing it on your palm, you test the balance of it before gripping it tightly and Jeong-Hyun is entranced by the casual dominance you have over it.

The man before you, on his knees with his cut lip hanging heavily and his eyes so bruised you wonder how he can still see you enough to squeak in fear; he shivers and bows desperately.

"How do you want him, boss?" You glance at him, the grip on the blade strong and confident. He narrows his eyes then closes his eyes, jerking his chin forward.

' However you see fit. '

Jeong-Hyun falls in love with your violence.

Asking for you, always. Giving you food to bring back, giving you new knives and even transferring you to his personal squad of men and women. He'd even invited you into his home. Which, apparently, was not unusual but no one had ever had the pleasure of being able to see the pack of dogs he had.

He starts hanging around you more. His favoritism is hard to mask and it causes you more issues than you'd like to admit.

"You're his little bitch now, huh?" or "His cock tastes good, (Y/N)?"

But who can say no when their boss tells them they want you to follow him around, be his shadow, do nothing more than observe boring meetings and itching for the usual vulgarity of mobsters while you're stood by the wall or behind him?

The madam is not impressed by you. Whenever she speaks to her brother, she will cast a glance filled with nothing more than mild bemusement and disgust.

"Hey, boss," he tilts his head in your direction. You're sat in a barbeque restaurant, and he's watching you intently as you flip the meat, licking his exposed teeth with an almost canine-like attribute.

"...Can I ask you a question?" Jeong-Hyun nods, tearing his eyes away to now look at you. They're almost golden, you think to yourself, the colour of his eyes is so bright.

"Why do you favour me?"

Jeong-Hyung, you come to find out, does not speak. The scar you see peeking from his high collars was apparently a wound that had gone so deep, it took the ability for him to speak comfortably. So Jeong-Hyun signs; "What does that mean?"

"Favour?" You ask and he nods.

"Well, it means, why do you...like me...?"

Jeong-Hyung blinks for a few seconds then tells you to flip the meat. The conversation seemingly ends. That is until you find yourself in his home and he has invited you to his basement.

The dogs bark from behind the doggy gate, a hallway away feeling like a stretch of land as their noises echo. In the basement, you find yourself surrounded by crusted blood and metal. He lifts a dagger and shows it to you. It takes a moment for you to recognize it, it's been weeks since you've held it, but then your brows furrow.

"You kill good. Like me, I like that. I like you," he signs while you hold the dagger. "You like me?" He nods, pulling his black mask away from his face, and grins. It's surreal to see, not exactly grotesque but an unusual sight.

"I like you," he signs.

When his enthusiasm is met with confusion, Jeong-Hyun's face contorts into worry.

He takes the dagger from your hand, places it down, then holds your hands in his. He's tall, towering easily over you as he brings your knuckles to his lips.

He has essentially muted himself. Focusing his strength on keeping your hands hostage as he walks forward until your back meets the smoothed limewash walls of his basement.

"Boss? I'm flattered, but this is a lot to take in....!"

His cloudy eye is in a perpetual squint, healed scars tugging on the skin so it looks almost uncomfortable stretched. They have so much sadness that you feel guilt sprout in you.

'Love me,' they say, 'Love me, love me, lovemelovemelovemelovemelovemeloveme'

Your relationship is dubious. The jeers from your comrades make you feel more flustered than before and Jeong-Hyun is not shy about his affections.

He holds your hands in meetings and traces the shapes of your fingers and joints.

When a snake requires a beheading, Jeong-Hyun takes off your jacket for you and hands you a weapon of his choice. The men who snicker at the sight? Jeong-Hyun is not fond of guns but he so does love it when his sister presses her Beretta to the back of their necks and makes them gasp and sputter.

Madam Seo-Yun may not like you but you matter too much to her little brother for her to allow their insubordinate to make fun of you.

Jeong-Hyun is like a touch-starved puppy. Despite his towering size, he crumbles under your touch, your gaze.

"My brother, he is naive to relationships," Seo-Yun informs you during a lunch meeting. "I noticed, Madam," you shrink under her gaze. How is it she has the same shade of eyes and hers are so, so, so cold?

"But he likes you, favours you I think is the word he used. He has never liked someone before. Not as strongly as this. I suppose I should advise you to take some caution."

"My brother's love comes with a storm of violence. It runs in the family, I'm afraid. Please, don't be frightened by his displays."

You didn't quite understand what she meant.

He'd never been violent to you. You had witnessed him kill before, torture, maim — it was not an unusual sight in your line of work.

You didn't understand until you saw it.

Another funeral, more drinks, more meat. Jeong-Hyun has you beside him, eagerly awaiting your metal chopsticks to place more grilled beef onto his plate.

No one laughs at the sight anymore, they treat you as an extension of Jeong-Hyun which, considering how he monopolies your time, you might as well be. It's rare to see you without him.

But as you got up to wash your hands — someone had spilled their drinks and your hand became sticky — an inebriated man had pressed himself against you.

"You must be a good lay if *hic* Jeong-Hyun-ssi keeps you around, riiight? C'mon, just a quickie, c'mon," "Fuck! Get away from me!"

Jeong-Hyun's hand grabs the back of the man's head, rears it backward, and slams it right into the sink. It shatters, the man yells, people around you scream; but Jeong-Hyun tightens his grip, rears his hand back, and slams him down again.

By the end of that public fiasco, the man's head was obliterated so badly, his face was no longer there. Just shredded skin, muscle, and shattered bone and brain matter.

Madam Seo-Yun's gaze on you is heavy in the car. Jeong-Hyun lumbers in, his hand covered with tissues and you immediately pull the bloody fist to your lap. Approval shines in her eyes as you apply pressure and ask if it hurts.

Well, you couldn't say she didn't warn you now, could you?

#s3thwrit3sstuff #reader insert #gn reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere #yandere oc #yandere imagines #female yandere #male yandere

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kynimdraws · 2 months

Text

GO GET HIM!!

Another part of the Runeterra K'sante/Yone hc verse stuff....I suppose I will have to continue to give them something to be happy for idk

Yone design ref for this verse can be seen in detail here

To see the other previous parts go here (Part 1) - (Part 2) - (Part 3)

The process of acting like a human again was arduous. Before, the azakana had sustained him, made him forgo the usual human necessities like sleeping, eating, taking care of himself between fighting....and more. Not unlike how a child has to learn the ways of the world.

Of course, his body was still not completely...normal. Having a spiritual parasite did leave his mark, as he found out that he still could unbind his soul from his body (initially this was all random and involuntary, but later he found out how to channel it by will). His left eye, while ruined and blind to the material world, could still see things from the spirit realm.

It was also nice that K'sante stayed around to just keep an eye on him, making sure he rested and ate. Keeping him company through bouts of nightmares and emotional outbursts he had after suppressing them for so long to starve off the azakana residing in the old mask.

Disorienting and traumatic as this all was, Yone was grateful for the second chance at life. It also didn't hurt that his friend (or was it more...a companion?....travel partner? He was too afraid to mull over this for long) had stayed with him to help. He felt guilty for feeling this selfish, but he allowed himself to have that.

Of course, even the good things had to end. K'sante had visited all the places he wanted to go, learned a great deal of things, and his home needed him. When K'sante announced that he would leave for the Navori harbor in a week, Yone's world seemed to shatter with the news. Yes, he had known K'sante would eventually go back, but it seemed to be something that would happen far later...not this soon.

K'sante does notice Yone looking down, and ever considerate, he gives him an offer.

"You know, if you want to...you can come with me."

Yone mulls over this, looking at the masks that he had collected over the years as an azakana hunter, including the one that used to curse his face. There was still so many azakana left in the world, and Yone did vow to rid Ionia of them...

...but was this something he had to do? After dedicating his "un-life" to that cause and then getting his humanity back, Yone was not sure. And leaving home.... felt daunting.

"I... don't know."

K'sante is disappointed by the answer, but smiles in understanding. The two spend time together before the departure date, traveling back to Navori to meet Sett and other friends K'sante had made there. K'sante introduces Yone to them, and Yone does find himself enjoying their company (in small doses).

On the day of the departure, Yone does come over to bid K'sante farewell. As K'sante boards the ship headed southward to Bel'zhun...he suddenly is stopped by a voice.

"Wait."

K'sante feels someone tug at his sleeve, and already knows who it is. Smiling, he turns around to see Yone awkwardly trying to avoid looking at K'sante while tightly gripping onto his coat.

".............Before, I hunted through a storm of darkness, but now....will you let me follow you like a wayward gale?"

K'sante is initially confused by Yone's words, but then laughs after he realizes what he is saying. He brings Yone to a tight hug, surprising the other man with the sudden act.

"You can be the deadliest desert storm, and I would happily accept you. Of course!"

For the first time in his life, Yone feels...free. Was this how his brother felt when he forgave him? He too had left Ionia afterwards.

Now, it was his turn to fly.

TO BE CONTINUED...

#yone #k'sante #league of legends #hunter and the mask verse #k'yone #yosante #IM SORRY I GOT A LOT OF PPL ENJOYING THIS SO HERE IT IS....#kyleeart #Hunter and the Mask verse Story

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tojisun · 5 months

Note

giggling kicking my feet twirling my hair screaming into my pillow !!!

so i walked to the food spot wearing his jacket nd he brought me a small bouquet of daisies with these mini flowers n leaves around them !! we ended up getting noodles (he gave me an extra slice of his pork cause i said how good it was :(( !!) and talked for a couple hours before i told him i had to get ready for work soon..

nd omg omg.. he walked me to his bike where not one.. but TWO helmets were locked on and he helped fit it on me (it was a lil loose cause it was another one of his but its ok !!) and helped me onto his bike teehee...

i was lowk so so scared cause it was one of my first times on a bike but i trusted him cause it seemed like he had lots of experience with bikes (i mean who has several helmets, tattoos, muscles for months, and a sports bike without at least a few years biking) so i just clung onto him rlly tightly

AND HE WAS LAUGHING AND HOLDING BOTH MY ARMS WITH ONE HAND WHILE THE OTHER STEERED US...

nd he drove pretty slow cause he knew i was scared :(( i directed him to the building i live at and he waited outside while i got ready for work and then drove me there :(((( ND THEN CALLED ME OVER SO HE COULD ORDER SMTH :(((

"gotta make sure 'm your first customer"

IM GONNA WAZZ MYSELF...

