#BUT IF HE'S AT THE POINT WHEN HE CAN DO THAT WHY BOTHER! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

queensunshinee · 1 day ago

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So sweet || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex), drinking, mention of an eating disorder, again, I really don't know what's going on here. It's so weird. Just a small but important reminder: English is not my first language, so please don’t be mad if there are any embarrassing mistakes- I’m really trying my best!

Word Count: 7.3k

So sweet

Patrick wanted to know what is it about you that makes Art lose it. You're not the funniest, not the best at tennis—or at anything Patrick has ever seen you do, to be honest—and you're definitely not the prettiest. You're not the best. You're just not.

"She’s just so sweet," Art had said when the two of them were sitting in one corner of the Stanford cafeteria, and you were in another. Patrick didn’t see it; he thought you were scheming. That you were the least sweet person he knew. And because Art has known you for so many years, Patrick has known you long enough not to trust you. Who picks a college just because the guy she’s sleeping with also chose Stanford? Only a conniving witch. Someone who wants to pull Art away from him and Tashi. Someone who wants to pull Art away from his dreams. From tennis. Someone who wants Art all to herself. Patrick figured it out years ago. You can fool Art. Fuck it, you can fool yourself if you want. But you can’t fool Patrick.

And it doesn’t matter at all that you and Art have known each other since you were six. It doesn’t matter that all the evidence points to your parents being responsible for your academic choices. It doesn’t matter that it’s only since you got to Stanford that you started sleeping together; he never touched you inappropriately even once before college. Patrick didn’t like you before you two started having sex, so he sure as hell doesn’t like you now. You didn’t even bother to sit with them. You didn’t even bother to say a simple 'hi' to him. You don’t respect him enough to sit at the same table when he comes to visit Tashi and Art. You don’t respect him. Period.

“Do you think she’s ever eaten a burger?” Patrick suddenly asks, completely ignoring Art’s rambling about competitions and trying to inspect your plate from afar. He can’t see what’s on it, but he’s sure there’s nothing nutritious enough there. “I know for a fact she’s eaten more than one burger in her life,” Art rolls his eyes. “Why are you so obsessed with her?” he asks for the millionth time. He asked it every summer. He asked it after Patrick went on about how insane it was that you and Art were going to the same college.

“I’m not obsessed. I just think there’s no way her pussy smells normal with that diet,” Patrick says, earning himself a well-deserved elbow jab from Art. Art never talks about you that vulgarly. Art doesn’t talk about you much at all. That’s part of what annoys Patrick: that they can talk about any other girl, but with you, it’s never an option. Even about Tashi, he managed to talk to Art. He gave him the signal. He told him. But Art doesn’t share anything about what he does with you.

Patrick knows about Melanie from statistics that Art slept with. Patrick knows about Georgia or Regina or whatever her name is who works at the library and made it to second base with Art. He knows down to the exact books they leaned on. But he doesn’t know anything about you. Art keeps you to himself as if you’re some treasure he needs to guard at all costs. Patrick hates you and the broccoli you’re shoving into your mouth while reading a book, ignoring the outside world. You’re such a fucking smug witch. You won’t be able to fool him. . . . Art will never tell Patrick that there are moments when he thinks he loves you. Sometimes. Most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he knows he loves Tashi. The same Tashi that Patrick took for himself. Snatched her right out of Art’s hands.

But with you, it’s different. With you, it’s been building for years. You’re the one he smeared snot on when you were six, and somehow, you kept coming over to his house to watch cartoons with him. You kept showing up at the tennis court, reading a book while he practiced. You kept being an inseparable part of him.

Art knows you love him. It’s so clear to him, almost as clear as the fact that his first dog was named Jameson and that he died when Art was 8-years-old. You held his hand when he forced his parents to bury him. He didn’t want you to hold it, tried to shake you off for a few seconds, but you insisted. He never told you, but it felt nice.

Your first kiss was with Art. He insisted. Of course, he insisted. You love him so much, and you’re so, so sweet. Always polite and blushing at the right moments, and at 14, he kissed you. Explained to you that you couldn’t start high school without knowing how to kiss. He was doing you a favor. You said “thank you” afterward, like the polite girl you always were.

You kept kissing after that, as if it was the natural thing to do. Every time he came to visit in the summer and you’d come over. Every time he went to your place. You’d end your time together with his lips exploring yours. So sweet.

He will never tell Patrick that he knows you better than he knows himself. That he knows all your secrets just as you know all of his own. That sometimes he melts under your gaze and would be willing to tell you his ATM code if you asked. He will never reveal this to Patrick. Or you. He will never tell him that sometimes he feels like you’re such a deep part of him that you are simply him. And he is simply you. And when he thinks too deeply about that, he’s capable of barging into your lecture, telling the professor there’s been an emergency, dragging you into the janitor’s closet, staring for a second at your terrified face, and fucking you there on one of the shelves. Not that it happened. Maybe. He won't tell anyone.

And he will never give you the chance to go all in for him because it’s too terrifying. Because with you, he feels helpless, out of control, almost embarrassed. And because Patrick hates you. He’s never seen Patrick hate anyone as much as he hates you. And Art doesn’t think he can be in a relationship with someone Patrick doesn’t like. Which, in itself, is a crazy thought.

But Patrick loves Tashi, and Tashi has nothing sweet about her. No look that radiates tenderness or sweetness. She doesn’t smell like cinnamon and vanilla. She doesn’t have a soul that wants to share secrets with him. Tashi doesn’t look at him like he holds the moon. Tashi doesn’t look at him as if he could fill an empty space in her heart. Because she has no empty space in her heart. Tennis fills her heart. Tennis and Patrick. Art looks at her heart from the outside. He’s not a part of her story. He so badly wants to be part of her story. He thinks it's a need at this point.

And every time his mind fills with Tashi, he finds some random girl willing to stroke his ego (and his dick) just enough to make him forget. He never goes for the easy option; he doesn’t go to you. He only wants to be with you when he’s thinking of you. When you fill him so completely that he can’t breathe. When he physically needs you in front of him. Not when he wants someone else to touch him. Not when he wants Tashi Duncan so badly he could cry.

He looks at her and Patrick, unable to understand what she sees in him. What she finds in his best friend. The scatterbrained guy who doesn’t shower every day, who wears the same underwear longer than is acceptable, who snores while laughing, who eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants, like he isn’t trying to make a living as a pro. Like everything is a joke. Art doesn’t understand how Tashi can waste her time on a joke. . . . "What are you studying, Little Dove?" Patrick pulled out one of your earbuds when he found you tucked away in a corner of the library. He saw how you physically recoiled at the nickname he’d given you the first time you met. Not a nickname you liked. That only made him want to call you that enough times for it to be engraved on your gravestone when you die. For you to maybe one day think it was your real name. For it to become a part of you. Little Dove. He didn’t even know why he called you that. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. But it wasn’t necessarily bad.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, half-indifferent, reaching out for him to give you back the earbud he’d so brutally yanked. "Killing time. I had a fight with Tashi, so I can’t go to her match. Art’s obviously there because well, he’s in love with my girlfriend." He paused to study your reaction, wanting to see how you’d respond to the fact that Art didn’t love you. That he loved what belonged to Patrick, and you didn’t belong to Patrick, so he would never love you. Not really. Not entirely. "You’re the only person I know here. It’s your job to entertain me," he said, flashing a fake smile.

Everything about Patrick was fake. That was something you’d learned to be indifferent to years ago. Every time he jabbed at you or said something vulgar to disgust you, you knew it was fake. There was no point in taking him seriously. You pitied him the way you’d pity a little kid whose ice cream cone had fallen and no one was willing to buy him a new one. "I’m not a clown, Patrick. I have a test tomorrow," you said and snatched the earbud from his hand. He didn’t retaliate. He simply sat down across from you, examining you more intensely than you were comfortable with. His gaze pinned you like a scalpel. You tried to breathe evenly. He’s always like this. He’s always like this. Remember that he’s always like this, and everything will be fine. This is not the time to panic. Not in front of Patrick Fucking Zweig. He can’t win a war you’re not actively fighting.

"How’s life, Little Dove? Happy at Stanford with Art? Better now that he finally agreed to fuck you?" He was blunt to the point that it made you glare at him and wrinkle your nose for a second. That only deepened the smirk plastered across his face. "Do you need something?" you asked, trying to sound as though his vulgarity couldn’t faze you. As though everyone around you spoke that way all the time. As though your pathetic sex life wasn’t plastered on your forehead like a billboard. He was laughing at you. Patrick Zweig was laughing at you.

The thought that he might know every intimate detail of what you and Art did in bed made your entire body shiver. He could see it on you. He knew he’d won. But you weren’t even playing. You wanted to scream you weren’t even playing. No sound came out. He’d won. He knew it, and you knew it, and there would never be a draw again. Because you would both always know he’d won. That Art had told him how you moan. Maybe Art had even figured out that you fake all your orgasms because you’re probably broken so he told Patrick that too. Maybe it was all more humiliating than you could imagine. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to talk to Art ever again. Maybe-

"You’re overthinking it, Little Dove. I can see it on your face. It’s not that deep," he rolled his eyes and took a bite of an apple he’d pulled out (you had no idea from where). "You can’t eat in here. This is a library," you mumbled, grateful for the change of subject. Any change of subject. You’d be willing to talk about cactuses at this point if necessary. "I’m not a student here," he reminded you, as if you’d forgotten. As if that wasn’t the sole reason for your fleeting happiness- that you didn’t have to see his face here 24/7. Only sometimes. Only when he was visiting people who actually mattered to him.

You put the earbud he’d pulled from you a few moments ago back in your ear, signaling to him that the conversation was over and that you hoped not to see him again for the next year. Or ever, if you're being honest. You wanted to go back to studying in peace. To not think about the brazen guy in front of you. The one so emotionally entangled with the boy you loved that sometimes you felt there was no way to win. No way to beat Patrick Zweig. Because he came gift-wrapped in a package deal with Art. And once, you tried so hard to make him like you. You tried to fit into their conversations, laugh at the crude jokes, nod when Art nodded. Just so Patrick would stop looking at you with disdain, stop looking at you like you were a stray cat too wet to save. Like one that had rabies. Like one that needed to be put down.