OH MY GOD MY LOVE THATS!!! OHFKSJDOR

(ok so my response got too long wow im sorry)

THE BOUQUET :((( OH MY GOODNESS!!! tiny flowers with little petals? omgomf are they babys breath?? or or forget me nots? WAIT IDK ENOUGH ABOUT FLOWERS TO BE ASKING THIS BUT AWW SWEETHEART THEY SOUND LOVELY

HIM GIVING U THE EXTRA SLICE OF PORK BC U SAID ITS YUMMY IM COMBUSTING THATS SO ADORABLE

ok whew so now that the lunch is outta the way, THE BIKE? THE TWO HELMETS?? I WAS HOLDING MYSELF BACK FROM SAYING THIS BUT YOU TWO MIGHT JUST BE READER X BIKER!SIMON FR MY GODDRD IM SO GIDDY FOR U MY LOVE

i think u all probably got it from my many many posts of biker!simon but the two helmets and being the backpack is always what gets me :(( because not only does he wanna drive u around, but he put effort into making sure ur safe!!! im a puddle rn, petal. literally a melting w the rain ahhhhhhhhhxhshs

HOLDING YOUR HANDS WITH ONE HAND WHILE HE DROVE- oh sweetheart im so choked up im giggling so hard

but yes!! riding a bike first time is quite daunting n im so proud of u for trying but also so happy that u were w someone who was very diligent in making sure ur first ride was going to be safe <333

n then when i thought it wont get any better-

he wanted to be ur first customer AAAAHHHHHHH my goodness what a charming man!!!!

i cant even begin to explain how envisioning this alone got me smilin so wide, my cheeks are strainin or smthn!! i hoped that he will spoil u and pamper u and be silly w u and then he did!!! oh sweetheart if i could, id hug u so tight and spin u around bc im truly, genuinely, so happy for u!!!

im bouncing on my feet rn giggling to myself and i might look like a fool to other ppl but!!! i cant contain the burst of joy yk??

it sounds like u had a blast, petal!! heres to more dates w mr pink leather jacket!!!

teehee take care <333

#pink leather jacket anon #ask #putting my response under the cut bc some might only wanna see the update n thats fine!! i ramble sm qnxjjsjd #the update we truly needed!!#truly what makes me believe that love is real ‼️

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Psychomanteum / Chapter 11

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC (2nd POV)

Chapter 11: Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings

Chapter Summary: The first day in LA is a mixed bag.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 11.8k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, insecurities, mirror, angst, fluff, acting career things idk, video call, awkward/nervous speech patterns, toxic mother/family of origin issues, food/eating/hunger, argument, mentions of: infidelity, addiction, death, and infertility, crying, comfort sex, dirty talk, eating ass, oral sex (both r) face fucking, deep throating, squirting, anal play and sex, impact play, hair pulling, maybe a hint of degradation

Notes: Chapter title from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty. Oooo a new banner, who is she?! I apologize for how long this is, it really got outta hand. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

“Holy shit, Dee,” you breathe, squinting as your eyes adjust from the darkness of the garage to the bright, open home.

Dieter walks ahead of you, tossing his keys and sunglasses on a glass console table, kicking his shoes off onto the gleaming hardwood floor. Each noise seems amplified in the jarring silence.

It smells like lemon pine-sol, and, based on how uncharacteristically spotless everything appears, you guess that he has someone come in and clean while he’s away.

“It’s–I mean, wow–” you stammer, shaking your head as you examine your surroundings.

The vaulted ceiling’s stained teak backbone stretches from one end of the house to the other, rafters extending from the beam like wooden ribs. On one side of you lies a dining room and kitchen, on the other, a living room and patio entrance. Light pours in through the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows like giant frames showcasing the greenery of the patio, all lush with palm fronds and waxy-leaved bushes.

The home’s décor is quintessential Dieter.

Eclectic. Moody. Maximalist.

Jewel- and earth-toned furniture, in all different finishes and fabrics, fill the open floor plan. The white walls are cluttered by art, a hodgepodge of creations. Prints and acrylic paintings and black ink illustrations, including some of Dieter’s originals. Plants are scattered around, next to windows and on tables, thriving in their glazed ceramic pots.

Your fingers twitch, longing to experience every texture this buffet of materials has to offer. You feel yourself getting a little moon-eyed as you marvel at the place he calls home. It’s surreal.

And, if you’re being honest, daunting.

When Dieter spends time with you in your domain, you feel you know him at his core. A loveable, chaotic, free spirit, who busies himself sketching and “taste testing” while you bake. Which mostly just means he eats cookies off the cooling rack when he thinks you’re not looking, but sometimes he draws pictures of you while he does it.

You know him as someone who watches shitty TV and shittier movies with you just so you can make fun of them together, someone who theorizes out-loud about existentialism and Garfield in the same breath, who wraps himself around you when you sleep because, even when he’s dreaming, he wants your skin clinging to his.

You don’t know him as Dieter Bravo, Academy Award Winning Actor.

No.

To you, he’s Dee. The man you fell in love with so haphazardly, it sometimes makes you question your own sanity.

The existence of this other part of his life, with film sets and photoshoots and interviews and stylists and red carpet premieres, all these stringent show pony requirements, so paradoxical to the person you know and love… It makes you uneasy.

Is he different when he’s here?

Is Dieter Bravo, Hollywood Movie Star, the same man as Dee, Bubble Bath Connoisseur?

It’s something you’ve largely been able to ignore.

But, since you’re being honest, you can admit that the disparities between his life and yours make your skin crawl sometimes.

Like right now, when you’re standing here in the entryway of his gorgeous home, whose property value is probably greater than your lifetime’s gross income, holding the handle of your ratty old carry-on suitcase. Your piece of shit suitcase, with its broken zipper, and this big tear in the side.

Which, really, has never bothered you before. It’s a goddamn suitcase. It holds things from point a to point b, and this works just fine.

But Dieter has this ridiculous fucking suitcase with a heavy-duty metallic shell, and 360-degree wheels that glide effortlessly through airports, and a fucking phone charger. A fucking phone charger in a suitcase, seriously?

It’s just so… exactly how you fucking feel standing next to him sometimes.

And, as if to prove your point, when you release the handle of your piece of shit carry-on, it topples over sideways against his space-age phone charger on wheels.

All you can do is sigh. Stare at luggage. Try to ignore the voice that bombards your thoughts, telling you he’s obviously out of your league.

Sneering at you, saying, “Get real, this fucking guy is way too rich to be humoring you.”

Saying, “Louella Rose, once he knows you’re trash, he’ll be gone for good, I can tell you that much.”

“Want me to show you around?” Dieter asks, the low timbre of his voice a butter knife cutting through the thick fog of your thoughts. He steps closer and plants his wide palm on the small of your back.

You turn to him with a smile you know is flaccid, but nod, “Lead the way.”

He studies you for a moment, dark eyes darting around your face, no doubt sensing the apprehension you can’t shake, and proves your suspicion true when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

Your throat tightens and you drop your gaze to the colorful entryway rug beneath your feet, shaking your head as you admit, “I—I don’t know. I’m… kind of freaking out, I think,” your voice cracks, and words start to tumble from your mouth, “I just keep thinking that I don’t belong here, like I’m too fucking poor to be doing this, I mean, to be here, and-and I’m so fucking nervous that I’m gonna fuck this up somehow—”

“Hey, come on,” Dieter coos, one hand settling at your waist, the other brushing against your cheek, “Look at me, Lua.”

You do.

His eyes bore into yours, unblinking and sincere, “It’s gonna be ok. I promise.”

Your brows press together and you swallow hard, then nod.

“We’re gonna do this stupid interview, which you’re gonna fucking nail–”

You look away.

He tilts your chin towards his face again, refusing to let you hide, repeating, “Which you’re gonna fucking nail. You know why?”

You just stare at him, half-expecting him to say because you have to or I won’t love you anymore, but instead, he says, “Because you are fucking amazing, Louella. You are brilliant, and gorgeous, and genuine, and hilarious, and capable of fucking anything. Ok?”

His words, so sure and earnest, soothe your inflamed sense of worthlessness.

A burning sensation works up your throat, then spreads behind your eyes. Hot tears roll down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and croak, “Don’t say things like that to me, it’s too sweet and makes me cry.”

“Listen here, doll,” he cups your face and raises his eyebrows, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, “I’ll compliment you as much as I goddamn please.”

You let out a wet, nasally chuckle and link your hands behind his neck, then sniffle, “Fine. I guess. If you say so.”

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbles. His thumbs work against your damp cheeks as he brings his lips to yours, gentle and soft.

When he pulls back, he clears his throat and turns back to the vacant house, “Alright, sweet cheeks, let’s give you the official tour.”

The term of endearment makes you laugh and shake your head, “Dieter, I swear to god–”

He grabs your hand and tugs you onward, ignoring your feigned protest.

At the tail end of the tour, Dieter swings open the door to his spacious bedroom. You recognize the tall, chartreuse walls and the puffy white linens tucked around his bed.

Of all the rooms in his house, including the art studio set up down the hall, this is the one that feels the most like Dee. It’s a little messy, but in a lived-in way you expect from him. Relatively no-frills. Comfortable. Homey. It smells like him, not like lemon pine-sol.

You gravitate towards a chest of drawers that sits opposite his bed, grinning at a pile of rings, lighters, coins, and crumpled up cash. A big, rectangular mirror mounted on the wall above it catches your attention.

All kinds of paper mementos are stuffed into the mirror’s frame. Your eyes wander along the edge, stopping to study a picture of him, much younger and more angular than he appears now, with a woman whose bright, dimpled smile matches his.

“Is that your mom?” you ask, pointing to it.

“Yeah,” he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your middle, tucking your shoulder under his chin, watching you through the mirror as your eyes leapfrog to each little piece of him.

A ticket stub to a Prince concert at Madison Square Garden in July 2004.

An old polaroid of two dark-haired young boys roller skating.

“Tomás?”

“Mhmm.”

You tilt your head and frown, “Can I ask you something?”

“No,” he deadpans, blinking at you through the mirror.

“Shut up,” you snort, then ask, “Why the fuck are you named Dieter?”

He laughs at this, throwing his head back to boom at the ceiling before returning to your reflected gaze.

“I mean, I’m sorry—It’s just so…”

“White?” he smirks.

“Yes!” you laugh, covering your mouth, “Is that your real name?!”

“No,” he grins, then shrugs, “Well, legally it is. But my parents named me Manuel Diego Soto Flores. Diego is what everyone called me.”

“Stop it, oh my god. You are blowing my fucking mind right now,” you shake your head at the whiplash this information gives you, then pause, “Wait, why did you change it?”

“My agent suggested I use a stage name way back when. Dieter Bravo sounded cool,” he explains, and chuckles a little as he tells you, “I got in an argument with my folks about it when work started picking up, and legally changed it just to piss them off.”

“Wow,” you raise your eyebrows and laugh, “That is… truly petty.”

“That it is,” he sighs, his smile faltering.

“So, what am I supposed to call you? Diego? Dieter?” you smirk, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

“Dee,” he answers, “I like Dee.”

“I can do that.”

You hold his gaze for a few moments, relishing the heat that swells in your chest, then resume your study of his artifacts, squinting to read the faded black ink of a few movie stubs lined up together: Eyes Wide Shut, Donnie Darko, The Departed, Fight Club, Whiplash, Titanic, Toy Story 3.

Next to them, you spot a wrinkled brown paper square, etched with unruly black ink strokes into a blueberry branch. You tilt your head at it, then glance down at the blueberry branch tattooed on your forearm.

Your eyes flick to the reflection of Dieter’s face and find him already staring at you. A question creases your forehead, and he answers with a shrug. Tingles spread across your belly. You smooth your hand against his and leave it there.

“Look, I printed the ones from the elevator,” he chuckles, pointing to a picture of the two of you stuffed into one side of the mirror’s frame, stone-faced, black grease paint and mascara co-mingling with red lipstick, smudged all over your mouths and cheeks. Below that, the shot Dieter took a second later when you both broke, faces lit up with laughter, eyes bent up into barely visible crescents.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, hand flying to your mouth, “Come on, we have way cuter pictures than those.”

“Those are my favorite, though,” he smiles, kisses your cheek, then tucks your shoulder back under his chin.

You shake your head and sigh, grinning as you tell him, “Fuck, I like you.”

“Yeah?” he snorts, “You think so?”

You nod, rubbing your thumb against his.

“I like you, too,” he murmurs.

“Thank god, or this would be really awkward,” you joke as you return your gaze to the relics framing his mirror.

A snapshot of him, a generation younger, all gaunt and baby-faced, leaning against a high top table crowded with half-empty cups, ice cube islands rising from brown mixed drinks. Two young men across the table from him, his arm draped around a young woman’s shoulders. All four of them glow with a boozy shine, wide and carefree smiles stretched across their faces.

“Who’re these people?”

“Old friends from my theater days in New York,” he murmurs, “I don’t talk to them much anymore. There’s Glenn, you might’ve met him.”

He points to a tan guy with a brown pompadour and a very punchable face, who’s wearing a baby blue polo shirt and holding up his middle finger.

You sift through your memory for someone who might have looked like that fifteen or twenty years ago, but come up blank and shake your head, “I don’t think so.”