He just kept staring at you, eating his apple as if rules didn’t apply to him. As if he were above what was allowed and what wasn’t. Making you hate him a little more, but admire him just as much because you would never have the guts to act like the world belonged to you. You thought it had something to do with the amount of money he grew up with. Art once told you Patrick had two pools (in one of his houses). Who needs more than one pool in a house anyway? But that was all you needed to know about him—he was privileged enough to believe he had the right to treat people like they were beneath him. And you’d never admit it, but you didn’t want to be beneath him. You didn’t want to lose to Patrick Zweig. You didn’t want to lose when you knew the prize was having Art. . . . He finds out that Tashi got injured completely by accident. He leaves you alone in the library because you bore him. You don’t let him sink his claws into you, something he realizes he liked doing only when he's around you. So, he goes out to smoke a cigarette, what else is there for him to do when he’s stuck here while Tashi plays and Art makes eyes at her from the crowd? What else does he have to do when you're sitting in front of a book and ignoring his existence and the nasty words? And then someone said something about seeing Tashi's knee fly through the air, and Patrick’s cigarette fell out of his mouth.

He asked three different people where the athletes' clinic was. Two ignored him, and one gave him wrong directions. He found the clinic on his own, trying to make sense of the campus signage. He felt like it was taking him forever. In hindsight, maybe it was better that it took him longer. Because Tashi looked devastated, Art looked lost, and both of them screamed at him. Art’s scream hurt more. He wouldn’t admit it, but he felt Art’s scream all over his body. It made him shiver.

And that’s how he lost Art Donaldson forever. Checkmate by Tashi Duncan. He didn’t expect that. He thought only you could take his place in Art’s life. Never Tashi. He thought you were the only one Art would lose control for. Maybe he looked at everything wrong. What a terrifying thought, to realize you spent years trying to beat someone without noticing the other players. Absolute blindness. He felt lost. Stuck in your disgusting university. Stuck in the loop that his life dragged him into. No matter how much he tried to think about it in the last half hour, he couldn’t find a way out. He couldn’t see a world where he and Art could be friends again.

‘I've got your bag, you forgot it in the library,’ his phone beeped with a message from you. Another message with your room number. He nodded to himself, even though no one could see. He wiped away some of the tears that had fallen from him, hoping no one would see that either.

He knocked on your door loudly, not caring about the other students living in the hallway. You opened quickly, intending to say everything you think about him, but in the hour and a half he’d been gone from your sight, something in Patrick’s gaze had changed. You’d never seen him like this, and it made you lean against the doorframe, mouth half open. You know for sure that he cried, the trail of tears was obvious. You know for sure that he was confused, his gaze zigzagging. The famous smirk he dedicates to you at every moment wasn’t there.

"Who died?" you asked quietly, because you couldn’t find any other reason for what you were seeing in front of you. He just passed through you, as if your room was his own. As if he had an invitation. As if you had to let him in. "Can I sleep here tonight?" he asked. His leg was shaking. He looked the worst you’ve ever seen him. "What happened to Tashi's room-" "Please (Y/N)," he used your actual name, "I’ll be out of your hair by morning. You won’t even feel like I was here, there are no more buses, and my car’s at the tournament site," he explained incoherently but clearly enough for you to nod. For you to understand that something terrible had happened. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Tashi’s. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Art’s. The thought of it made you cringe because the only thing that could have happened, the only thing that could have caused Patrick to fold in front of you like this-

"Am I overthinking this?" you asked after what felt like an eternity. When you were lying on the bed in the dark, and Patrick was lying on a makeshift pile of sheets and pillows on the floor next to you. You hoped he’d tell you that you didn’t need to think about it too much. That he’d tell you the same thing he said to you in the library. "Not this time," he said almost in a whisper, "I’m sorry," he added. Neither of you knew what he was apologizing for; For how he acted all these years or was he apologizing on behalf of Art? On behalf of the person who until just a few hours ago was his best friend. Patrick thinks an apology won’t be enough for either of you. He tries to sleep. When he leaves, he doesn’t write you a note. But there’s a flash of understanding when he looks at you before he walks out; Art was right, there’s something sweet about you. Patrick will never admit it. But what reason would he have to admit it now? Art is no longer part of his life, and he’s pretty sure Art won’t be part of yours just as quickly. You and Patrick both lost him, you just don’t know it yet. He almost feels sorry about how out of the loop you are. And what connection do you and Patrick have without Art? He thinks he’ll miss you. He saw you move slightly, one leg sticking out from under the blanket. He’s sure he’ll miss you. What a humbling thought. . . . You haven't seen Art for a week. And that's okay. Because he doesn't owe you anything. He made sure to remind you at every opportunity that he doesn't owe you anything. Not with words. Never with words. With actions. By acting like he doesn't see you, even though you both know he does. He never sat with you in the cafeteria. He never introduced you to his friends from the tennis team. He never introduced you to Tashi. He drew a very clear line about who you are to him, and you decided years ago that it's okay. That it's enough for you. That Art is yours in the summer. That Art is yours at night. That Art is yours when he wants to be yours.

He doesn't want to be anymore. You can see it in him because on the rare occasions you do see him in the cafeteria, he looks away the second your eyes accidentally meet his. On the rare occasions you do see him this week, his arm is half-wrapped around some girl you don't know. He's trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. Hurt you without really hurting you. He's trying to remind you that he doesn't owe you anything.

You'll never tell him it hurts. You'll never tell him that when you were ten, your mom, half-drunk, told you that to be loved, you'd have to sacrifice a lot. You don't know why you remember that, but you do. And since then, all you've done is sacrifice and sacrifice and sacrifice until sometimes there's nothing left to give. And now is one of those times when there's nothing left to give. You look at him from across the room, and he's a stranger to you, and you're a stranger to him.

You expected him to say something when it happened. You expected a hug, and if he were sensitive enough, a kiss. You expected life to flip upside down and for the sun to stop rising. But life went on, and your sacrifices stayed behind. Along with secrets and hugs and caresses and tears and memories. So many memories. All of it left behind. You can handle heartbreak. Everyone can. You won't be the first to sacrifice and not be heard by God. You won't be the first to starve yourself, and you won't be the first to wait for a phone call that never came. You won't be the first to cry and cry and cry.

After two weeks, you stopped waiting for a message. You stopped expecting a 'hello' in the hallway. You stopped hoping that Art Donaldson would knock on your door in the middle of the night. After two weeks, you looked at him one last time with pleading eyes. With an almost tortured look. After two weeks, you decided you wouldn't sacrifice anything more for Art Donaldson.

After two weeks, you ordered pizza and ate the whole box. He doesn't love you. He doesn't owe you anything. It's okay. You're okay. If not now, then soon you will be. . . . Art spent all his free time helping Tashi recover. He missed Patrick the way you'd miss a vital organ that had to be removed in an emergency surgery. He missed Patrick's messages from the tour. He missed his stories. He missed hearing him talk about a show Art had never watched and never planned to watch. He missed Patrick, but he had Tashi. He missed Patrick, but it was necessary, and one day he wouldn’t miss Patrick anymore, and he’d still have Tashi.

It’s different with you. He doesn’t just miss you—he’s hollow without you. He doesn’t know who he is without your admiring gaze. Without your nose brushing his in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know who he is without you ever since he learned how your skin feels under his touch. And he thought he’d be brave enough to walk into your room and just tell you that he can’t keep doing what the two of you have been doing your whole lives. He can’t keep playing this game. Because it’s not fair. Because he wants to be somewhere else. Because you weigh him down.

He knew he’d be in trouble if things got too serious with you, so he followed all the rules. He never introduced you to his friends. He never took you on a date. He never called you his girlfriend. He did everything right, and he’s still in trouble. That frustrates him more than anything.

He’s noticed that you don’t seek his gaze anymore. That you don’t try to catch his attention. That you’ve stopped sending him messages. He’s noticed that you understood the painfully obvious hint of “no,” and he hated himself for it. He showered that day for almost an hour. Scrubbed himself until his skin was red. As if trying to wash you off his body. As if trying to cleanse the filth he carries in his soul. As if trying to convince himself he’s not a bad person.

He found comfort in the fact that summer was almost here. That it wouldn’t be up to him. That there would be family dinners. That your parents would invite him, and his parents would invite you. That someone would force you both to be in the same room. He found comfort in knowing he wouldn’t have a choice. He didn’t want a choice. He wanted to see how you were handling it. He always sees you immersed in a book. Immersed in a conversation with someone he doesn’t know. Immersed. So immersed. Once, he thought that look -that ability to see into someone’s soul- was reserved only for him. How presumptuous of him. How foolish. How fucking selfish. . . . Patrick sent you a picture of a pigeon that wouldn’t leave him alone while he was eating pita on a bench in some park. He didn’t know why he did it. You’re not friends. You were never friends. But he saw that ridiculous pigeon and wondered if there was something about it that might remind you of him. He wondered if you and Art were still you and Art. He wondered and wondered until he sent the picture. Maybe you wouldn’t reply, but ignoring something wasn’t your style. You’re too good to ignore someone. You don’t have any malice in you. He doesn’t know when he started thinking you didn’t have any malice, because up until two months ago, he thought you were a scheming witch.

'You don’t know how to take pictures.' -(Y/N)-

'Look at you bothering me while I'm eating, little dove' -P- He smiled as he typed.

'Are you bored?' -(Y/N)-

'Maybe I miss you like you clearly miss me' -P- He didn’t know why he wrote that. He didn’t know what he wanted from you, if he was being honest with himself. But he wanted something. He wanted someone. Everyone deserves someone, and Patrick deserves someone too.

'You’re full of shit' -(Y/N)- He could imagine you rolling your eyes as you typed that. He knows you don’t talk like that. He thinks it’s something reserved just for him.

He decided to call because typing with food in his hand was too much effort. You answered quickly, out of breath. “Are you in the middle of sex?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “Why do you always have to say the grossest thing possible?” you shot back. He was glad you couldn’t see him because if you could, you’d hold the grin on his face against him. “What’s gross about sex, little dove? It’s natural-” “Why did you call?” you cut him off, not giving him any more points. “Just wanted to ask how you’re doing.” His voice sounded smaller. Embarrassed. You’re not friends. You never were. That’s not the nature of your relationship. There’s nothing he loves about you.

“I’m fine. Busy with school.” He could imagine you shrugging. “You’re going home soon, right? Summer break.” He knew what that used to mean for you and Art. He didn’t know what it meant now. He was fishing for answers, trying to figure out where things stood between you two. He wanted to know if Art had cut you out of his life with the brutality of a killer or if he was still keeping you wrapped in a ribbon, belonging only to him. He thought the former sounded more like Art.

“I’m probably staying at Stanford, for obvious reasons.” He could hear your voice, quiet as though you didn’t want to admit it. “It’s not fair,” Patrick said. “You’re supposed to enjoy your summer.” He added, growing frustrated with how inconsiderate Art was, with the monopoly Art held over your shared neighborhood. Bull-fucking-shit; “I’ve got two weeks off, and my parents are abroad. You could come to my lake house if you want a change of scenery,” he said, spitting the words out quickly before he could regret the invitation. Art was the only one who’d ever been invited there.

“That’s nice of you.” You said. He could hear the surprise you tried to hide in your voice. “I mean it,” he said, much more determined now. “It’ll be fun. My parents have the most impressive alcohol collection you’ll ever see.” He didn’t know what he was doing or which part of his brain was speaking for him right now. “I’ll think about it,” you said, wrapping up the call with a few more sentences. It felt like a win. And more than anything, Patrick needed a win. . . . "Is it true?" you heard Art's voice before you lifted your head from the book you were reading. "Hey, Art," you said with the most genuine smile you could muster, ignoring your racing heartbeat that only quickened. The truth was, you hadn’t seen him this close to you in two months. "You’re not going home for the break?" He sat down across from you without an invitation. "Nope," you said, as if it were obvious. As if that had been your plan all along. As if three months ago, you hadn’t whispered to each other in the dead of night all the things you’d do over the summer. As if you’d never loved him.

"You weren’t planning to tell me?" he asked, his gaze never leaving you. All you could do was raise an eyebrow because, honestly, where did he get the audacity? Where did he get the nerve to sit down across from you and make demands? Where did he get the idea that he owed you nothing, but you owed him everything? It’s your fault. You know it’s your fault. You taught him that you’d give every part of yourself for just a sliver of attention. But you don’t need that from him anymore. He’s a stranger. A stranger whose favorite scent you know. A stranger you’ve seen cry at Titanic. A stranger whose taste still lingers on the tip of your tongue. A stranger you know too well.

"No," you answered honestly. Because frankly, what else is there to say to him? "Are you serious? Why aren’t you going home?" he demanded answers. Demanded and demanded and demanded, after you gave and gave and gave. It’s your fault. Your mother’s fault and her foolish advice. You spoon-fed him love. "Because I have other plans. I’m sorry, am I missing something here, Art? We haven’t talked in two months, and I don’t understand what the issue is now." You didn’t want to be rude. Not to Art. Not to anyone. Sometimes to Patrick, but only because he was the most vulgar person you’d ever met. But Art was gentle and sensitive and beautiful, and harsh words had no place in your conversations with him.

"What plans?" he ignored your jab, but you could see him swallow hard, his eyebrows knitting together as if you’d sent him to work in a coal mine all summer. "I’m going to a friend’s," you found yourself shrugging. "Who? Someone I know?" he asked. "No," you felt guilty for the lie, "Why is this your business, Art?" you tried to make him leave or at least give you an answer. "We had plans too," he said quietly, as if revealing one last secret to you.

"I don’t remember." His expression changed in seconds. It was the look you’d only seen when he played tennis or tried to fend someone off you at one of the parties he told you to come to. Ice. He stood up and walked away within moments. Maybe this is the closure you two needed. Maybe it’s for the best. . . . Until the very last moment, Patrick didn’t believe you’d come. He waited for your bus by the side of the road, and when you got off, dressed in a floral summer dress and an oversized hat, signaling to the driver that you had a suitcase in the luggage compartment, Patrick stood frozen in place, his mouth agape. Because if someone had told him six months ago that he’d want to spend his free time in the summer with you, he would have laughed in their face. If someone had told him you’d show up in this remote place, in that ridiculous outfit, he probably would have snorted.

"Little dove, I was sure you’d chicken out," he said. Back when you talked about it, he treated it like a challenge. He spoke about your arrival at the lake house like it was a mission on a reality show. Impossible to pull off, with so much to lose. "I told you I’d come." You shrugged and smiled a smile he’d once seen you give to Art. Patrick had never received a smile from you, at least not a friendly one. Always a fake one. The kind he wanted to wipe off your face. "Are you going to help me with my suitcase, or are you going to keep standing there like a statue?" you asked with a chuckle. Patrick thought he was ready to sell the Porsche he’d come in, just to hear you chuckle again.

"This car is ridiculous," you said as you sat down beside him and raised your hands for emphasis. The convertible top was too much for you. Patrick had chosen this car on purpose. He wanted you to have the full Zweig family summer experience. He wanted you to feel what it was like to be in his inner circle. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe he could buy your friendship. He didn’t know why he wanted it so badly. He went to sleep with your messages and woke up to them. Neither of you had any other friends, not real ones at least. It would’ve been sad if it didn’t make him so happy. He was such a loser. But it didn’t seem like you cared, and maybe the Porsche would grow on you by the end of these two weeks.

He showed you the rooms and the massive windows that let an unreasonable amount of light into the "cabin," which was supposed to be modest but was larger than most of the houses in your and Art’s neighborhood. Patrick knew that. He studied your reaction to everything he showed you. Watched as you stared at the lake right outside the cabin. Sat on the sofa in the living room for a moment. Placed your belongings in the guest room.

"We need to go shopping," you announced after opening the fridge to find it completely empty. "We don’t have to. You don’t eat anything anyway," he blurted out, and he saw you pale. "What are you talking about?" you mumbled, looking everywhere but at him. "Nothing, I’ve just never seen you eat." He tried to say it casually, but the truth was, it had always preoccupied him. Every time he visited Art in the summer and found himself at gatherings with you, you’d take food onto your plate but never actually put it in your mouth. He couldn’t understand how it didn’t bother Art. He couldn’t understand how Art just ignored it. As if it were completely normal behavior to sit with someone you called your best friend and not eat.

"I eat." Your entire face was scrunched up, the way he’d learned it does when you overthink. When you’re trying to get the most out of a situation you’ve found yourself in. When you’re trying to be nice to Patrick but don’t want to because he doesn’t deserve it. "Whatever, little dove. Let’s go shopping. I’ll show you the main street. There are some cool spots there," he concluded the conversation because he didn’t want to argue. And honestly, it wasn’t his place to comment on your habits. So he decided to let it go.

The main street of the small village you were in was almost empty. It could have been suspicious if Patrick hadn’t been here dozens, if not hundreds, of times since he was born. This was one of his dad’s favorite vacation homes. After an hour of wandering between stores, they found themselves sitting across from each other at a diner. Patrick watched as you ate fish and chips in front of him like your life depended on it. Like you had something to prove. He just rolled his eyes, shoved three fries into his mouth at once, leaned back, and chuckled.

Everything was peaceful. Patrick was sure it would be much weirder, at least at first. But no. You fit into his summer as if you’d always belonged there. From conversations with the elderly neighbors at the cabin next door to the meals you cooked together- it was domestic. Patrick was afraid to talk about how different this was from anything he’d ever done with a girl. He was afraid to mention that you were sleeping in the room that used to be only Art's. He was afraid to admit that he thought you were pretty in a way he hadn't thought before.

He thinks you’re most beautiful in the morning, before you’ve had your coffee. If he’s lucky and goes for a morning run, even before you’ve brushed your teeth. He’s discovered you’re funny. That you can deliver the funniest line with the perfect timing. He thinks it’s because you read a lot. Because you’re smart. Because you know things. He loves that you come to watch him train, even though you’re busy with your own things and only steal occasional glances his way. He thinks he could replace Art in your life. He thinks you think so too.

But deep down, you both know nothing could ever replace Art. And one of the times you’re sitting across from him at the diner, he takes a picture of you sipping a milkshake while smiling and uploads it to Facebook. Because Facebook is the new 'it' thing, and everyone has it. And if Patrick’s lucky, you’ll make it your profile picture. Then he can look at it and remember that he made you laugh, that he made you happy, and for two weeks, he beat Art Donaldson at something. And it felt sweet. So sweet.

The night before you plan to go back to university, you and Patrick get drunk on his dad’s fancy tequila. He’d never seen you drunk before, so like many things, this was new. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and you were wearing shorts that were far too short because August’s heat was unbearable. And the more both of you drank, the fuller your lips seemed to him, the rosier your cheeks, the larger your chest.

He just wanted to touch something. To feel something.

When one thing led to another and you were straddling him, your lips on his, he let out a deep bassy groan he never thought he could produce. Patrick had been with girls before- God knows he’d been with enough girls not to lose his cool over someone agreeing to kiss him. But something about how delicate you were and how much he had hated you a few months ago, how much he’d wanted to erase every trace of you, made him so hard he found himself grinding against you like some kind of desperate dog. He fucked you on the couch in the living room, and though the couch was comfortable, he wasn’t proud of it. He thinks he should’ve restrained himself, taken you to a bed. He thinks you deserve more than him being lazy, drunk, and not at his best. But if there’s one thing Patrick Zweig is terrible at, it’s delaying gratification. And he wanted you so badly. You didn’t seem to mind the location, at least not outwardly.

His lips were everywhere, as if he was trying to swallow you whole in one go. The sounds coming out of you were pornographic. Every so often, the thought crossed his mind that Art was the only other guy who had ever heard you like this, seen you like this- so needy, so vulnerable. It made his cock twitch even harder than it already was.

When he touched you, you were so wet that he told you how dirty you were for him. He talked to you like he still hated you. Like it was all punishment. Like he was about to get up, point at you, and laugh at how pathetic you were. But you couldn’t think about that now. You didn’t have the bandwidth. Not when his hands were teasing your nipple. Not when his lips were marking your neck. Not when he entered you in one hard thrust, making you almost cry out.

At some point, your heels found their way to his shoulders. He looked at your face with the little focus he could muster, and it was a sight he needed to preserve. To remember until the day he died. And he pushed deeper with that thought, drawing sounds out of both of you that neither of you knew you could make. In the end, he felt you clench around him, making him release everything that had built up in his balls with one long groan.

He just lay over you for a few minutes, still wearing the condom. With the sweat, the tears, the marks- you looked so utterly fucked. And it was because of him. He hadn’t felt this proud in a long time.

“So this is what it feels like,” he heard you mumble. “What feels like?” he asked, finding himself playing with your soft hair. “To have an orgasm.”

He hadn’t expected that, so he shifted slightly to look at your face. Your eyes were still glassy. You weren’t focused. If you were, you probably wouldn’t have said that. “What did you say?” he asked, wanting you to repeat it. “I’ve never come before. I thought I was broken,” you chuckled like it was a joke. But Patrick’s heart pounded harder than he expected. He knew for certain that you and Art had slept together before. That wasn’t a secret. He knew you and Art had done things that weren’t just sex even earlier. “You and Art-” He was confused. “I’m not proud of it,” you sighed quietly. “I faked it so he wouldn’t feel bad. I read in a magazine what to do to make it seem real,” you explained quickly, as if saying it faster would make it less scandalous. “You don’t have to fake orgasms to make someone feel good, Little Dove,” he sighed. “You’re the one who's supposed to feel good. That’s the whole point of sex,” he declared, explaining it to you like reciting a rule to a confused puppy.