“He was at Katie’s party that one night, and, uhh… actually, I almost brought him up to your apartment the first time I met you, but he was being an asshole and wouldn’t get out of the car.”

“Not ringing any bells,” you frown, “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve met any of your friends.”

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he mutters, “Well, I would certainly introduce you to them. If I had any.”

You try to think of a contradiction to this statement, racking your brain for an instance of him at least hinting at the existence of a friend.

“What about all the people you party with?”

“Haven't done much of that lately. Besides,” he cocks an eyebrow and curls his lip, “Those aren’t friends. Never were. And, uhh… I did a solid job alienating my real friends a long time ago.”

You look at him through the mirror.

His eyes are all dull and forlorn. Far away.

A sharp pain splits your sternum.

You wriggle around to face him, cupping his cheeks, brushing your thumbs against his patchy beard until he meets your eyes again. Then you tell him, “I’m your friend. Parker’s your friend. You’re not alone anymore, ok?”

His shoulders slump and eyebrows thread together, molding his features into this tender expression that makes your stomach flip and chest ache.

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight. You slide your hands to the back of his head to comb your fingers through his soft curls.

A commotion erupts at the other end of the house. The front door opening and closing. Rustling and conversation. A feminine voice echoes down the hall, calling, “Hello?”

“That must be them,” he murmurs, and starts away, but you pull him back. You wrap your arms around his midsection and bury your face against his t-shirt.

“Wait, just… a little bit longer,” you say, closing your eyes to soak up the warmth from his body. It seeps into your bloodstream and feels like sunshine in your veins. He rests his head against your hair, taking a deep breath in, and you feel his body relax again.

The clack-clack-clack sound of heels against the hardwood floor draws closer, but the two of you just stand there, all wrapped up in the other, until someone crosses the threshold to his room, comes to a stop, and says, “Oh, you are here.”

You part and turn towards the intrusion: A neatly made-up, petite, brunette woman wearing a fitted navy blue pantsuit.

“Darlene,” Dieter greets, crossing the room to envelop her in a one-armed hug. They press a chaste kiss into the other’s cheek. He returns to your side, palm sliding against the small of your back, and introduces you both, “Darlene, Louella, Louella, Darlene.”

You meet her meticulous hazel eyes and smile wide, outstretching your hand to shake hers, “Hi, so nice to meet you.”

She reaches out and accepts the invitation. Both your gazes drop to study the contrast of your hands. Hers are dainty, soft, blemish-free; adorned with shiny, blush pink fingernails smoothed to rounded tips. Yours bear the scars and calluses earned by over a dozen years of baking, your naked, short fingernails hosting jagged edges from nervous biting.

When you step back, heat creeps up the back of your neck. She looks so… unimpressed. Annoyed, even. The barely perceptible twitch of her thin eyebrow cocking, lip curling, eyes flicking around your person like she’s identifying weak spots. Then she plasters on a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and asks, “Do you prefer Louella or Lua?”

“I don’t care,” you chuckle nervously, “Lou, Lua, Louella, whatever you want.”

You glance at Dieter, swallowing hard. He smooths his thumb against your spine.

“I’ll call you Louella,” Darlene decides with a quick nod, then looks from you, to Dieter, “Should we get started? We have a lot of work to do.”

On your way to the dining room, you cross paths with a short, curvy woman whose brown, tightly coiled hair bounces around her round face as she hauls two thick garment bags into a bedroom. She peaks over the luggage and calls, “Oh, hi!” when she spots you.

She spins on the heel of her beige pumps to face you, shifting the bags to one hip, “Louella, right?”

“Yeah,” you smile and wave at her.

“Kelly,” her hot pink lips stretch into a bright smile and she shakes your hand, looking you up and down before diverting her dark eyes to Dieter, “Nice catch, Bravo.”

Dieter smirks at the comment, eyeing her tenuous grip on the bags, “Need some help?”

She just scoffs and raises an eyebrow at him before spinning around and starting down the hallway. Dieter shrugs after her, then ushers you into the dining room, where a frantic looking young man is setting out three labeled mint green to-go boxes on the stained oak table, assigning seats to you, Dieter, and Darlene.

“Lua, this is Lincoln, my PA,” Dieter gestures between the two of you, “Lincoln this is Lua, my girlfriend.”

“Hi,” Lincoln tucks a strand of dark blonde hair behind his ear and leans his tall frame across the table, extending his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Lincoln,” you meet his ocean blue eyes as you take it in yours and shake it. Dieter settles into his assigned dining room chair, leaning back against the burnt orange suede. You take your seat next to him.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Lincoln flashes a quick smile, then glances from Dieter, back to you, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh yeah?” you grin over at Dieter, who’s crossing his ankle over his knee, watching you with amusement, and tell Lincoln, “Good things, I hope.”

“Terrible things,” Dieter teases, letting his head dangle to one side.

“Nothing but the utmost praise,” Lincoln insists.

A nutty aroma wafts up from the box with your name on it. You recognize the briny sharpness and name it, “Oh, fuck, did you get us pad thai?”

“It’s from that place you wanted to try,” Dieter tells you.

You wiggle and clap your hands together, reaching for the box as Darlene approaches the table. Lincoln scurries into the kitchen and makes himself look busy. She sits down with a sense of urgency that makes you fold your hands in your lap and sit up straighter.

“Here’s the plan,” she pushes the takeout box away, leaning over her open notebook, “Interview with DIRT at 4:00 today. Louella, we’ll practice your answers for a bit, then Kelly will help you pick some clothes,” her eyes flick from the notebook, to you, then to Dieter, and she says, “While you’re in town, I think it’ll be good for the two of you to be seen in public together, but I have some ground rules—”

“Jesus Christ, Darlene,” Dieter groans, scrubbing his hands over his face as he leans his elbows onto the table, “What are we, teenagers?”

“Well, Dieter, play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” she blinks at him.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he scoffs.

“It means,” she snips, zeroing in on him, “With all the bullshit you’ve pulled in the past year, you’re not exactly rolling in prospects, are you?”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just clenches his jaw.

She continues, “It’s a goddamn miracle you managed to land that Mike Flannigan job—”

You turn to him and gasp, “You got it?!”

This big, giddy smile spreads across his face when he meets your eyes and nods, “Yeah.”

“But he could lose it if this doesn’t go right,” Darlene advises, pulling your attention to her. She shoots a glare from you to Dieter, “So we’re going to follow my direction, right?”

Your face falls and you clear your throat, then stammer, “Y—yeah, of course.”

Dieter shifts in his seat, pressing his mouth against his clasped hands.

“As I was saying,” Darlene continues, raising an eyebrow as she drops her gaze to the notebook, “You’re both to be on your best behavior while in public. No drugs, no parties, no more than a glass of wine, no public fornication. We’re going full Disney rules of conduct, ok?”

When Darlene blinks up at you, you nod, “No problem.”

“Alright, let’s rehearse some Q&A,” she sighs, turning her attention back to her notebook.

She runs through questions the interviewer might ask, reconstructing your answers from nervous ramblings into practiced statements. It’s like a mental boot camp the way she attacks this, and, honestly, it’s quite impressive.

When Darlene is confident you won’t respond to questions like: “How did you and Dieter meet?” with answers like: “We dropped acid in a closet with my best friend,” the drills cease. Just when you think you’re safe to open that mint green box with your name on it, Darlene stands from the table, “Alright, let’s go see what Kelly has for you.”

You have to physically restrain yourself from pouting as she starts off down the hall.

“Here, quick,” Dieter shoves his open container of pad thai in your hands. You manage to take a few bites before Darlene comes back to see where she lost you.

“Coming, sorry,” you swallow and give it back to him.

Darlene and Kelly decide you’re wearing a balloon-sleeved white silk blouse and a high-waisted, billowing, floral skirt that comes down to your ankles.

Once your makeup and hair are styled, and you're all done up and presentable, not unlike a feral mutt turned show dog, Darlene holds her hand out to you, palm facing the ceiling, and says, “You’ll have to take off your wedding ring.”

“Oh,” you frown at her, then at the simple gold band on your left hand’s ring finger. With a heavy blue sigh, you slide it off your finger, and drop it in her extended hand.

When you emerge from the bedroom, Darlene trailing behind you, Dieter is pacing the length of the living room, dressed in a short-sleeved white button-up and navy blue slacks. He spots you and stops in his tracks. A grin spreads across his face, “Oh wow, look at you.”

“Look at you,” you counter, matching his smile as you look him up and down.

He wipes his hands on his pants, then strides over to you and kisses you. His lips are eager when they meet yours. You link your hands at the nape of his neck and arch your back into him, losing yourself momentarily. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours and murmurs, “You look like… a sexy kindergarten teacher. I like it.”

You laugh and shake your head, “Oh yeah, this is doing it for you?”

“Fuck yeah it is,” he rumbles, then grips your waist and kisses you again.

“Alright, it’s almost time,” Darlene prods impatiently from a few feet away, “Where’s your laptop?”

Dieter mutters something under his breath, then steps back from your embrace and tells her, “I’ll go get it.”

As he goes off down the hall, you plop down on the overstuffed couch. Its deep, rich brown leather feels buttery soft against the small sections of your exposed skin. You cross your legs, smoothing the soft fabric of your skirt over your knees, “Is it a video call?”

Darlene takes a cursory glance in the direction Dieter went, then sits down next to you, her words hushed and serious as they flee her lips, “Louella, his career is teetering on the edge of a cliff right now. One more blow could send the whole thing crashing down. Do you understand how important it is that this goes well?”

An icy rush of panic floods your veins. You meet her hazel eyes and nod.

“Good,” she says, searching your face, “Don’t fuck it up.”

Lincoln and Kelly leave for the day once everything is set up. Darlene stages you and Dieter hip-to-hip in the middle of his couch, then starts pacing behind the laptop, occupying a strip of the living room’s black- and white-striped rug between the glass top coffee table and a black brick-faced wood fireplace.

Pixelated face pops up on Dieter’s laptop screen. You can make out David Alterman’s egg-shaped bald head and thick-rimmed glasses. He says, “Hello hello, how are we doing today?”

“Pleasure to see you,” Dieter gives a nod and drapes his arm over your shoulders. You flash a smile to the computer and wave.

David continues, “I just want to start by saying thank you for meeting with me today. On the phone earlier, Darlene said that there were some things you wanted to discuss regarding your new friend.”

“Girlfriend,” Dieter corrects, glances at you, then back at the screen, “There was an article by your, uhh… publication speculating who she is. We wanted to go on record and introduce her, get it all out in the open.”

“Fantastic. Well, the floor is yours.”

Dieter clears his throat and squeezes your shoulder.

“Oh, ok—um, hi, my name is Louella,” your voice comes out too loud, and your heart starts pumping heat through your body, up your neck, across your face. You wriggle in your seat and explain, “Sorry, I’m really nervous, I’ve never done anything like this before.”

David chuckles, “That’s ok, dear. Why don’t you start by telling me how the two of you met?”

Your eyes flick to Darlene in the background, following her moving form. She gives you a nod of encouragement. You take a deep breath.

“We met at Katie’s party in February. My best friend, Parker, convinced me to go, and, yeah, I ended up meeting Dee there,” a big smile stretches across your face as you explain, “I remember meeting him, and I felt this connection to him like,” you snap your fingers, “right away. It was fucking bananas—er, sorry, regular bananas. But. It was like I had known him my whole life or something, you know? We—me, Parker, and Dee—spent the night together,” at this, you see David’s bushy brown eyebrows perk up, and your cheeks start burning, “N-not like that, like sexual or anything, we just talked and joked around. Instant friends. It was so much fun. And, you know, it’s funny, because I didn’t even know he was an actor—”

“You didn’t?” David frowns.

“No,” you chuckle, “The next morning when we were all getting breakfast there was this guy taking pictures of us eating pancakes, which I thought was fu—um, weird, but then Dee and Parker explained… Well, y’know. Paparazzi and all that.”