Patrick needed a win, and this—this was the biggest victory of all times. He had beaten Art Donaldson in every damn set, and it felt so fucking sweet.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written anything, so this came out super weird and unclear. I hope you like it tho! Please DM me and let me know what you think. That’s it, byeeeeee

#challengers fic #so sweet #art donaldson #patrick zweig #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #challengers #tashi duncan #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut

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postcardsfromheapside · 2 days ago

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[heavy sigghhhhhhhhh]

Okay, it's 9:30 in the morning, but I don't want to go out in the cold yet so we're addressing THIS instead.

First and foremost, turning Emmrich into the victim (and then whining about the lack of Solas) is what's cringe here. Not only is some of this wrong (Harding only brings up the age issue because Emmrich expresses his own concerns and she then acts as a sounding board for him), but it's getting tiresome to act as if the other companions don't have reasons to voice their opinions (I'm getting particularly tired of people not listening to the exchange with Taash and considering how they might feel). You can apparently consider things from Emmrich's perspective, but you refuse to consider things from everyone else's.

I'll put this under the cut - I hope no one has plans because we're going to be here a while.

A lot of the complaints in the post neatly latch onto individual ones I've run across in the past, so I'm just going to make one big response.

Emmrich is my favorite character in Veilguard, and second only to Varric for the whole series.

But he can be stuffy, snobbish, overly pedantic, he gets into other people's business and loses emotional perspective when the academic focus takes over, is possibly attempting to make a major life change based on barely-addressed trauma, and is prone to bouts of melancholy where he has to be drawn out by his friends and/or lover about whatever is actually bothering him, rather than him communicating his issues. He is not perfect,

That's why it's very interesting in that post to see someone claiming that "no one's bullshit is called out." When the companions "dunk" on Emmrich, it's a two-way street. Sometimes the companion is wrong, sometimes Emmrich is wrong.

Neve and Emmrich resolve their issues peaceably - it's not toothless, it's just that they're both mature adults and neither of them get actively hostile with others if they don't have to. They talk it through over several conversations, and decide the other is fine - good company even! - and move on to sharing Manfred, sharing poetry (you have to read the codex), sharing spell books, joking with each other, they're my favorite to bring out together despite not having interlocking talents.

Davrin and Emmrich start somewhat peacably - Emmrich tries to encourage him that he will find Assan's siblings, and I've gotten dialogue about the books the lighthouse has to offer early on - and then they begin their magic and child-rearing arguments. And Davrin ISN'T IN THE WRONG.

1) while it seems silly to us for Davrin to be a Fade denier, what's more interesting to me is that he points out that in a group of mages arguing about the Fade, there's never a cohesive answer. It's like listening to philosophers or religious experts never coming up with one clear answer about their favorite topics to mentally masturbate over. Davrin likes "science". He's writing a monster manual, ffs. He wants solid answers. One thing I love about Davrin is he's never afraid to call something that's bullshit, bullshit. Weird magical things happening in Arlathan? Bullshit. (and they are) Living in the lighthouse and feeling like it's ooky spooky? Bullshit. (and it kinda is) Questioning the boss about the god stuck in their head feeding them bullshit? 100% should be doing that. You should be listening to Davrin more - he's the voice telling you not to go into the haunted house, y'all, it might save your life.

2) He's also not wrong about Emmrich helicopter parenting Manfred, and almost none of how Davrin handles Assan is any of Emmrich's business, or area of expertise.

We need to stop getting upset at Harding for talking Emmrich through his worries about an age difference (this is something I think Bioware handled badly in that not everyone headcanons their Rook at a younger age, but also, Emmrich clearly has an issue with aging due to his thanatophobia). He shows signs of distress, and she talks him through it and offers advice. For some reason, a large part of the fandom has decided to take his issues out on HER, which is *wild* but not unexpected given the deeply internalized misogyny I've seen displayed. Not only that, but Sylvia herself has come out on Harding's side, because she wrote Emmrich that way.

Getting irritated at Taash is honestly wrong on so many levels at this point. I don't diagnose other people or characters, so I won't get into the ND aspect (it's fine if you relate to it, I'm not stopping you), but I will say this: Taash comes from a completely different culture than Emmrich, which finds using dead bodies so "callously" to be abhorrent, and their particularly sensitive sense of smell makes anything having to do with death even more disgusting to them (have you ever smelled a corpse, or dead animals? My migraines enhance my sense of smell, and make normal things smell awful sometimes) and finally, they are IN THEIR EARLY 20'S AND FULLY ACT LIKE IT. That means not everything they do is going to be as mature as the rest of the party, who are in their early to mid 30's, (and Emmrich was listed as 50-52). You can outright tell Emmrich to cut the shit, and he reels himself back with zero disapproval because he realizes ALL of this in a single second. *He's* the grown-ass man and professor here and shouldn't be escalating their argument. He values Taash, and changes his entire behavior toward them IMMEDIATELY, because *he was in the wrong*. And Taash responds to it, in a positive manner. You do not need to protect Emmrich from Taash.

Even Lucanis refuses to talk to Emmrich about Spite in some dialogue, because he feels more like a academic project than a person.

No companion is explicitly "called out" because sometimes these characters are calling *Emmrich* out. You're just refusing to see that he might be acting badly in his very quiet, stuffy way.

**put a pin in the Davrin/Lucanis bit**

Now.

After seeing a series of screenshots ending with this:

I got a little fixated with finding out which route unlocked this dialogue. It turns out you, as Rook, can romance Emmrich while expressing distaste for death, necromancy, and the undead the entire time - effectively dissing his profession and life's work, to paraphrase the post I linked - and Emmrich doesn't actually disapprove. Any time you can express disaste without missing a flirt option, if you do that, he takes it in stride. And then you can flirt as normal. He is *used* to people feeling this way. I think all Nevarrans are. I rather suspect he doesn't give a shit what the companions think about his job, at his age - he's written books, he's given lectures, he's a senior Watcher. Their opinions don't matter. He's at the top of his game, he has nothing to prove to them. Rook hired him, not them. And Rook? If you romance him, and take this route, his answer to you is: "There's no shame in a little attraction to the forbidden, my darling."

This man is a fucking menace. He doesn't need defending - you need defense against his rizz.

Now, Solas.

Yes, Solas taunts him for being a lich. Solas also taunts Davrin for being Dalish and what he must have heard about Solas from his people. Solas also tries to flatter Emmrich if he remains human. Solas tries to butter up Lace by apologizing to her. It's almost as if Solas is the "god" of deceit and trickery and presents as many different faces as their are people or even aspects of those people. He will present whatever face he thinks he needs to in order to get under their skin, or throw them off their game. Solas doesn't care about Emmrich becoming a lich. He doesn't actually care about any of the companions. He cares about tearing down the Veil. What choices you've made do not matter to him on a personal level except inasfar as he can use you. That's who he is. I hate it for you if you haven't realized and accepted this by now.

There are a lot of people who think Solas and Emmrich "nerd out" in their dialogue, and I just don't see it. I've held back from this descriptor in this lengthy response, but Emmrich constantly displays a very "British" politeness - and he does it when Solas attempts to flatter him in the end game. Emmrich doesn't express a *personal* wish to have a conversation with Solas. He says there are things the Watchers wish to have answered. It's professional for him. Solas kidnapped Rook, someone who, romanced or not, Emmrich spent weeks making a damn good facsimile of the lyrium dagger in order to save. Emmrich isn't going to outright tell Solas to go fuck himself, because he's too well-mannered, and he's got an affinity about spirits. But he's not inviting him over for tea and crumpets.

I don't understand where the idea that Emmrich holds off from flirting back because of the age gap comes from. "I must be sure to live up to expectation" - do you...do you not see that as him flirting back? TBH I think this guy flirts first and then kicks himself because "that's the boss" (and probably gets told about what's happened with Varric) and only REALLY gets serious when he thinks "No, there actually is something here" when Rook has flirted a few more times after that, plus helped him in his personal quest. Age gap be damned. A lot of us did not play Rooks with an age gap, or that much of one - mine was my age, well within Earth "norms" these days.

Okay, back to the Davrin and Lucanis bit.

Saying that Lucanis is "okay because he's an assassin that only kills bad people" is missing the point. Lucanis fully admits that he has only killed people who are guilty by his own yardstick. I'm sure all the companions could agree there are some standards (children) but even in D'Meta's crossing you're faced with a moral choice where not everyone agrees what to do (free the mayor or don't) and it's very clear that not everyone has the same standards about what makes a "killer". So why should you assume that Lucanis is a guilt-free assassin? We know that he frees slaves, we know that he earned a reputation killing Venatori mages. But he demures from Emmrich's excited statements that he "empathizes" with all his victims. There's absolutely no way he was able to vet all his kills, and who decides who "deserves" to be killed? You're meant to contrast this with Davrin's warm empathy for the criminals who join the wardens and become "something better" - the kinds of people who start bad and change into something good, who get a second chance to help and contribute to Thedas society in a meaningful way. But the Wardens have their own dark history, they're often corrupt. Lucanis and Davrin are two *good people* propping up their own suspect organizations, both of which are doing the best they can in imperfect situations. It's like watching a gang member and a cop slowly understand each other.

Please for the love of Andraste. Go read widely and expose yourself to other things and other people. It will help you gain perspective. This is a GOOD game, and not thinking critically about the conversations and choices, or trying to see things from each character's perspective, is what's holding people back from enjoying the richness and replayability it has to offer.

#emmrich volkarin #dragon age emmrich #emmrich the necromancer #solas critical #solas #datv #veilguard positive #fandom critical #dragon age #dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age veilguard #dragon age meta #long post

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caffedrine · 3 days ago

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Chevalier Michael - Things That Can Only be Done at Night - Event Summary

If you trust me to know what I'm doing, then we have both made a huge mistake. I cannot guarantee accuracy for this summary, or even grammatical correctness.

Please support Cybird and pick up this event when it makes it to the English Server

Late at night, Emma lies awake in Chevalier’s arms. Unfortunately, while he’s snoozing happily next to her, Emma has developed insomnia. Chevalier wakes up and notes that Emma is still awake, and she apologizes for waking him up, blaming the wind. Chevalier tells her not to bother lying to him, and he knows that she hasn’t been able to sleep for the past few days.

Chevalier continues to hold Emma gently, and she likes how warm he is. Emma admits the truth, that while she knows that there’s nothing wrong, something in her is unsettled and anxious.

Chevalier tells her that she already has the answer. He pulls her closer and strokes her hair gently. He tells her that she doesn’t need to think about it, all she needs to do is let him pet her like this.

And it is very comforting. Soon, Emma feels herself relax and drifts off to sleep. When she next opens her eyes, the room is bright with morning sunlight.

And Chevalier is still sleeping next to her.

Emma appreciates Chevalier’s efforts, but she knows that she can't continue to rely on him to put her to sleep.

So of course Emma goes to someone else to ask for advice.

She join Yves and Licht for some tea and explains the situation to him. The two look apprehensive, and Yves has to clarify that Emma’s not bragging about her nighttime activities to them.

(While they’re happy for her and Chevalier, there are some things not even family wants to hear)

After clarifying that she really just wants to be able to sleep, Yves muses that she can try drinking something warm before she goes to sleep. Maybe not tea, but warm milk with honey and brandy. Maybe even try adding some jam? Yves made some earlier, and he smugly offers to let Emma have the remainder.

Licht notes that Yves often looks sleepy after lunch. While Yves protests, Emma admits that sometimes she also dozes off while reading documents after lunch.

Hmm, maybe that might have something to do with it? Yves asks if Emma has been a little too busy recently? Licht adds that he hasn’t been seeing her recently because the only time they run into her, she’s carrying around stacks of documents bigger than she is. Maybe she needs a vacation?

Later that night, Emma puts Yves’ advice to use – not the vacation part, but the warm beverage before bed part. The shot of brandy should only help, right?

Washing the drink down with a bite of cookie, she realizes that at some point Chevalier had joined her, and is staring at her. She apologizes for not noticing him and begins to prepare a pot of tea. While she does, Chevalier picks up a cookie. She thinks he’s going to eat it himself, but instead, he tries to feed her. When she protests, he argues that she can have just one more.

Well, with an argument like that, who could say no? Emma leans forward to eat it, but her heart skips a beat when she feels his fingers against her lips. Chevalier teases her, hoping that silly expression can relax before she goes to sleep. He kisses her lips, and her heart begins to race.

A few hours later, as Emma lies awake, she laments her misfortune of still suffering from insomnia.

Chevalier says her name. Emma tries to pretend that she’s asleep, even burying her face in his chest and fake snoring. Unfortunately, he doesn’t fall for her deception, and hugs her tight, stroking her head. He points out that if he does this, she can go to sleep. So, why is she hesitating.

Emma does like this feeling, but she can disturb his rest just to make him settle her. She feels his finger flick against her forehead, and he tells her not to think such unnecessary thoughts. This time, he starts gently patting her back.

Gradually, Emma sinks into peaceful slumber.

The next morning, Leon and Jin find her. They explain that Yves is worried about her and told them all about her medical details.

They blame Chevalier.

Emma quickly defends her man, point out that he’s been putting her to sleep every night. Which is more than they wanted to hear. That said, if they know, that means the brother who is most set on bothering Chevalier knows.

Be warned, Clavis is getting ready to interfere.

Later that night, Emma was following Jin’s suggestions and stretching really good before bed. And it feels nice, she never realized how tense her shoulders were. Maybe it has something to do with all those documents she’s been reviewing?

Suddenly she hears the distinct sound of someone snickering. A glance at the door reveals Chevalier, badly trying to suppress his laughter. He promises that he wasn’t just staring at her like a creep, he knocked first and everything. He asks if the stretching helped.

Maybe, at least, Emma wants to think that it helped. Which isn’t the confidence Chevalier was hoping to hear. Suddenly Chevalier tackles her to the bed before draping a blanket over her body. Sitting next to her, Chevalier begins to pat her head. Emma murmurs that she really was planning on going to Chevalier’s room after stretching, but soon the warmth and love of the person before her relaxes her. She threatens that she really will go to sleep soon.

Chevalier doesn’t mind.

The next morning, Emma wakes up alone in her own room. Chevalier probably returned to his own room after she fell asleep, and once again, she feels like a burden to Chevalier.

When she enters the foreign faction office, she finds a beaming Clavis waiting for her.

He’s already heard everything and is here to solve her problems. A quick glance around finds the office otherwise empty, Chevalier somewhere else. Another glance shows a small vial in Clavis’ hand.

Seeing her suspicious look, Clavis complains that he hasn’t even said anything yet. Emma points out that his mischievous expression says enough.

How harsh! All Clavis wants to do is help her! He then chucks the vial at Emma who almost drops it.

Oh why oh why is Clavis using her to annoy Chevalier?

Chevalier also wonders this. Emma turns to find him behind her, holding the small vial that she swore was in her own hands just a minute before.

Clavis assure him that solving his beloved sister-in-law's problems is all that he wants. Annoying Chevalier is just a happy bonus. Really, Clavis can’t believe how much of a gentleman he is.

(Praise him)

Clavis frowns at Chevalier’s expression and asks if Chevalier is planning on adding on to Clavis’ already giant pile of work, like he always does to retaliate. He hurries past them to leave, but not before whispering in Emma’s ear that the vial is just something that will put her to sleep, nothing more. If she doesn’t want to be a burden then she should-

Clavis cuts himself off with a shout as Chevalier flicks his forehead. He complains that he’ll really have to get Emma to take the medicine otherwise this torture is not worth- Hey!

This time Clavis dodges Chevalier’s hand and runs off.

Chevalier examines the vial briefly before shrugging. It really does seem to be just a sleeping draught, he’ll leave it up to Emma whether or not she wants to take it.

Back to work; Chevalier and Emma are reviewing documents, and Emma explains that they pertain to an upcoming meeting. Chevalier reminds her that handling the meeting is Sariel’s job, but Emma feels uneasy if she does nothing.

Soon she’ll have a semi-public forum where she’ll present her ideas in front of the nobles and influential merchants of the town. Her revolutionary idea of a public library is getting some pushback, due to the fear of book prices dropping and anyone able to acquire free knowledge above their station, but this is important to her.

Chevalier reviews Emma’s documents and looks deep into her eyes. He tells her that he doesn’t see any problems with them.

Which is Chevalier’s way of deeply encouraging her.

Chevalier pointedly suggests that Emma might get some use out of Clavis’ medicine.

Oh, maybe she’s been a little stressed out? Maybe this is why she cannot sleep at night? Emma pockets the vial, and politely bows and leaves Chevalier’s study.

Later that night, Emma joins Chevalier in his room. He notes that Emma hasn’t taken the medicine, and Emma admits that she has finally figured out why she cannot sleep at night. She was running away from these problems because she convinced herself that as the next queen she shouldn’t feel anxious and tense.

Yep, Chevalier agrees. If she puts her mind to it, she will probably cure herself of insomnia immediately. But, since unlike him, Emma is not some uber-human, she’ll probably have to take the slower route. He has no doubts that she’ll eventually progress to the point that she won’t feel anxious about presenting her ideas.

Chevalier has no doubt that her plan to implement the library will be a success, and that her meeting in two days will go well. That’s why, instead of seeing her as a burden to carry, he’s just been helping her fall asleep.

Emma admits that she’s been enjoying these evenings. Drinking tea together, chatting in bed, and letting Chevalier dote on her while she drifts off, all are kind of nice.

But there’s one thing she doesn’t quite understand. What did Clavis mean by annoying Chevalier?

Chevalier admits that he feels the same way as she does, where nights like this aren’t so bad. He likes being needed and helping her to sleep, and would hate for these evenings to end so quickly.

Huh, all this time, Emma thought that she was a burden to Chevalier. It’s kind of nice to know that he’s also enjoying himself.

Two days later, after Emma is finished with her meeting, she asks Chevalier for his feedback. He notes that no one was able to raise any objections, so that should be enough to assure her that her plan will be a success.

Well, with the problem gone, Emma has no doubt that she will sleep soundly. But it would be nice if Chevalier occasionally helped put Emma to sleep.

Only occasionally? Will Emma be satisfied with that? Chevalier lightly grabs Emma’s chin and holds her so that he can look into her eyes. He flicks her forehead.

Later that night, Emma is reading in Chevalier’s room next to him. He notes that she still can’t seem to sleep, but Emma assures him that she’s fine, she’s just caught up in her book.

Suddenly Chevalier leans over and kisses her, his mouth blocking her sentence. He asks if she wants him to help lull her to sleep, making it clear that sleeping is the last thing on his mind. And just to think, he’s just come up with the perfect method to help put her to sleep, but if she doesn’t want his help . . .

Fine, she wants him. She wants him to fill her up with him to the point that she can’t think of anything else.

When Emma wakes up, sore and tired, it’s already morning. She greets Chevalier – or tries to – but he only grumbles that it’s too early to be alive and tells her to be quiet.

Well, it is her day off, so maybe it’s okay to sleep in just a little.

#ikemen prince #ikepri #chevalier michel

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chiacanwritesometimes · 3 days ago

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the three times you tried, and the one time it worked. (part 2)

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ship: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 1.6k

author’s note: this is unedited, so there might be some grammatical errors. this fic dives into themes of pregnancy, miscarriage, and alcohol. please please please do not interact if these themes bother, trigger, or make you uncomfortable. all information regarding my statistics have been sourced from mayo clinic, nhs.uk and cleveland clinic. please let me know if i got anything wrong so i can update this with the most accurate information! if you have gone through something like this or similar, please reach out to support groups or hotlines. i will link some down on the notes as soon as i can!

eek! one part left! i have enjoyed writing this so far, and i might do a “what they’re up to now” when im done with this series. i hope you enjoy reading it :P

===========

it was hard on him as well. how do you go from being thrown seventy years into the future, from meeting the love of your life, to losing a baby with her?

her screams haunted him, almost as much as…

he tried not to think about it too much. he promised her he was starting a new life with and for her, although she encouraged him to talk about the past to better understand him and to help him work out the trauma.

he spent most of his days in the office, filling out paperwork. he called time off from work, but you got well enough to the point where he could return without fear of you hurting yourself. most nights were spent holding each other, with either one of you or both of you crying.

80 percent of miscarriages happen in the first trimester. it’s not that you weren’t fertile, but what you both didn’t account for was how his super soldier genes would affect everything, having the baby develop faster than it’s little body could handle. it was eight centimeters long, contrast to the common five centimeters. he blamed himself for it, but you assured that through no fault of his, it happened. you didn’t want to grow to resent him, as you knew deep down it truly wasn’t his fault. you buried yourself in statistics to find loops and explanations as to why, why you, why this, just…why. for women under 30, 1 in 10 pregnancies end in miscarriage. around 10-20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. you became depressed, finding yourself as another statistic to write down, another number in a chart. he caught on to what you were doing, but didn’t know how to handle it. he mostly just held you, and whispered words of comfort into your ear.

“why did it have to be us?” you whispered softly, one night, as he spooned you.

he paused for a moment. “i don’t know.”

“if only i-“. he cut you off. “stop. you know it wasn’t your fault. we’ll try again when you’re ready, okay?”

you went out with your friends one day, a small reward you gave yourself for being so strong. you felt bad for leaving him home, but he assured you that he would be productive.

you really didn’t drink. that’s what you kept telling yourself as you ordered, and kept ordering. you really didn’t, you just didn’t know what came over you. maybe it was the fact that the drinks were cheap, or the company was good. or maybe it was the five month anniversary. you tried not to think about it much, as you didn’t want to depress your friends. your sorrows were washed away, and for the first time in a while, you felt whole. soon, you were drunk. not tipsy, but full on, shit faced drunk. your giddy smile convinced your friends to call him, and it wasn’t long before he was there to pick you up. he scooped you up with ease, and chuckled at your exaggerated affection towards him.