“Is that when you started dating?”

“No,” you shake your head, glancing down to your hands, “We were just friends for a few months before that started. My, um… my husband died about a year ago in a car accident, so I was… not in a hurry to start any kind of romantic relationship.”

Your thumb rolls along the seam of your finger that’s usually covered by your wedding band.

“And yet, here we are. What changed?”

“I fell in love with him,” you explain, flicking your gaze from Dieter, who squeezes your shoulder, then straight into the camera, “You know when you meet someone and it’s like… they vibrate on the same frequency as you or whatever? Like they were made to be in your life? It was like that. I don’t know, it was fucking crazy. Shit, sorry for swearing—”

“It’s fine,” David says, “I’ll edit it out.”

You release a relieved sigh, “Ok. Well, anyway, I wasn’t—I mean, neither of us were expecting this to happen. But it did. So I took a chance on him, on us, and… yeah. I’m so glad I did.”

“That’s great,” David smiles at the camera, then looks down at his notes, “So you said the two of you met at Katie’s party—Is that Katie Wainwright?”

“Yes,” you answer. It takes all your energy to remain neutral. To keep your body from twitching in discomfort at the mention of her.

“Are the two of you friends? Do you run in those circles?”

“Oh, no,” you snort and shake your head, “Parker is a drag performer, under the stage name Jackie Lantern, and knows quite a few theater folks in New York. It’s all him. I was just tagging along.”

“I see. And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a baker.”

“Pastry artist,” Dieter interjects, leaning forward, “She makes some of the best goddamn pastries I’ve ever had in my life.”

You beam at this. He gives you an encouraging little wink that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Oh, you have a bakery?”

“No,” you say with a little too much haste, then stammer, “Well, not really. It’s not a brick and mortar store or anything. I run it out of my apartment. But, I’d love to—you know, someday, open a bakery.”

“Sounds like a good investment for your boyfriend to make,” David hints.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” you clear your throat and shake your head, “I want to do it myself.”

“Independent,” David observes, then looks down to his notes, “Dieter has had a lot of big changes in his personal life this past year as well, with his divorce to Anika, and the scandals surrounding it. Do you worry that those patterns are bound to repeat themselves?”

Dieter’s body tenses beside you.

You furrow your brow and frown slightly, then glance up to Darlene, whose stare can only be described as a warning.

Downshifting your face from confusion to thoughtfulness, you answer, “I think… We both have pasts that present challenges in our relationship. It’s not exactly easy-breezy all the time, but that’s the thing with love, right? You take the person, demons and all, and choose to love them anyway?”

David jots down some notes. Your guts twist when you recognize the opportunity to do what you came here to do.

“And, you know, speaking of which, one of the things I wanted to bring up during this interview is that I—um, I have a criminal record,” you swallow hard and turn to look at Dieter.

He takes his arm from your shoulder and closes his hands into fists, thumbs pointed upward as he presses them together and draws a circle with them.

Together.

Warmth washes over you and you smile at him. He slides his palm against yours and interlaces his fingers with yours.

“Oh?”

You turn back to the laptop and sigh, “Yeah. I was arrested in 2018 on drug trafficking charges. I was convicted of a felony—and, you know, I didn’t have to serve any hard time or anything, just probation, thank fucking god, and I’ve changed a lot since then, but it’s still… still a factor,” you drop your gaze to your lap and shrug, “And, of course, the dead husband thing is a considerable amount of baggage. We live across the country from each other. There’s—there’s a lot that’s difficult about this. But I still think that what we have together is so fucking worth it.”

“It is,” Dieter confirms, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Thank you for being so open about this, Louella. This must be hard for you to do,” David says in a monotone voice, not looking up from his note taking.

“You have no idea,” you release a big, elated sigh, “But, like mentioned Dieter earlier, we don’t want people to think we’re trying to hide any of this, because we’re not. We’re just trying to move forward together.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” David says mildly, looks down to his notes, then squints up at the computer, clicking around as he tells you, “Now, after DIRT published the article questioning your identity, we received a call. I’m going to play that for you now…”

You glance from Dieter, to Darlene. Their confused expressions match yours.

“My name is Hannah—”

Your stomach drops to the floor. You whisper, “Fuck.”

“—I hear you’re trying to figure out who this woman is with Dieter Bravo. Well, I can tell you, that’s my daughter. Her name is Louella Rose Friedman. Now I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing with this man, but I do not approve. I mean, really now, her husband died less than a year ago!”

Static tingles in your ligaments and fills your lungs. Your head shakes back and forth in protest, but her shrill voice continues to project across the room, scraping against your eardrums.

Dieter releases your hand and leans forward, trying to speak over the recording, warning, “Ok, David, that’s enough—”

“And this man? Dieter Bravo? Just like him from what I can tell. And I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but—”

Everything moves far away in an instant as your mind disconnects from your body. A high-pitched ringing noise dulls the noises around you.

From far away, your mom says, “He had a problem with drugs, you know, big problem, had other women, too.”

“Stop,” Dieter grinds out over your mother’s recorded voice.

“Lost his goddamn mind, tried to kill them both—”

Darlene scrambles over to the laptop and turns it towards her, “David, this is Darlene—”

“I just don’t understand what that girl thinks she’s doing getting involved with someone like this again, especially so soon?”

“No, nope,” Dieter stands, then booms, “This ends right FUCKING now!”

The sudden snap of him slamming the laptop shut and the dead silence that follows jolts you like a cattle-prod.

You flee the living room, down the hallway, into Dieter’s bedroom, then dial her number.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Louella Rose, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” your mother’s heavy midwestern accent pierces your eardrum.

“Are you fucking kidding me, mom? What do I think I’m doing? What the fuck are you doing?!” your teeth grit and and hiss, “Calling a fucking tabloid, really?”

“I only wanted them to know the truth—”

“That is fucking bullshit and you know it,” you growl, crossing an arm over your belly, pacing the floor, “You wanted fucking attention. Well, you’ve got it, congratu-fucking-lations!”

“I’m just looking out for your best interest. That man is bad news, Louella.“

“How the FUCK would you know?!”

“I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?”

You clench your jaw and shake your head.

“I’m sorry for caring—”

“You don’t fucking care! You have never fucking cared! If you cared, you would have talked to me, not a fucking tabloid. That shit you told them—” your voice cracks, but you swallow the lump in your throat and continue, “Mom, that’s not your story to tell. It’s mine.”

An exasperated sigh crackles in your ear, then she says, “You shouldn’t get tangled up in his world, Louella—”

“What I do, who I date, is none of your fucking business. It’s not your decision. I am a grown ass woman.”

“You might be a grown woman, but you’re still my baby girl, and I don’t want you to wind up dead this time,” she clicks her tongue against her teeth, “I’d say you’ll understand someday when you have your own kids, but that’s just another thing Ethan ruined, isn’t it?”

Your entire field of vision floods with red.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“When I hang up the phone, do not contact me ever again. You are fucking dead to me. Do you understand?”

“Oh, come on, Louella, don’t be dram—”

You end the call.

Dieter hovers a few feet from his open bedroom door. His nerves tingle with anticipation. Hushed sobs call out to him and grip his heart.

How long does he wait before going in to comfort you? Would you rather have time alone?

Part of him feels terrible for eavesdropping. Well, eavesdropping might not be the right word, considering how your heated words reverberated from one end of his home to the other effortlessly. It’s not his fault the goddamn place is like a resonance chamber.

Dieter hears Darlene in the living room chewing someone out over the phone. The words “so fucking unprofessional” echo down the hall, filled with venom. She’s in full tirade mode. Out for blood.

It gives him a smug sense of satisfaction hearing her wield this rage towards someone else.

If he knows anything about Darlene, it’s that this will take a while. She won’t stop until she’s had her fill, until her belly is swollen and ripe with vindication. Then she’ll lap the sticky blood from her hands, smoke a cigarette, and say, “Here’s what’s next.”

He raps a knuckle against the doorframe and asks, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

The word is soggy and muffled. He enters the room, closing the door behind him, and finds you sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, face buried in your hands. You don’t look up at him.

He crawls onto the bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead against the nape of your neck. Warm notes of vanilla and macadamia nuts waft off your hair. You feel so rigid under his touch.

“Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs, tugging you closer.

“Did I fuck it all up?”

Your voice comes out in a squeak, like you squeezed the words from your throat. Wet sobs bubble up your throat and shake your shoulders.

“No,” Dieter frowns, “Do you really think that?”

You shrug and release a shattered breath.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he assures you, “Hey, listen to me. You were fucking amazing.”

“But—”

“No, no buts. You were perfect. And—and brave, so fucking brave,” he nuzzles into that perfect space between your shoulder and neck and says, “I’m so proud of you, Louella.”

“Really?” you sniffle and wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your shirt, smearing black makeup onto the luxurious white silk.

“Holy shit, yes,” he chuckles, pulling you closer, relishing the way your hunched up muscles seem to slacken, “Before the bullshit that rat fuck pulled, you were perfection. Killed it, I swear to god, doll. And—and none of that last part was your fault. David shouldn’t have sprang that on us, and your mom,” he scoffs and shakes his head, gnashing his jaw back and forth as he tries to choose his words carefully, then finally says, “I’m sorry, but that was fucking despicable. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” you sniffle.

“No, I definitely deserved that,” he mutters, glancing up to the mirror, meeting his own eyes only for a moment before diverting his gaze.

Your hand slides over his and you move your thumb in gentle strokes against his skin, “She’s the fucking worst, Dee.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then inquires, “Was that her on the phone?”

“Yeah,” you answer, and your voice comes out all quivering and squeaky, “I, um… I told her to never talk to me again.”

“I heard,” he confesses.

“Oh,” you breathe.

His pulse jumps and he stammers, “I—I wasn’t trying to or anything, I swear, the noise just carries—”

“I know,” you squeeze his hand, “It’s ok.”

Your crying wanes in intensity, but the air around you is still dense and stormy. Dieter kisses your shoulder and asks, “What can I do to help you right now, baby?”

You ponder this for a long moment. When your response comes, it jolts his insides. Sucks the air from his lungs.

“Fuck me.”

He’s not sure he heard you right, and shakes his head, “Wait, what?”

Then you reach back and run your fingers through his hair. Unravel against his chest. Let your head roll back on his shoulder.

Dieter cranes his neck to search your face. It’s all tear-drenched, your makeup smeared, eyes puffy and red. He reaches up and squee-gees the mess with his thumb, wiping the excess onto his white comforter as you quietly tell him, “I need to get out of my head. I want—I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want it to hurt. Use me. Please.”

His insides coil and twitch. Your lips part as you scrape your nail along his jawline, beckoning him closer.

He smooths his palms along your torso, drinking in the heat of your body through your silk shirt. Your mouth draws him in closer: a bright flame, and he’s just a moth.

That’s how it is with you, Lua, you have to know that by now. He’s just a bug, and you’re this all-consuming fire that could burn him alive and he’d say thank you, my love, thank you for your light.

When your lips meet, his vocal chords crackle. Your mouth, plush and pliable, so delicate, he almost feels bad for the force he uses in response.

Almost.

You have to understand how difficult it is for him to restrain himself with you. How the tether between his humanity and deprivation pulls taut when you writhe beneath his touch.

What you’re asking, to make it hurt, use me, please… it electrifies him. Calls to the part of him that bucks against the restraints. Is that what you really want? For him to unchain that beast?

His teeth catch your lip and you gasp, but you don’t stop kissing him. In fact, you ball his shirt in your fist and kiss him harder.

You fucking love it.

He palms your breast and tastes the sweet whimper on your breath when he grips your flesh. Digs his fingers in, squeezes harder. You moan down his throat. Arch your back. Roll your tongue along his, soft and wet and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growls through grit teeth. Grabs your jaw and licks the gasp from your mouth. You grind back against his cock and an intoxicating rush of heat rolls through his body, clinging to his bones, sinking into the folds of his brain, tinging his vision with this thick scarlet fog that makes his heart pound in his chest.

Dieter buries his fist in your hair and sits up on his knees, ushering you to do the same. His lips hover at the shell of your ear and he murmurs, “Is this how you want it? Want it fucking rough?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and he slides a hand to your neck, spreading the webbing between his thumb and index finger on your esophagus.

“I wanna pull up your pretty little skirt, and bend you over—wanna play with that tight little asshole—”

You let out this throaty moan that vibrates against his palm. It makes his cock jump.

“Would you like that?” he rumbles. Clamps down on your earlobe. Grinds the flab between his teeth.

“Oh my fucking god, Dieter, please,” you whine, hips rolling against him, urging him to make good on his word.

He shoves your face into the mattress and you just prop your ass up for him, pushing back as he rucks your skirt up to your waist. His hands slide up the soft, warm flesh of your thighs, feeling the weight of your ass in his palms.

You arch your back, presenting yourself to him, whimpering for attention, silk underwear all damp with want, clinging to your cunt.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasps, hooking a fingertip around the wet patch of fabric, dragging his knuckle through your arousal, “You fucking love this, don’t you?”

You let out a throaty, delirious laugh that quickly morphs into a moan when he rubs the knuckle against your clit, then slaps your ass with a sharp smack.

“Fuck yes,” you gasp. Your hips roll against his touch, seeking stimulation. But he doesn’t want you to have it yet. Not like that.

He pulls away, and you whine, going to get up on your hands in protest, but he closes a fist around your hair and pushes you back down, grinding out, “Don’t you fucking move.”

Another airy, depraved laugh.

Dieter grips your hair tighter, explaining in a whisper as he tugs your underwear down your legs, “You’re gonna stay right here, ass in the air like a bitch in heat, and let me do whatever the fuck I want to you. How’s that sound, love? Hmm?”

“Please,” you breathe. He hears the wet gulp of your throat. The hair between his fingers pulls taut when you nod.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, releasing your hair, tossing the underwear from around your ankles across the bed.

He slides his palms over your ass cheeks. Parts them just long enough to gather a pool of spit on his tongue and let it land on your asshole with a wet splat. Rolls his thumb through the spit, smearing it around, making you gasp, “Fuck, that’s good—”

His cock twitches. Electricity writhes around his insides. He licks his lips, then purrs, “Yeah? It feels good when I touch your asshole, hmm? You fucking like that, princess?”

“Yes—”

Dieter spreads you apart, brings himself closer, throat rumbling at the scent of your heat. At the way your swollen, needy cunt is just fucking dripping, coated in a shiny layer of your slick.

Fucking beautiful.

He drags his tongue through the arousal pooling at your entrance with a depraved groan.

You unleash a moan and try to wriggle around on his tongue, still trying to exert control, still not letting go.

He raises a hand and lowers it on your ass cheek with a smack, talking at your cunt as he holds your hips steady, “Stop trying to run this, doll, let me fucking use you like you need me to.”

The response that comes is a whimper, but your muscles stop working under his grip.

“Good, that’s it, baby,” he coos, then returns to your cunt, licking along all the soft ridges and valleys of you, savoring your nectar gathering slick on his tastebuds.

“Oh my fucking god,” you croak, but you don’t rock against his tongue. Doing just as he asked. Heat surges through him, all that pride commingling with lust and love and need.

He licks up your middle, painting you with short, broad strokes, all the way up to your tight, puckered asshole. Saliva pools as he laps away, rubbing back and forth, in a circle, flicking his tongue against you in wet little slaps.

All the while, you’re whimpering and moaning, legs trembling, sweat coating your hot skin, damp against his palms.

He brings the tip of his index finger to the center of your asshole, wriggling and applying pressure until the tight ring gives and allows him entrance. Your choked moan fills his ears and he moves slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the sensation.

One knuckle disappears, then another, and when buried as deep as he can go, he ruts it in and out, the hot pool of spit lubricating his movements.

You start to slacken, your sharp little gasps for air drawing out longer, surrendering to pleasure, whimpering and nodding, eyes fluttering.

Dieter pauses and wiggles another thick digit against your tight hole, panting, “Fuck, you’re doing so good, baby. Fucking amazing. That’s it, baby, just relax for me—”

It slides past the barrier and he moans in unison with you, burying his fingers again and again, spitting thick, gooey wads of saliva where he fuses with you, making his movements easier, more fluid, while the hot, smooth inside of you grips around his fingers.

“Fuck me,” you beg, “Please—please fuck my ass.”

“Take your clothes off for me, baby,” he sits up straight and begins to unbutton his shirt. You roll over onto your back and start to strip down while he throws the shirt on the floor, then lays back and takes off his pants.

He reaches into drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a bottle of lube, then squirts a dollop of it into his hand and glances up at you. You're laying on your back, propped up on your elbows, lust-blown eyes glued to his cock. When he spreads the slick along his length, your pink tongue rolls across your lips, stoking the hot coals in his core.

Dieter crawls across the bed to you, murmuring, “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

Your gaze locks onto his as your jaw drops open. He moves up your body and straddles your chest, holding his throbbing, aching cock out to you, “Wanna fuck that pretty face of yours, is that ok with you?”

You nod, threading your brows together, batting your lashes, eyes all half-lidded and hungry, and purr, “Use me like a fuck doll.”

The request makes his cock pulse in his fist. You curl your tongue against a bead of pre-cum hanging off the tip of him and wiggle it around. His head falls back when the delicate touch floods his body with pleasure and he groans, “Holy fucking sh—”

The words evaporate from his throat when your lips pull taught around his girth, the wet heat of your mouth engulfing him. His lubed-up hand falls to the wayside and he snaps his gaze back to yours. You hold eye contact and move at a slow, steady rhythm, taking more and more of him with each renewed bob.

Dieter moans at the sight of you, lips all shiny and stretched out around him, eyelids fluttering. He brushes the sweat-dampened hair from your forehead, gathering what he can reach in his fist. Tightens his grip. Pushes his hips forward.

When he breaches your throat, you gag. A hot rush of spit pours from your mouth. Twitching muscles squeeze around him, protesting the intrusion. A wave of ecstasy rushes up his spine and pulls a moan from his stomach.

“Are you ok?” he rasps, meeting your watery eyes.

You pull off of him, panting, strings of saliva hanging between your reddened lips and his glistening cock, and nod, “Don’t fucking stop,” before taking him in your mouth again.

So he thrusts forward again, carefully, every muscle in his body tensing with restraint. Your palms slide up his thighs, around to his backside, where you dig the tips of your fingers into his skin, urging him forward, and he knows now that you fucking meant it: Use me like a fuck doll.

He nods with understanding, “You want more, hmm?”

The hum of approval from your throat ripples across his body and makes him groan. You bat your lashes up at him, eyes creased like you’re smiling but your mouth is all crammed full of his cock so it’s hard to be sure, but he can tell you’re just fucking loving this shit. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s almost more than he can handle.

“Want me to fuck that pretty fucking face?” he growls, closing his fist around your hair tighter, rolling his hips, dragging his cock in and out of your mouth.

You moan and it makes him moan, the vibration of your throat writhing beneath his skin.

He adjusts his angle, releasing your hair to grab both sides of your head and plunge deeper, down past the back of your mouth, letting out a sharp groan as the firm ridges slide tight around him. His hips work forward in a quick, short burst of wet thrusts that light up every nerve in his body, then he pulls from your mouth. While you gasp for breath, he grips the base of his cock with one hand while the other grabs your spit-covered chin, “Is that what you fucking want? Fuck your face just like that?”

“Fuck yes, just like that,” you choke out, voice all gritted and airy.

“You pinch me when you need to breathe, ok?” he instructs, searching your flushed, messy face, “Pinch me right now so I know.”

This big smile spreads across your swollen lips and you squeeze a chunk of his ass between your fingers, “Like this?”

“That’s it, baby, do that and I’ll let you come up for air,” he nods, “Now stick out your tongue.”

Your tongue stretches down to your chin, and he slaps his cock against it with a smack-smack-smack before sliding it back into the hot cavern of your mouth. He cradles your skull in his palms and thrusts forward, cramming himself down your throat. Your vocal chords buzz against him, and your mouth emits this sick, wet glug-glug-glug that sets him on fucking fire. You pinch him and he pulls out, both of you gasping and moaning.

“So fucking good, fuck,” he rasps, waiting a moment for your breathing to be less desperate, then asks, “Ready?”

You hum a little mhmm and open your mouth, welcoming him back to fuck your throat. He can barely fucking stand how hot you look with your face all shiny with sweat and tears and spit, how your eyelids flutter then snap open to meet his gaze, how your body wiggles around beneath him, hips bucking against nothing, thighs rubbing together.

If he didn’t have you pinned down like this, you’d be touching yourself, he just fucking knows it.

The ecstasy tingling at the base of his spine starts to spread and you pinch him just before he loses control. He pulls out, but doesn’t dare grab himself this time, for fear that any stimulation will push him over the edge.

He gets on his hands and knees and leans down to press his lips to yours. You throw your arms around his neck and arch your back into the kiss, pulling him closer, rolling your tongue against his as soft whimpers flutter from your mouth. One of his hands trails down your body, between your legs, and he groans at how fucking wet you are.

You gasp against his lips, throwing your head back as he plays with your clit, working you at a rapid rhythm that makes your face twist and flush, nodding in approval, quick little gasps and squeaks escaping your throat.

He grins when he realizes how close you are. So fucking worked up from sucking him off, already coiling up, ready to burst.

“That’s it, baby,” he husks, kisses you, then presses his sweaty forehead to yours, “That’s it, let me see you fucking cum, baby.”

“Fuck fuck fuck, Dee, don’t stop—fuck—”

Your words disappear with a sharp inhale, muscles tensing up, hips arching against his hand. He continues to move against you, fast and steady and firm, until you find your voice and release a choked sob. You collapse into yourself, body shaking violently, legs clamping shut, gasping for air.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe, and your body starts to slacken, but jumps like a live wire at his slowing touch.

Dieter slides down your crease, through your arousal, propping himself on one arm to watch how your cum clings to his fingers in thick, heavy strands as he draws his hand away.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he murmurs, licks you from his fingers, then drags them along your warm, gooey seam again, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyebrows press together and lips part with a whimper, but you don’t appear adverse to the suggestion. In fact, you bring a hand to your chest. Cup your breast. Pinch your nipple and gasp.

His body surges hot with want. He grazes his nose against your face, rumbling into your ear, “How’d you put it? Like a fuck doll?”

Your throat lets out a little whine and your lips pout out into an O as he sinks two thick fingers into your cunt. You prop yourself up and watch him slide in and out, whimpering and nodding, “Fuck that’s so good, Dee—oh my god, yes—”

The hunger roiling at his core grows. He adds another finger, stretching you wider, and you release a choked moan.

“Is this what you want, Lua? Want me to fuck you like a little slut, hmm?” he pants, shifting himself to hover above you, pumping his arm, cramming his fingers into your tight, wet heat over and over again.

“Yes yes yes yes yes,” you babble, and start moving your hips against him, “Do that thing—”

Dieter smirks, knowing exactly what thing you’re referring to, and pulls his hand up towards the ceiling, rubbing the pads of his fingers hard against your g-spot, “That?”

“Fuuuuuuck yes, baby, just like that,” you moan, “That’s so good, baby, such a good fucking boy, fuck me so good—”

He lets out a groan and wiggles his fingers faster, “Yeah? You like when I make you squirt all over the place? Wanna soak my fucking bedsheets?”