“you’re drunk.” he teased, as he sat you down in the passenger seat.

“and you’re not.” you teased back. he closed the door and walked over to the drivers seat. he sat down and took a deep breath. he didn’t start the car just yet, he was just looking at you.

“well i can’t get drunk, you know that. plus, im driving. wouldn’t be responsible.”

“and you’re known for always following the rules, yes yes.” you said in a mock serious tone, making him snort.

“low blow.” he responded, as he turned the key to the ignition. the hum of the engine proved to be a good melody lulling you to sleep, and your head bobbed as you tried your hardest to stay awake. his hand was on your thigh, and his thumb traced circles. it proved wonders, and you quickly fell asleep. the car ride was fifteen minutes long, and your eyes fluttered open as your body recognized the turns to your home. you stretched your arms, muscles sore from all the dancing you did with your friends. he was humming a song, one you tried to recognize.

the music started, and was i the perplexed one?

he stopped the car, and walked to your side, opening the door.

i held my breath and said, may i have the next one?

his soft voice made your ears turn red. he helped you out of the car, and scooped you bridal style. you giggled. he walked to the front door, and you unlocked it. he gently placed you down as you both entered, and he continued.

in my frightened arms-

you smiled. “polka dots and moon beams.” you said. you recognized the song, and as you took your shoes off, he beamed at you. he nodded and continued.

polka dots and moon beams, sparkled on a pug nosed dream.

he whistled the improvisation of the trombone, and took your hands as he led you down the hall to the dining room. there, a candle lit table with two plates.

“i had this planned, but i didn’t want you to not go out with your friends.” he admitted sheepishly. you gasped and smiled.

“this is so sweet.” you were slowly sobering up. your clothes felt heavy on you, and you suggested putting on pajamas. he agreed, and the both of you walked upstairs as you talked about the events of the night. he listened intently, and sat down on the bathroom counter as you took a quick shower. the warm air made your baby hairs cling to your skin, and the mirror foggy. you finished, and grabbed the nearest towel and covered yourself. you walked out of the shower, shivering slightly from the temperature difference. you walked over to where he sat, and smiled at him.

“hi.” you said softly, soaking in the intimate moment.

“hi.” he replied, equally as gentle. he cupped your jaw, and planted a small kiss on your lips. he leaned his forehead on yours, and closed his eyes.

“you smell good. new shampoo?”

you nodded.

“you’re welcome to try it.” you smiled, running your damp hand through his hair. he grabbed your wrist, and starting placing small kisses on your knuckles, your palm, your fingers.

“you’re so pretty.” he said as he sat up from the counter and towered above you. you grinned.

“you really think so?”

he nodded.

“oh yeah. everyone at work is so jealous of me.” he boasted as you snorted.

“oh, i’m sure.” you chuckled as he took your hand and twirled you and pulled you in, embracing you. he pulled you in a long kiss, holding the back of your neck and your waist. he sat you down on the counter and one thing led to another and…

you kept replaying those moments as you stared at the two lines on the second pregnancy test. you felt dread, but also joy? it was a mix of emotions. you felt scared, what if it happened again? 80 percent of miscarriages happen in the first trimester, you kept telling yourself. you just had to survive the first 12 weeks, and you’ll be fine.

you knocked on the doorway to his office, which was a huge step for you. you hadn’t entered that room since the incident. he looked up from his book.

“what’s up, birdie?” birdie. a nickname he used after catching you singing along to one of your favorite records, and one he used sparingly. that nicknamed grounded you, and gave you the strength to fess up.

you held up the test, and said nothing.

“two lines?” he asked, with a tone you could almost register as nervousness with a twinge of fear.

you nodded. he stood up to embrace you, laughing.

“two lines!” he kept repeating, kissing your neck. this made you ease up, and soon, you were laughing as well.

“okay, okay! we have to be prepared this time.” you stated. “but also, we can’t get our hopes too up, what if-“. you stopped laughing. you cleared your throat.

“no matter what happens, we’ll…be fine, right?”

he nodded. “we’ll be fine. for better or worse, remember?”

“pinky promise?” your request broke his heart. he set you down and extended his own pinky finger, hooking it with yours. he took your hand and kissed it.

“i’m yours, through it all.” he said, smiling.

you two had decided to take a small vacation, to get your mind off things. you refused any food that could possibly hurt the growth of the fetus, and tried your hardest to stay optimistic. you steered clear of baby clothes until after the first twelve weeks were over. how betrayed you would soon feel.

as you were three weeks in, you felt strange. similar to the way it felt the first time, but you thought it was just morning sickness or something.

you both had travelled to maine, to watch the ocean. you decided that fresh air was what you both needed. not only was the salt air fresh, but it was cold, very cold. you had taken a midnight stroll with him on the sand, and went to bed at three in the morning.

you woke up with pain, similar to the pain you would feel with period cramps. you sat up and googled “miscarriage symptoms” with shaky hands. this couldnt happen again. how could this happen again? your stirring caused him to wake up, and he saw what was on your phone. his heart dropped as he made eye contact with you. your face was pale, your eyes filled with grief.

“james?” you said, cautiously. his eyes sank. you only called him by that name when things were extremely serious.

“yes, my love?”

80 percent of miscarriages happen in the first trimester.

…

part 2/3. update tmr!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 12 hours ago

Text

To Those Who Wait 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as non/dubcon, virginity loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are tired of being the safe one so you decide to pay for some excitement.

Characters: escort!Ransom Drysdale, Curtis Everett

Note: yeah, I couldn’t resist.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Tony loves himself. Take care. 💖

When you’re alone, you’re not free. You are imprisoned in a cell of your own making. Inside your own body. You’re the one who threw that key away so why do you care now?

You do. You hate that you do. You hate that your phone won’t stop vibrating. And that you know exactly why.

You turn your legs over the side of the bed. Your eyes catch on the sparkle on your nightstand. A gold chain that isn’t yours.

The small medallion has an R on it. What was that name he used? Ransom? Doesn’t sound like a name, at least not one you’d give to anything but a rambunctious dog.

You open the drawer and shovel the necklace inside. You slam it shut as you stand. You need to get your shit together. First thing, coffee.

You’ve never been an optimist but you’re grateful Hugh left without you asking. That he didn’t stick around to rub your nose in the mess your made. Speaking of mess. You’ll have to throw your bedding in the wash. Maybe It’s better to burn it.

Coffee on, a trash bag in hand, you set to overhauling your life. The sheets aren’t the only thing going. Your phone vibrates. The phone call flashes as you ignore it.

You go back to the bedroom. A faint trace of his cologne lingers. You peel back the corners of the mattress sheet and bunch the rest of the bedding inside. You sheath it in the black plastic and tie it in a knot.

You drag it out to the garbage chute and shove it until it drops down. You close the door heavily and return to your apartment. You drink the bitter coffee, sweet compared to your current state. You glance t your bedroom door and heave.

You won’t even bother trying to sleep in there. Just the thought makes you uneasy. He’s ruined your safe place just like he ruined everything else.

🛏️

The days are gruelling. Before, you didn’t mind being alone. You accepted that sentence, made what you could of it. You had hobbies. Now you don’t have the energy for them. You don’t see the point in them. Just distractions that can’t change your reality.

Work is the only thing you can focus on. Not because it’s better, because you have to. It’s not the best job but you pay your own bills. You don’t have to rely on someone else to survive. You have yourself. It’s all you’ve ever really had.

How stupid you were to think you could ever have anything else? That someone could ever really want to have you.

Hugh doesn’t want you. You’re not stupid. He wants to get off. It’s an ego thing or some sick fucking kink. How many guys did you hear say that ‘ugly girls are the fucking best in bed’ or ‘you can make an ugly girl do anything’.

On your lunch, Vivica calls you. You answer if only to keep another notification from piling up.

“Sup?” You ask dully as you break a cracker and let it crumble.

“Oh, you know, wondering why I haven’t heard from you.”

“Work. Busy,” you answer. You wait for a response. You cringe and make yourself speak. “What about you? What’s going on?”

“Worried about you,” she insists. “You hate work.”

“Sure do but it’s not really optional,” you shrug. “How was your night out?”

“Which one? You haven’t been around.”

You sigh, “are you mad at me?”

“No, like I said. Worried.” She clicks her tongue, “look, that guy Curtis, he told me you’re not answering him either.”

“And who gave you permission to give him my number?” You challenge as your scalp bristles.

“Why didn’t you tell us about him?”

You roll your eyes. “Well, obviously, it’s not working out so... that’s why. Same old.”

“Seems like it could work out if you gave him a chance. He sounded pretty interested.”

“It’s my choice,” you retort defensively. “It’s not the right fit.”

“Cool,” she says sharply. “Sorry if I’m nosy but you haven’t told us anything about it. Or him. Or whatever is going on with you.”

You close your eyes as they sting. You’re annoyed. You don’t want to talk about. You’re dying just to stop thinking about it.

“Viv, you’re a good friend but you can give it up already. I’m a fucking loser and guys just aren’t that into me,” you sniff.

“So why would he be asking about you?”

“Please. Don’t act like you don’t know. I mean, that was a great birthday present. Probably preferable to the real thing. And I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not,” you scoff. “And no one has to pretend for me. It works perfectly.”

“Oh, that was... everyone has toys. It wasn’t meant to be anything but fun.”

“Sure, give the loser virgin some silicone so she can loosen up,” you spit. “You know what, I gotta get back to work.”

She hesitates to answer, “fine. That sounds like a good idea. You're sooo busy so don’t waste your time on me. Bye.”

“Yeah, bye.”

You pull the phone from your cheek and tap the end button. You dab under your eyes then lean your face into your hands. Stop it. Don't be so stupid.

It wasn’t anything at all. You and Curtis. And obviously, Vivica only wanted to poke around. She probably can’t stand the idea of not having a disaster like you around to make her feel better.

You’re just fine. You’re okay. You’re better off alone. Better for everyone that way.

💔

Your apartment is overcrowded with the fog left behind by his intrusion. You can’t escape the stain he left on your existence. No matter how you try.

The showers don’t work. Even the bottle of wine you bought in desperation only took you back to the night at the hotel. Sleep isn’t an escape when you can’t close your eyes for more than five minutes. It’s all just meaningless.

Everything you do is a farce. Pointless. Wake up, for what? Go to work, for what? Come home? Home?! Is that what you call this fetid place?