Your response is a strangled noise, but you nod your head frantically, and your limbs start to tremble. And, fuck, the sight of you all shaking and whining, skin slick with sweat, makeup running down your pretty, flushed, contorted face, it’s enough to send his insides fluttering, barreling towards oblivion once again.

Dieter has to close his eyes, swallowing hard as he tries to reign himself in, forcing himself to fill his mind with mundane thoughts about what to eat for supper, how this disaster of an interview will get resolved, whether or not he’ll wake up early to attempt making breakfast for you, all while trying to ignore the liquid hot squeeze of your pussy around his wiggling fingers.

When he feels he finally has a grip on his pleasure, he snaps his eyes open and moves between your legs. Buries his face in your cunt. Rolls his tongue on your swollen clit.

“Yes, fuck,” you breathe and anchor your hands in his hair, pulling his curls into tight fists. Your breathing starts to come in shallow gasps. The muscles of your thighs tense and twitch.

“Don’t stop, baby, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, and he works you faster, moving his tongue in a circle, tickling the inside of you, groaning as you rub yourself against him, smearing your juices all over his face. You moan when the sound hits you, so he continues, humming from the back of his throat, and it’s just the push you need.

Your hips stutter and still. A wild, ragged noise tears from your chest. You convulse around his fingers, and he pulls them out, sliding his mouth down to your opening just as a hot wave of pleasure gushes out. It splashes against his face, and he tries to catch as much as he can on his tongue, moaning at the taste of you. Grabs your waist and holds you there, lapping away at your cunt as you gasp for air, body jerking at the stimulation, but unable to move from his vice grip.

He climbs your body and kisses you, hard and messy, letting you taste yourself. You rake your fingers through his hair, whining into his mouth when his tongue slides across yours.

His cock aches with neglect. The steady inflow of pleasure burns between the layers of his skin and begs to be released.

He pulls away from your lips and pants, “Flip over for me, love. I wanna fuck your ass.”

And, you… fucking hell, Lua, you smile at this like he told you he’s buying you a brand new car. He sits up and you roll over onto your belly, then stick your ass up into the air, “Is that good?”

“Fucking perfect.”

Dieter grabs the abandoned bottle of lube, squeezes some into his palm, then requests, “Spread for me, baby.”

You reach back, pulling your ass cheeks apart. He squirts some of the lube on your puckered hole and you yelp, then giggle, “It’s so cold.”

He chuckles at this as he strokes his cock, smearing the slick lube along his length, then he asks, “Have you done this before? Anal sex?”

This isn’t the first time he’s ventured into ass play with you, but only with tongues, toys, fingers. You look back at him and shrug, “Well, yeah, but,” then you drop your gaze to his dick, “You’re, um… a lot bigger than anyone else…”

The comment makes his ego swell, and he can’t help but grin, spreading the lube across your tight hole with his middle finger. Then he applies pressure to its center until it allows him access. Your eyelids flutter and you whimper, licking your lips, pulling your cheeks apart further.

“I’ll go slow, but if it’s too much, tell me and I’ll stop, ok?”

“Ok,” you nod.

He wriggles another digit inside you. You gasp and nod, “Fuck, that feels really good.”

“Good,” he purrs, rutting into you slowly, flicking his gaze between your face and ass, watching the way your lips part and eyelids drift closed, feeling the muscles inside you start to relax.

You arch your back into the stimulation, breathy little whimpers and moans floating from your mouth like music to his fucking ears. Lust pools hot and needy at his center, making his heart thud and his cock ache.

“Are you ready?” he asks, studying your face as you open your eyes and look back at him.

“I’m ready,” you confirm, holding his gaze as he pulls his fingers out and brings the head of his cock to kiss the tight, lubricated hole.

Dieter pushes forward cautiously, pausing when your asshole surrenders to the very tip of him and you let out a sharp cry. After a moment, you nod, “Keep going.”

So he does. The tight ring squeezes the ever loving fuck out of him as he slowly, tediously, makes his way inside you. His forehead breaks out in a sweat, muscles quivering from the effort it takes to move at this pace. Your face pinches up with what could either be pleasure or pain, he’s not quite sure, but it’s accompanied by whimpers and nods, signaling your approval.

Once the head of his cock is fully engulfed, though, and you adjust to his width, acclimate to the feeling, things start to go faster. He pushes your hands away and spreads your cheeks himself, hissing, “Fuck, this looks so good, baby. Love seeing your sweet little asshole stretched out around my cock—”

“It feels so fucking good,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, “Give me more.”

The request squirms around inside him and makes his throat rumble. He drives his hips forward steadily, and it’s a fucking vacuum of suction, pulling him in, swallowing him whole. You sputter and moan in reaction, croaking out quiet little whines of “oh my fucking god” over and over again.

“Fuuuuck, you’re so fucking tight, holy fuck, Lua,” he groans, throwing his head back, then starts to roll his hips, still moving at a languid pace, sliding his length along that ring that, even when your muscles loosen slightly, grips him so fucking tight it makes every ounce of sanity flee his brain.

“Do you like that? Like when I fuck your ass with my fat cock?” he asks through grit teeth.

You whimper and nod, “Yes yes yes yes—”

“Tell me,” he demands, snapping his hips, heart jumping at the moan you choke out.

“I like it wh—when you fuck my ass—” he snaps his hips again and you gasp, then continue, “with your big, fat cock—”

“Yeah you fucking do, don’t you?” He increases the tempo, moaning at the squeeze of you, how fucking good you feel wrapped around him, and grinds out, “Little fuck doll likes being used, hmm? Just like this?”

“Holy fuck, Dee,” you groan, raising yourself up onto your hands, pushing back against his thrusts, “I fucking love it, yes.”

The force of your body moving with his, burying him to the hilt inside you again and again, fills him with fire. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your back, heart fluttering in his heaving chest, hands tingling, limbs trembling, ecstasy pooling thick and hot at the base of his spine.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me fucking cum,” he warns, but doesn’t let up his pace.

“Cum in my ass, baby, please please please,” you moan.

The request tugs at the edges of him, and he wants you closer, wants to feel the heat of your skin against his.

“Get up here,” he grunts, leans forward and hooks an arm around your torso, pulls your back against his chest, cradling your neck in his palm. Your head falls back onto his shoulder and your mouth is hanging open slack, frantic little moans fleeing your throat as he fucks your ass deep and hard, rumbling into your ear, “Cum in your fucking ass, hmm? My little slut wants her ass filled with cum?”

You bring your hand to the back of his head and grab a fistful of hair, breathing, “Fuck yes, please, Dieter, please—”

“Anything for you, love,” he pants, then you pull his hair tighter, and you start to rock your hips against his, and your whines get all high-pitched and airy, and he babbles, “I mean that, I really do, fucking anything you want, baby—fill your ass with cum, buy you whatever the fuck you want, fucking anything, I swear to god—”

Your lips cut him off, and you’re fucking trembling now, muscles all tight and coiled, squeezing around his cock, and he kisses you back with fire, groaning against your mouth as you whimper, then your breath disappears completely, you let out a strangled moan, and your body shutters from the force of your orgasm. The static buzzing in his center grows wider, deeper, tingling up his backbone, through his limbs, until it washes over him completely.

He thrusts into you one, two, three more times, spilling his load inside you.

His labored breathing puffs hot against yours. You bring your touch to his cheek and draw a circle into his beard with your thumb. He kisses you again, gentler, lips lingering on yours, then murmurs, “I fucking love you.”

A bright, wide smile spreads across your face. You let out this breathless little giggle, kiss him, then say, “I fucking love you, too.”

Dieter pulls out and falls back onto the bed, stretching out, catching his breath. You follow suit and cuddle up to him, laying your head on his heaving chest. He curls his arm around your shoulders and rests his cheek on the crown of your sweaty head.

The silence that settles is comfortable, and he notices that the rest of the house is quiet, too. Darlene must have fled sometime while he was fucking you, no doubt disgusted by the noises that were probably not muffled at all by the barrier of his bedroom door.

His attention draws back to you when you whisper, “Am I doing the right thing? By cutting her out of my life?”

It takes a moment for him to understand what you’re asking. When it clicks, he frowns, “I don’t think that’s a question I can answer.”

You’re quiet in response, so he inquires further, “What’s your relationship like with her?”

“We, um… we butt heads,” you shrug and bring your fingertips to his sternum, start drawing little swirls against his skin, “She’s always been so… I don’t know, self-centered? Childish?” you pause here, and he can hear the gears in your busy mind turning. You lay your palm flat over his heart and say, “It’s always about her. She didn’t come see me when Ethan died, or try to console me, or anything. She fucking—”

A frustrated huff of air blows across his chest. You shake your head, then sigh, “She fucking called me all the time crying about it, and posted all this bullshit online about how sad she was, and—and she fucking hated him. It’s like she expected me to comfort her. She never asked how I was doing. It was… fuck, it was just like when Dad died.”

Dieter smooths circles into your skin with his thumb. Studies the ceiling, waiting for you to say more. Then you do.

“When I would try talking to her about how much I missed him—my dad, I mean—she would get fucking mad at me. Say shit like, ‘Well, how do you think I feel?’ or—or, ‘You’re not the only one who lost him,’ or—this one’s my favorite, the uses it all the time, ‘It’s not all about you, Louella Rose,’” you pause and scoff to yourself, shaking your head, “So I stopped trying to her about it, and then she would get mad at me for not talking about it, so then I would talk to her about it, and she would either get mad all over again or squirrel the things I told her away to use as fucking ammunition against me the next time I made her upset, and—and, I don’t know. That’s just how it is with her.”

Dieter’s mind whirs as he sifts through the million thoughts pouring through his brain, trying to find the right one to tell you. It feels like finding the hay in the needlestack, and when his mouth opens, all that comes out is, “Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” you snort, then comb your fingers through his hair and murmur, “I love your curls, they’re adorable.”

He almost takes the subject change you dangle in front of him, but something lingers at the base of his throat, begging to be known.

“Look,” he starts, shifting to meet your gaze, and sighs, “I really don’t think you’re making a mistake by cutting her out of your life, Lua. And-and not because she said those things about me, but because she treats you like shit. And, I know it’s not my place to say shit like this, but,” he shakes his head, searching your face, watching the tears pool in your eyes, “She might be your mom, but that’s not family, you know?”

Your face crumples up.

He starts to fumble out an apology, “Fuck, I’m–”

You kiss him.

When you pull back, you whisper, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he breathes, brushing his hand against your cheek, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you scoot closer, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder. A few peaceful moments go by before your stomach growls so loud it makes both of you start laughing.

“Let’s get you some fucking food, huh?”

#dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x oc #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #psychomanteum

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gretagerwigsmuse · 2 years

Text

sneak peek: and even when we’re wrong in every way, we come out the other side okay

Summary: in which lieutenant bradshaw has a thing for smart girls - and maybe ones who hate his guts on principle. a lie by omission is still a lie after all and bradley never exactly told you what he did for work...

OR you take on the us military industrial complex one hinge date at a time...well sort of

Pairing: Rooster x Fem!Reader

Eventual Warnings: 18+, explicit language, explicit sexual content (oral (m receiving), vaginal fingering, p in v, and slight dom/sub and praise and rank kink elements), idk basically she’s a bit of a brat? and he likes it?

“So, what’s with the bar?” you asked, looking around, a teasing smile on your face. Bradley cocked his head. “I mean, is it just me or is like every naval officer within a forty mile radius here?”

Maybe he had misjudged picking the Hard Deck. It wasn’t exactly the finest establishment in San Diego County, but the drinks were good and you had mentioned Coronado a couple times over text, so Bradley had thought it would be convenient.

In fact, to offset the location, he had even worn a pale blue oxford, unbuttoned but with a plain white t-shirt underneath, instead of his usual Hawaiian shirt. You looked like the kind of girl who would have appreciated the effort. At least that’s what he had gleaned from your Hinge profile and text messages over the last two weeks.