A week. A week of ignoring the phone and that tick in the back of your head. A week of hearing a knock at the door that isn’t real. Of seeing shadows that aren’t there.

Another day at your desk. Alone, despite the cubicles that pen you in, the buzz of voices on headsets, the clacking of keys, the clicking and scrolling. The trance of your denial stretches on. Your mind is not connected to the rest of you. Your fingers type without thought and your voice rises according to a script you recite by rote.

“Hm, do you think the single king is better or the double queen?” The woman on the phone asks. You let out a sigh without censor. It’s the sixth time she’s gone back and forth. Each time you change the reservation type, you have to enter all the other details again.

“It’s up to you, ma’am,” you utter.

“I’m just thinking if maybe one of us wants to stay out a bit longer...” she hums.

“I don’t care,” you blurt out and cringe.

“Pardon?” She huffs.

“Sorry, ma’am, nothing. Someone else was talking to me--”

“No, no, that was extremely rude.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Really, because you don’t sound very sorry,” she snaps.

You aren’t. You stay quiet. Shit.

“I would like a manager.” She sneers.

“Of course,” you tap hold and transfer her through. No point being upset, there’s worse things in the world. You would know.

You take off your headset. It’s almost the end of the day anyway. You get up and refill your bottle at the fountain. There’s little expediency in your task. You’ll do one more call then clock out.

As you return to your desk, Mallory approaches. You look up as she flips up her cat-eye glasses. You already know what she’s here about.

“Would you like to come back and get your write-up or should I just email it over?” She asks sharply.

You don’t care. You’ll take the flag. After five years of working there and not a blemish on your record, what’s one? You shrug.

“Whatever works is fine with me.”

She narrows her eyes, “problem?”

“Nope,” you put your headset on. “Phone’s ringing.”

You tap the answer button and swivel away from her. She puffs and stomps and walks away. You go through the usual, this time navigating the booking without issue. It’s a lot easier when people know what they want.

You save the reservation and sign off. You just want to go to the apartment and shut your brain off. You can’t keep wondering when and if this ever stops.

You pull on your jacket and hike up your bag. You skip the elevator and take the stairs, not wanting to bear the tedious elevator ride with people you only know by obligation. You stride out the doors ahead of a straggling group but your escape from the corporate purgatory doesn’t free you.

You put your head down and turn along the street. You don’t get far before you hear your name. At first, you ignore it, certain that you misheard. When it comes again in that familiar voice, you groan and stop. You face Curtis reluctantly.

“Oh, hi,” you utter dryly.

“Yeah, hi,” he matches your tone. “You know, I’ve been texting. Calling.”

“I’ve been busy. Work.” Your eyes stray without meaning to.

“Is that it? Work? I’ve been worried. You couldn’t just send a courtesy text?”

You shake your head and shrug. You can’t look at him. Then you have to face everything.

“What did I do?” He steps closer and you back up. You roll your eyes as they burn and gesture apathetically.

“Nothing.”

He sighs, “I thought we were going good. I thought—I don’t get it. I don’t get you.”

“Ha, alright,” you scoff. “Why on earth would you want to be with me?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, come on. Clearly, I’m a fucking loser. So, what was it? You wanted to fuck the virgin and go back and brag to all your buddies?” You sneer and stare past his shoulder.

“No, that never mattered to me. Guess you think I’m the loser,” he retorts.

You shrug again.

“What is your problem? What the hell?” He gets even closer. “Something... something happened.”

“Nothing happened,” you try to look at him and wince. You’re going to be sick if you do. “I’m not even a virgin so... big loss.”

“That’s not--” he sputters. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“No--”

“Don’t say nothing--”

“Nothing,” you snarl and step back. “You don’t want to be with me and I’m not going to pretend.”

You spin and go to march forward. You stop short before you can race away. Curtis rams into your back as he goes to follow. He grabs your arms lightly as he steps back. You stare dumbly at the figure strutting toward you.

Hugh smirks as he waves and you pull away from Curtis. You turn toward the street and stumble back as a car honks, coming close to the curb as you do. You’re yanked back again, this time harder.

“Christ, you’re going to get hurt--” Curtis says, his voice overridden by another.

Hugh whistles and calls your name again, “hey, baby.”

You close your eyes as you try to hide from reality. Your feet won’t move, or your arms. You stand there, shaking as his footsteps echo over the sidewalk. Curtis lets you go.

“Oh,” he utters.

“Hey, where ya going?” You’re grabbed from the other side and you wrench away from Hugh, spinning to face both of them as your eyes snap open.

“Right,” Curtis says grimly. You finally look at him as his eyes scale the other man.

“Who’s this?” Hugh asks as he reaches for you again.

“No, go away. Both of you.”

“Ah, come on, baby, haven’t seen you since the weekend. That was lots of fun,” he winks. “Late night.”

Curtis shifts and tilts his head. He glares at Hugh as his hands furl and unfurl. Your legs quake dangerously.

“I said go,” you hiss.

“I think you owe us an explanation,” Curtis says evenly. His cadence is worse than anger, it’s hurt.

“I can explain but not with him here.”

“You’ll talk now that you’ve been caught, huh?” He looks at you and you recoil.

“Never mind,” you say. “Whatever you think it is, that’s what it is.”

He stares at you, his chest rising and falling.

“Oh, yeah, we’re fuck buddies,” Hugh interjects. “She gets bored and well, I can’t say no. She's feral. She begs me--”

“Shut up!” You bark at him.

“I mean, I’m not complaining. It’s an open sorta deal but seems like maybe there’s a few things she didn’t mention to you, pal,” he continues.

“He’s not--” you turn back to Curtis, “he’s not that. He isn’t. He’s a mistake.”

“Oh, a mistake? Was I a mistake when you were cumming all over me--”

You spin and shove him as hard as you can. “Fuck off!”

He grabs your arms and you wrestle with him. You stagger around under his strength before you’re nearly bowled over completely. Curtis jabs him in the chest and inserts himself between the two of you. You rub your forearm as you stare at his back.

“She said go.”

“To you,” Hugh scoffs.

“No, you. Get out of here,” he squares his shoulders.

“I’m not afraid of you. I mean, it’s pretty fucking pathetic to defend that slut after she--”

Curtis doesn’t hesitate. His arm cocks and swings so quickly, you don’t realise what happened until the crack and the other man’s grunt. Hugh retreats as you look around Curtis. He cradles his jaw as you stay hidden behind the other.

“Don’t fucking call her that.” He growls.

“Fucking simp,” Hugh spits blood onto the sidewalk. “You really gonna be cucked like that? When I had her on my dick like a glove--”

You notice the crowd gathering near the front of the building. You recognise a few of your coworkers. As Curtis steps forward, you catch his arm.

“Please, he’s not worth it.”

“You are,” Curtis insists.

“Curtis,” you squeeze his sleeve. You don’t want him to get hurt by you. Not more than he already is. “I’ll tell you everything. Please.”

He takes a breath and lets it out slow. Hugh straightens and pinches his nose, “I’d kick your fucking ass if I wasn’t wearing prada,” he keeps his head back and turns away, “prick.” He stops and glances back, “don’t worry, baby. You’ll see me around... you’ll feel me.”

Curtis sways as if he might go after him but thinks better of it. You let him go and wring the strap of your bag as you watch him. You're hollow. You don’t think you can tell him everything.

“Tell me then,” he throws an arm out and turns to you.

“I...” you look around. “Not here.”

His jaw grits and he exhales heavily, “fine, where?”

“Uh... we could... there’s a juice place nearby. It’s never busy.”

“Sure,” he pushes his shoulders up.

You look down and turn away. You’re melting in horror. He hates you. You feel it roiling off of him. Your only hope is that he hasn’t walked away. Not yet. He could’ve made this easier and just not have shown up at all.

You enter the juice bar. “I’ll get something so they don’t kick us out.”

He sniffs and sidles past you. He goes to the table in the corner. You go up to the counter. The employees are chattering in the lull. You pay for a bottled kombucha then retreat to the table.

You climb up on the seat. He stares past you at the window. His fingers tap on the table. Your lips part and his gaze darts over to you.

“Well?” He growls.

You shudder. How do you say it? Don’t explain, just say it. Once he knows, it won’t matter what excuses you have. He’ll go and you’ll be left with a bottle of fermented juice you don’t even like. Maybe this is how it gets better. Just end it.

“He’s a prostitute.”

He twitches and narrows his eyes, “what?”

“Hugh, that guy. I hired him to fuck me.” You say it a bit too plainly and grimace. “Look, I was... the first time was before me and you... but I...” your eyes burn and you flick them to the ceiling. “I don’t know why I’m even trying to save anything. I was desperate. For anything. I went online, I found an escort, and I paid half my savings for the worst night of my life.”

“First time?” He plucks out the words. There’s the twist of the dagger.

“He showed up again. I... I’m not going to relive it just so you can ditch me so, please, that’s all you need to know. I’m a sad little woman who paid to get rid of her virginity. At thirty years old. Yeah, yeah, that’s why I know you don’t want to be with me.”

You look at the table, hoping you might become a part of it. That you’ll fade into the air and be nothing. Feel nothing. He’s quiet. The low murmur of music grows to a cacophony as you await the inevitable.

“You didn’t want to?” He asks at last.

You rub your cheek, eyes glued to the table. “I did it, that’s what matters.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“What-- what was I supposed to say?”

“Anything. Something. You could’ve just answered me,” he reaches across the table, past the bottle of unwanted kombucha. Like you, dejected and disgusting. “Hey...”

“I have the texts. And I can show you the deposit, if you really don’t think I’m that stupid,” you plunge your hand into your bag as you talk. You take it out and tap around.

“Look at me,” he pleads.

“Really, it’s right here--” you flick your thumbs and open WhatsApp, “the messages—wait? No. My account...” you thumb around and drag down the menu from the top. You search your notifications. ‘Account Deleted due to misuse report’. No...

“It’s gone,” you drop your phone on the table. “I have no proof--”

“I said look at me,” he repeats, grittier than before.

You quiver and make yourself obey. You look at him as he leans to reach further across, “I believe you.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t you? Look at me. I have to pay for it--”

“Stop,” he commands. “I want you to stop that. Now.”

“It’s true--”

“I don’t care about him. About a stupid mistake. Shit happens. I’ve made mistakes too,” he wiggles his hand. “If I didn’t like you, do you think I’d be here?”

You peek down at his hand. His knuckles are bruised. You frown and daintily touch his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“He deserved it,” he turns his hand and clasps onto yours. “Want me to kill him?”

You look at him again and furrow your brow, “stop, I don’t feel like laughing.”

His expression is grey. Serious. For a moment, you really think he means it. Then he squeezes your hand and his face eases.

“I had to try,” he mutters.