He shrugged in response. “My friends and I like it. It’s right near the base and we normally come after training. It’s not too fussy, I guess, so I thought it would be good for a first date. Low key and all that?”

“Oh.” That wasn’t a good ‘oh.’ “You’re in the military?”

Bradley chose his next words carefully, mindful that there definitely seemed to be a wrong answer here and he was about to give it.

“Yeah, a naval aviator,” he nodded, trying to sound casual, “is that going to be a problem?”

You shrugged and took a sip of your margarita before licking some of the salt off the rim. Bradley watched, captivated, despite the fact that you had just insulted him indirectly.

“I mean, I understand that we need a military - to a certain extent, at least. But I’m kind of against the whole US Military Industrial Complex thing? Like the US alone spends more on defense than the next nine countries combined. And the cost of one of those planes you fly could feed the entire New York City public school system’s worth of kids three meals a day for at least - well, I’m pretty shit at math, but I’d say at least five years -”

Holy shit. You were - oh, fuck. Before he really thought it through, Bradley went to interrupt you. “- I mean, when you put it -”

“- Plus, the whole imperialism, white man’s burden, manifest destiny bullshit you all like to spout out like Uncle Sam’s got your dick in his mouth.”

Bradley scoffed. He couldn’t help it. In all his years of being in the Navy, he’d never once had this sort of reaction. It was - oddly stirring, actually - finding out the woman he had envisioned every night before he’d fallen asleep for the last two weeks apparently now hated his guts.

“I get what you’re saying - to an extent,” he reiterated once he saw your pleased smile, “but the military still does a lot of good outside of combat zones-”

You laughed, but it lacked any humor. “Sure, taking advantage of and recruiting impressionable kids with the promise of free college - that they probably won’t actually take advantage of because going back to school when you’re older than ninety-nine percent of your classmates isn’t daunting at all - is a great business model?”

He ignored you and nodded towards your margarita. “Want another drink?”

“Only if you put it on Uncle Sam’s dime.”

Oh. Fuck. Him.

[Full Work]

A/N: hmu to be on the taglist, i’ll be posting the entire fic soon (hopefully, maybe, probably)

#this is uhhhh yeah this a commentary of sorts #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #rooster imagine #top gun imagine #top gun smut #bradley rooster bradshaw #s/o to sol for going back and forth with me over this...y'all are in for a ride with these two #pls don't exile me from the community this was so fun to write #writing

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kissesfromcaptors · 1 year

Note

i am on my hands and knees with snot coming out of my nose for a nsfw alan (my dear hatchet man) in a muzzle. like maybe at first he's whimpering but then he gets into and becomes more assertive? idk i'll leave the plot up to you to have fun with it ! but PLEASE i need this man in a muzzle

thank u thank u 🙆🏻‍♀️

Anon you are so fucking valid and I hope you know I dropped literally everything to write this ask and went the FUCK OFF because my need for Alan muzzling moments was equally intense. In any case thank you for the ask and I hope you enjoy!

NSFW under the cut

The thick leather straps looked daunting as you slid them into place, smooth buckles glinting in the light as you pulled them taught to close. Alan squirmed a little under you, face flushed and gnawing at his lip as though he was already unsure of what to do, now that his teeth were barred from you by the sheer metal cage now fastened tight over his mouth. You patted his cheek placatingly, allowing your fingertips to linger, skimming lightly over the edges of the muzzle before reaching down to give the collar around his neck a sharp tug. His hips bucked up against yours, grinding against you with a whine as you kept him pinned beneath your thighs, delighting in the way his eyes grew hazy when you lazily ground back.

“Aww, poor puppy,” you cooed, leaning forward to press your chest against his, trailing your hands over the bared flesh, tilting your head so your exposed neck was directly in his eyeline. It was a taunting move, considering he wouldn’t have the opportunity to sink his teeth into it anytime soon, and one you knew was fully received as his breath grew loud and ragged.

“You know why we have to do this, love. You couldn’t keep that pretty mouth of yours to yourself. It’s not my fault you can’t seem to help it. That’s why I’m here to help you out, hm? To hold you back when you’re a little too feral for your own good.” You ruffled his hair affectionately, smiling as he sighed.

“Please,” he all but whispered, voice shaky and desperate while he rutted up against you again, insistent. “N-need you. Need all of you, Doe-eyes, please.” You tutted, one hand pulling up roughly on his thick locks. He whimpered, eyes rolling back in his head and mouth falling open as the sound poured from his throat, a small bead of drool collecting at the corner of his lips. You felt your breath catch in your throat, suddenly feeling rather needy yourself as he writhed beneath you, the steady pressure of his hard dick against your core fanning the hot coal fire that burned in your stomach.

You let go of his hair with a quiet moan, dragging your palms flat down this chest and fumbling as they reached the line of his jeans, trying to suppress the shake in your fingers as you struggled to unbutton them. His gaze returned to your face as you worked him free, disparate eyes alight with a wild, unchecked hunger. You swallowed as his rough hands gripped at your waist with bruising force, unable to prevent the shrill squeak from escaping you as he lifted you, effortless as anything, a deft maneuver turning your bodies in tandem. The world tilted, and you found yourself pressed flat against the mattress, Alan’s breath heaving in your ear, the cold sensation of the muzzle’s cage against your neck raising goosebumps across your skin.

He growled, deep and dangerous, and now your hips were rising of their own accord, dizzy with want as his now bare cock slid against your stomach.

“Yer a dirty little tease, Doe-eyes,” he snarled, unceremoniously tugging your bottoms away, paying no mind as the top button tore free from the cloth, rolling forgotten into the folds of the bedspread. You spread your legs for him without hesitation, sparks careening down your spine as he pressed the head of his dick against your entrance, the hot smear of leaking pre causing your mouth to water.

“But ya knew what you were doing, didn’tcha? Got me all riled up for you because ya knew I was gonna take you apart.”

You moaned, feeling dizzy, caught up in him entirely as he drove into you, sparing you no time to recover while he quickly established a punishing pace. He fucked into you as though starved, a half-mad chuckle erupting from his chest as you gasped, clawing at his back to find some purchase against the onslaught of overwhelming sensation he brought about with every pointed thrust.

“Go on,” he hissed, hands circling tighter still around your hips, using his grip to pull you back and forth to the rhythm of his movements, as though you were just a plaything for him to jerk about as he pleased. “Tell me ya wanted this all along. Tell me how much you love it when I use ya like this.”

“I-” you choked out, wrapping your legs around his waist in an attempt to draw him deeper, take him into you completely each time he pressed himself in. “I l-love it when you get like this. I love teasing you, I love it when you’re so… untamed, for me, fuck, Alan…” The keen that tore your words loose from your tongue seemed to spurn him on, pace picking up still, his nails digging into your sides so intently you were sure there would be impressive crescent shapes bitten deep into your skin by the time he’d finished having his way with you.

“It’s so, so good. Fuck you feel so good inside of me, I need you to fill me up, I need you to claim me, please.”

You heard his teeth gnash, metal digging even deeper into your neck as he seemed to move to bite on instinct, his frustrated growl pushing you closer to the edge, reaching up to fist the hair at the back of his head, knowing every tug you imparted was bringing him that much closer too, triggering his need to chase his own pleasure, to fuck you that much harder, to make you totally, undeniably his. His moans grew higher in pitch, reedy and breathless in a way you recognized.

“God yes, that’s it,” you gasped out, shaky and so near your own end it grew more difficult by the moment to form a coherent word. Nonetheless, you gathered your thoughts enough to impart a desperate plea, yanking his hair back to look at his face, his bared teeth glinting.

“Cum in me,” you managed to urge, the last vestiges of your control unraveling as you felt him twitch and throb inside of you, the filament of humming energy running up your spine snapping as the first ropes of hot release were fucked into you, waves of tremulous pleasure washing over you with a scream. You were barely aware of the way you tightened your legs around him as you came, the way he sat fully within you, the feral, snarling groans that left him as he rode out his own release, so enraptured that the only thing that stuck out against the seemingly endless tide of feeling was his breath still so close against your throat, the bone-deep sink of the word ‘mine,’ as he spoke it, as much a command as it seemed to be a prayer.

You came back to yourself slowly, heaving for breath as you felt his large, calloused hands stroke gently across your forehead, wiping away what you realized were tears from the corner of your eyes with a broad swipe of his thumb. You shakily reached up to unbuckle the muzzle from his face, letting it fall to the floor and sighing when he pressed his mouth to your jaw with a searing kiss. You felt peaceful, awash in the afterglow as he held you. That is- right until Alan’s mouth parted against your skin, teeth digging hard into the flesh at the top of your neck. He hummed as you squirmed, yelping from the unexpected stimulus as he sucked against the bite, and pulled back with a wet pop to smirk at you.

“Oh, don’t think I’m done with ya after all that, Doe-eyes,” he murmured, nuzzling down onto your collarbone. “After all- ya didn’t give me a chance to mark you yet.”

#my writing #mdhm #my dear hatchet man #alan orion #not proofread so I may edit this later #but for now enjoy the Food!

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isaksbestpillow · 6 months

Note

How did you learn to garden? It seems like such a daunting task (well, I've never done it before so idk) 🍀

I bought a plant and started! That's honestly it. My first flowers were marigolds that I potted and kept in the balcony of our past apartment. I didn't like the apartment or feel comfortable there, so after the marigolds I started planting more flowers to make the place a bit more livable. The balcony was scorching hot and not really suitable for gardening so it was a trial and error. Of course I didn't try anything too hardcore like roses or dahlias. I mostly did simple annual plants, though I also bought my very first hydrangea that has become one of my dearest possessions over the years.

After a few years of that the best ever thing happened and we bought a plot of land with an old garden and built a house. It really was the weirdest and the luckiest thing. The old lady selling the property didn't want to sell if it meant her late dad's garden getting demolished, but few Japanese buyers are looking for old overgrown gardens in non-suburban environments, so the price was lower than expected. We'd spent two years looking for a place where we could have a garden and had started to seriously despair when this plot fell from the sky. Sometimes I still can't believe got out of the awful apartment into our dream home. I don't have to spend years or decades waiting for my garden to grow, it's amazing!!

The garden hadn't been properly looked after in years, so it was obviously thickly overgrown and resembled a jungle. We could only guess what was planted there. We spent several weekends there from sunrise to sunset just cleaning up and fighting the vines that had wrapped themselves around everything from trees to fallen twigs. It was a lot of hard work. I didn't have any prior experience on rejuvenating old gardens or any real clue about what I was doing, but it was so much fun! Honestly the most fun I'd had in years. We also cleaned up the fish pond the following spring. It took over 40 hours, it was like trying to clean up a swamp. We used a hose, a large with pot a hole in the bottom, and ludicrous amounts of fish tank filter foam, so it was a very diy approach. I lost my mind several times having to scrub grime and dirt out of filter foam spongers like laundry for hours at a time, but it was all worth it. I will never meet the old man who lived there before me, but bringing his garden back to life has been so amazing.

What I'm saying is gardening is not that daunting once you start! I don't know what I'm doing a lot of the time but nature keeps growing anyway. But be careful because it's hard to stop at just one plant!

I've gone from this

To this

#asks

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petrichor-idyllic · 1 year

Note

To start, I love your writing

Can I request a Minho X male reader where the reader is like Thomas (wants to become a runner, gets rejected and then runs in the maze to save Alby and Minho). But instead of just running off, Minho gets protective of the reader and tries to keep the reader safe in the maze. Idk if that makes sense so dw if it doesn't

Aye absolutely I can. I refuse to believe that anyone in this franchise is straight. I mean, they were surrounded by only lads through their entire teen years- these boys ain't straight.

This is more action based than romantic, but there are some hints at feelings and I think this could easily be the start to a decent romance in the future.

STAY CLOSE

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: Masc!Reader. See above. Movie based fic.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, some violence.

You were going to be a Runner.

God damn it, you were. It didn't matter that Alby didn't think you were up to it, or Minho kept telling you to wait longer, or that Newt looked at you like you'd lost you mind.

You knew you were. One day, you were going to run the Maze. Even if no one believed you.

You couldn't explain it to anyone, but you're drawn to the Maze. It feels like you're meant to be out there, and you have to explore and decipher it.

And you may or may not have developed a small crush on the Keeper.

But that's not important.

Nothing to do with it.

Absolutely not.

I mean, Minho is somehow the perfect man. In a place like this- and he looks like that? It should be illegal, honestly.

He's also funny, and smart and athletic. You were a goner when you first saw him. The only problem is that you don't know if he likes you, or men, in general.

But anyway, you have other reasons you want to be a Runner. Though, having only been in the Glade for a couple of months, the chance of that is currently pretty slim.

And with Thomas coming up and immediately trying to do the same thing as you; you now have some competition. It doesn't help that Newt seems to have taken a shine to him, which gives him an advantage over you.

That is until Minho and Alby go out into the Maze. After Ben's Banishing, it's a common practice for them to track the boys' footsteps and make sure he's not out there suffering.

"What if they don't make it?" Thomas asks Newt as you stand with the other boys, Newt's gaze fixated on the Doors.

"They're gonna make it." That must be the fifth time you've heard him say that.

It's rare for days like this to go on this long. You've never experienced a Banishing before, but judging by everyone's morbid state- Minho and Alby should've been back long ago.

The time passes painfully slow, but you all end up standing in front of the open Doors, anxiously waiting.

The air is thick with worry, and everyone holds their breath. Numerous people look at Newt, trying to gauge his reaction since he knows them better than anyone.

"There!" Thomas points, just as Minho and Alby emmerge from behind the wall. Minho is struggling, clearly stressed as he's dragging an unconscious Alby.

Maybe you're an idiot, maybe you're brave- actually no, you're definitely a fool. But you can't stand by and let this happen. How could you? Your crush on Minho aside, he's one of, if not, the most valuable members of the Glade. If you have any chance of ever escaping the Maze- you need Minho. All of you do.

You run into the Maze as blurs of the Gladers shouting becomes static behind you. You know that none of them are going to go after them. You're new enough that the rules aren't some kind of daunting, all-commanding being to you yet like they are to them.

"Minho!" You shout, grinding to a halt as panic flashes across his face.

"(Y/N)? You can't-"

"Slim it, man, c'mon," you pull Alby's other arm over your shoulder, taking some of the weight off of the Keeper. Minho isn't going to leave Alby.

You know that. Even the Galders know that as they shout at you to abandon the Leader.

You manage to cover some ground as the actual size of the Maze dawns on you. Even the one corridor leading to the Glade is unfathomably huge.

Your hopes dwindle when the grumbling of the Doors sends a wave through the entire Glade.

Minho lets out some kind of animalistic war cry, his voice is rough and guttural. You're too busy focusing on Minho as he collapses to even notice Thomas pulling the same stunt as you until the Doors are fully closed.

"Good job," Minho spits, "you've both just killed yourselves."

"What?" Thomas mumbles, whilst you bring your hands to your head, struggling to process what's going on. The new boy scrambles to his feet, heavy breathing filling the now silent halls. "What happened to him?"

"What's it look like?" Minho's voice drips with anger. "He got stung."

"What happened to his head?"

"I did what I had to do."

The mechanical screeching from a Griever makes you physically jump, as you stand a few feet away from the other boys.

Minho groans as he stands, clearly exhausted and in pain.

"Okay, help me get him up," Thomas says, getting completely ignored.

"We gotta go. The Maze is already changing."

"Hey, Minho!" Thomas shouts, clearly braver than you as he seems to have some confidences whilst you've been stunned to silence. "We can't just leave him here."

Minho looks back as you come to Alby's side.

"He's right," you add, "he'd never leave us."

Minho is reluctant, but he begrudgingly agrees, walking over and helping you both scoop up Alby. It's not exactly easy, but the three of you just about manage.

You're too busy to talk, but the daunting thought plagues all of you, and eventually, Minho vocalises it. He drops Alby, groaning and you and Thomas copy him.

"This isn't gonna work," he breathing is heavy and he's twice as exhausted as you two. "We gotta go."

"What? What are you talkin' about?" Thomas sits by Alby's unconscious body. "We gotta do something- we gotta hide him!"

"Where?"

"I don't know- Minho, just think! You're telling me there's not a single place we could take him?"

Out of nowhere, Minho lashes forward, grabbing Thomas' shirt collar and slamming him into the wall behind him.

"Listen to me, shuck-face, alright? Take a look around- there's no where to go!" Minho lets go and Thomas looks petrified. The boy stands, almost like his rage shocked even him. "You don't get it, we're already dead."

Despite their arguing, you've been distracted by the ivy. It's thick and covers the entire wall. It looks sturdy, but the other boys are too busy arguing to notice you.

You ignore their bickering. "Hey, guys?" You get no response. "Guys!" They freeze, snapping to look at you. "I've got an idea."

Minho was quick to turn his nose up at the idea, but Thomas was beyond eager. Sure, using a physics rope mechanism out of ivy is up there, but what other choice did you have?

Thomas got to work collecting ivy one way, whilst you and Minho started harvesting from another area.

"(Y/N)?"

"Yeah?" Your word comes out as more of a grunt as you rip another branch off the wall.

"Stick with me, okay?"

"What?"

"Whatever happens, stay close to me, alright?"

"Why would I-?"

"Just do it, yeah? The Greenie is in over his head. We need to keep moving and even if your plan works, we're gonna have to split up eventually." He sighs, rubbing his brow. "So, just stay with me."

You hesitate for a second. You have no idea what Minho's going to do. Hell, you doubt he even does, but you eventually nod.

Minho doesn't really know what's going on in his own head. He's scared. The poor shank hasn't ever been more so. But, despite all that, he's overwhelmed with the urge to protect you. He doesn't understand his own feelings; he should be focusing on saving his own ass- not yours.

Alas, here he is.

Your plan is a surprising success, even if it takes a lot of effort to hurl Alby up the wall. And you had to pull off an impressive climbing feat to string him up in the first place.

But you're on the move now.

The three of you heave as you pull Alby up.

"Two, three," Minho counts you in before you yank once again. You're feeling confident, this seems to be actually working.

Only for the mechanical whirring of a Griever to be creeping around the corner.

Minho's grip loosens, one of his hands sliding up and grabbing your wrist from behind whilst you still hold on.

"What are doing?" Thomas gasps. "What are you doing?"

"We gotta go. We gotta go."

"No, no, no."

"No, we gotta go."

"Minho, we're nearly there," you object.

"Yeah, just a little more and we'll tie it off. Minho, stay with me, okay?" Thomas tries to convince him, but it's no use.

"I'm sorry, Greenie."

With little to no warning, Minho's grip on you tightens, yanking you towards him and dragging you with him.

"Minho! (Y/N)!" Thomas yells, but Minho's grip on you is iron and gives you you no chance to respond as you stumble to catch your feet. You have little choice but to sprint with him, picking up speed as guilt consumes you.

Eventually, you come to your senses, ripping your arm away. This makes Minho grind to a halt, not getting the opportunity to process before you push him in the chest.

"You useless prick!" You snap. "I can't believe you made us leave him!"

"Look," he pants, "I said I'd look out for you- and I did. If we stayed with him, we'd be dead!"

In all honesty, Minho knows he should've tried to at least grab Thomas, too. But the boy is far too stubborn and reckless for his own good. But he couldn't leave you. For some reason, he just couldn't. He said he'd look after you and he was going to, dammit, even if it killed him.

"You're meant to be the fucking Keeper! And, what? You pussy out when things get too scary? We have to go back!"

"We're not going back," Minho's voice is calmer, desperation starting to sink in, "Okay? We're not. We're dead if we even think of it."

"Thomas could be dead, anyway. Alby too. We went through all that for nothing- and Thomas ran in here to save your dumbass. So, I'm going back, even if you aren't."

With that, you turn on your heels, you footsteps fading as you hear Minho mumble something to himself. Until his heavy footsteps pick up behind you.

"I'm gonna kill you if we die," he grumbles as he joins you at your side. You scoff in response.

Making your way back, you look up, finding Minho strung up how you'd intended.

"Where's Thomas?"

"Beats me," Minho shrugs, "there was a Griever hanging around here though."

You glare at him, opening your mouth to speak when you hear Thomas scream. You don't hesitate to break into a sprint, Minho shouting after you before caving in and running after you.

You grind to a halt at the edge of a cliff, Minho hot on your heels. You both stare in awe as Thomas wrestles with a Griever, somehow dropping between its legs and leaving it tangled in the ivy.

"No shuckin' way," Minho mumbles to himself, both of you watching as Thomas runs off below you. "C'mon," he smacks you in the chest, "we'll meet him."

Once again, the pair of you take off sprinting through the Maze. Somehow, you're able to predict the way you're meant to be going, taking Minho's side instead of letting him lead the way.

Thomas is startled when he practicly runs into the pair of you.

"Crazy son of a bitch!" Minho laughs. "Come on!"

You and Thomas exchange concerned looks, but oblige regardless.

"The Maze is changing," he says as he slows, "we can lose it up here!"

You stick close to Minho as one of the walls starts to move towards you, sprinting down, only to realise Thomas hasn't followed you.

"Thomas! Come on!" You shout as he looks between you and back where you've just come from.

You hear him shout before he starts sprinting towards you, a Griever hot on his heels.

"Come on, Thomas!"

"Don't look back Greenie!"

For the second time today, Thomas is nearly crushed by a wall as he scoots through, the wall squishing the Griever like a bug just before it reaches the three of you.

The three of you stand there, stunned, staring at the gooey mess dribbling out of the crack in the wall.

"Holy shit."

"You're crazy, man!" You let out a laugh, playfully punching Thomas on the shoulder.

"Alright, alright, what now?" Thomas turns to Minho.

"We lay low, keep moving, we'll come back for Alby when we see first light."

You all nod in agreements.

"Thank you, by the way," Minho says as you walk through the Maze. With no threat at present, there's no point wasting your precious energy.

"For what?" Thomas walks ahead, seemingly entranced by the Maze itself, so there's definitely no way he's eavesdropping.

"For making me come back- you were right, and now Tommy boy has killed a Griever. And for the scheme with Alby; some good quick thinkin' there shank."

"Yeah, well, being a Runner takes more than being fast, right?"

"Ah, so you do listen," you think you might be imagining it, but his tone sounds almost flirty, "you're still on this Runner klunk?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You sure? Tonight not put you off yet?"

"Nope. I want to be a Runner- this hasn't changed that."

"Well," he hums, "if we actually survive the rest of this shit show, I'll be sure to make you a Runner; first thing."

You stop walking, almost stunned by the comment. It makes sense, but it still makes butterflies flutter in your stomach.

"What?" He says as he slows to look back at you, casually walking backwards.

"You serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious. Hell, if we get back to the Glade alive, I'll make Alby a shuckin' Runner."

Somehow, the remainder of the night is surprisingly uneventful. The three of you struggle but you manage to get Alby down.

Srambling to the Maze, you're all exhausted and on the verge of collapse.

But, as you hear the Doors open, starting to round the corner and hearing the cheers if the boys as they notice you, you suddenly feel more alive than you ever have.

"So," Minho struggles, trying not to drop his side of Alby, looking over his shoulder at you as you carry his legs, "you ready to be a Runner, dude?"

You grin at him. "Shuck yeah."

Sorry for the slow posting guys, I've been working a lot. Like I said before, this one isn't very romance based but the prompt wasn't romantic, so I worked with it.

I hope you liked this anyway :)

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