You don’t know what to do. You’re entirely unprepared for this. You didn’t expect to see him again, let alone for him to just forgive you for ignoring him, lying to him, or for just being you.

“You wanna come over?” He asks.

“Oh, um... I don’t know.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m like him. I’m not asking for that. I think you maybe you shouldn’t go home,” he explains. “Not after—he seems like the type to hold a grudge, doesn’t he?”

“Uh, oh, yeah.”

He's right. Hugh came back after he got his money. Why wouldn't he show up again?

“And we don’t have to watch scary movies. Maybe something less... anxiety-inducing for now,” he offers.

“Yeah, maybe,” you breathe as the weight slightly lifts from your chest. Is this how it goes? Do people just work things out?

“But I wouldn’t mind a little bit of cuddling...” he looks around evasively, “if you can keep it secret.”

You smile. For the first time since you last saw him. “Oh, I’m great at secrets, aren’t I?”

“As long as that’s the only one you keep,” he replies, his tone hanging ominously over you. You can’t quite tell if it’s a joke or a threat.

🩶

Curtis takes you back to your apartment. He waits at the door, his paranoia feeding your own. Does he really think Hugh would come back that soon? Yet, what has he done to make you think otherwise? The fact he came back at all is scary on its own.

You grab only a few things. Something to sleep in and an outfit for the next day, along with your phone charger and a few necessities to keep yourself human. You don’t look back as you leave. You’re happy to be away, if only for a while.

At his place, you’re restless. You don’t want to be. You’re exhausted. The days filled with anticipation of the world shattering around has turned to the fatigue of fallout.

“You good?” He asks as he drags his palm over his stubbly hair.

“Good,” you lie.

“He can’t get you here.”

You nod and hum.

“But that’s not what you’re worried about,” he says.

“Why... not to sound ungrateful but why... why?”

“You know, a lot of guys might get tired of having to repeat themselves but if I gotta tell ya every day how much I like you, so be it. As long as you’re there to hear it.”

You nudge him without thinking and he tilts his head.

“Sorry, it’s just... you don’t look like the cheesy type.”

“Not cheesy. Honest.”

That word stings. It could be nothing but it almost feels like a lash. You weren’t. You lied. You ran away.

“I’m sorry, I’ll stop,” you turn away.

“You don’t gotta. I’m just... checking. You hungry? I could get us some pizza.”

“Oh,” you think about it but not very long as your stomach growls. You can’t remember if you had anything but coffee.

“Is that a yes? What do you like? Anchovies girl, I know it.”

You scrunch up your face and he snorts, “I don’t know what’s sexier,” he drawls. “Your smile or the way you look when you’re annoyed.”

You roll your eyes, “stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I’m not... sexy,” you look away.

“You are,” he insists.

“No... I...”

“Let’s see; eyes, gorgeous. Lips, delicious, and the way your booty kinda...” he traces with his fingers and your cheeks set alight.

“Curtis,” you gasp.

“A guy can’t help but notice. I also love a thrill and you scare me. Just a little,” he smirks. “So, toppings? Not anchovies.”

“Hot peppers and whatever you like.”

“Spicy. I knew it,” he proclaims.

“Ugh, stop being so lame,” you chirp.

“You first,” he throws back. “Go, get cozy. I’ll order.”

You nod and give a sheepish smile, or an attempt at one. You take your bag into the front room and take out your pajamas. You go into the bathroom and lock yourself in. You sit on the edge of the tub and try to set yourself straight.

There’s a glimmer of disbelief in you. It’s too good to be true. Did you really find a good one?

You change as his voice drones from the other side of the door then quiets. You can’t shake that uneasiness that keeps you precarious. You still can’t trust that it won’t all break.

You come out with your clothes under your arm, sure not to make too much noise. You tiptoe down and peek into the front room. Curtis stands with his back to you, by the chair where you left your bag. You creep up behind him and lean to see what he’s doing.

At first you assume it’s his phone but the charm on the phone case assures you otherwise.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

He doesn’t startle. He merely faces you and clutches the phone tight. His knuckles strain and you look between his eyes and the cell.

“Curtis?”

“He’s texting you again.”

“How? He deleted the conversation,” you try to see the phone and he holds it away from you. “Hey, give me the phone--”

“Burner, I bet,” he backs away and puts his attention back to the screen. “Oldest trick in the book.”

“Just block the number,” you say as you follow but he stays beyond your grasp. “Turn the phone off. It’s not--”

“You have to promise,” he rears on you and you stagger.

“Promise?”

“To tell me. If, when he messages or calls or anything. I have to know.”

“You don’t think—I don’t want him around.”

“I know you don’t. I want to keep him away.” He insists.

“Right, but--”

“And you did lie to me. If I didn’t find out today, what’s to say he didn’t hurt you? If you really don’t want him around, it sounds like maybe you’re scared of him. Like he did more than you’re telling me--”

“Curtis, I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” you swallow.

“Neither do I. Do you think I like it? Thinking about you with someone else?”

You whimper, “I thought... I thought... it was okay.”

“I’m not...” he scratches his jaw, the friction coarse and loud. “I’m trying to help. I’m trying to move forward and if we’re going to do that, he can’t be around. Ever. And you can’t lie. That includes not telling me things.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I...” you avert your eyes guiltily. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

He exhales and lowers the phone. He comes closer and holds it out to you. You take it without looking at him.

“No, I’m sorry. I just... I got worked up when I saw what he sent.” He opens his arms, “come here.”

He pulls you against him, your head on his shoulder. He holds you like that. You shiver against him.

“What did he send?” You croak.

“I’m sure you can guess the kind of nasty things he said,” he pets your head. “I got rid of it. And if he shows his face, I’ll get rid of him too.”

You wrap your arms around him but find little comfort in his embrace. Something about his tone unsettles you. Get rid of him... He sounds like he means it. Like more than just blocking his number. How well do you really know him?

#ransom drysdale #curtis everett #dark ransom drysdale #dark!ransom drysdale #dark curtis everett #dark!curtis everett #curtis everett x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #series #to those who wait #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #knives out #snowpiercer

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bostoncreamdonut · 1 day ago

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“Disliking Caitlyn but not Silco is just misogyny.”

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER!!!

Let me preface this by saying that I don’t care if people like Caitlyn. You can like characters who have done wrong— hell, my favorite is, in fact, Silco. There’s nothing wrong with that. Second, just because a character is well-written doesn’t mean people have to like them. I think Silco is amazingly written, and I like him, but I also acknowledge his wrongdoings and don’t deny the harm he caused. The same goes for Jinx. So, why don’t I like Caitlyn?

Because Silco and Jinx are a byproduct of their environment. The result of systematic oppression, neglect, and inequality at the hands of Piltover. They cracked, and we can understand why and how someone could break in that environment. How they could turn to aggression after living like that their entire lives. Piltover is safe, clean, and livable at their expense. People aren’t living in Zaun, they are surviving.

Caitlyn didn’t have it nearly as bad to justify her actions. Yes, losing her mother was horrible, but that doesn’t excuse how quickly she turned on Zaun. One Zaunite killed her mother (edit: amongst other things that she experienced, but I believe her mom’s death was what ultimately dictated her decisions in S2), and suddenly, she’s making a group suffer for it, including Vi. Can you imagine how many kids in Zaun have been orphaned because of the toxic environment and oppression they face every day? Caitlyn’s reaction is so drastic, especially considering her experience mirrors the harsh realities that Zaunites are forced to endure all the time.

This is also why I dislike CaitVi when I think about it for more than a second, to be honest.

Also, people do NOT have to explain why they dislike characters/ships.

(I’m just in a yappy mood.)

Sometimes it’s just a feeling, maybe personal bias, maybe they just don’t care to explain, etc. That’s okay.

You will live if people dislike your favs, I promise. [pats back]

Do I writhe on the ground when I see Silco hate? Maybe… Can I accept others hate him? Yeah! (In his case, I don’t even need to ask why.)

Let me know if you think I missed any crucial points or made a mistake! My memory is not the best but I have rewatched recently so I hope it served me well today. Honestly, I don’t want to upset people, this has just been bothering me for a while. I really dislike some Caitlyn stans’ reactions to criticism of her.

Okay, I think I’m done. See ya!

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blacksea2109 · 2 days ago

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RED HOOD'S WIFE

🦇🖤❤️👻🔫

DCXDP

Jason todd x danny Nightingale

Hii i hope you enjoy it , I am super crazy for this couple

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Jason and danny was married for so long but Jason don't bother to till his family because danny dear it is non of thier fuckin business, so imagine Danny's luck with the batfam tried to get him to join the family while his is already a part of it , Jason stop laughing it is not funny or you will sleep in the couch tonight!!

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Danny owns a cozy little coffee shop in crime ally , and of course, it becomes Tim's favorite shop because he is allowed to have an illegal amount of shots !! Plus the Barista is just so smart funny shorter than him and so cute sue him he will get him to work in the company one way or another, but if he just stop refuses tim offers uggh, but he won't stop

Tim whined: dannyyyy please i need someone like youuuu in the company, we really need youuuuu and your amazing Brian and ideas

Danny: nope uh huh , I'm happy here in my little coffee shop tim I won't change my mind and don't try the puppy eyes it won't work on me , I will only help you some times but I won't work there .

Tim talking to himself: Then I will just make you part of the family and then problem solving. hehehehehee! Either by adoption or married 🤔 I just need to steal one of bruce adoption papers, Cass will help me she always gets excited to have new family members .

Danny texted jason: please stop your brother from stalking and trying to make me work with him jay

Jason: tim ?! Pppfft good luck there babe you need it

Danny: ohh then I hope you have a good night , cuz y will sleep on the couch today . Love

Jason typing:........

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NEXT , danny just had to get kidnapped with bruce just his luck that the stupid kidnappers though that he was a wayne!!

( babe, you are a wayne remember! I just married one. i am not a wayne ok , sure thing, love)

Bastard 1: we are lucky not just the burce wayne but with one the brats too

Danny super annoyed and sassy: you poor bastard you really need to check your eyes because I am not a wayne fuck you

Bruce " i need to adopt all black haird blue-eyed sassy with anger issues kids " wayne: hnn when we get out of here, i will make him sign some paper 📃 ( adoption papers) for safety of course

Bastard 2: nah you have the looks so you are a wayne

Danny had have enough of this nonsense already get himself free the started hit the shit out of them by the time that nightwing and of fuck course red hood

( which has not stopped laughing for no reason! Jay i will kill you )

Red hood : pfft danny i can't 😂😂

Danny: Hood, i stand my point, not a wayne ok

Red hood: uh huh sure thing sugar i believe you

Danny : couch time for you mister

Bruce giving danny some paper: sign here 😊

Danny: what is this ?

Hood: no the fuckin hell old man you won't adopt him

Nightwing: why little wing, if he didn't , tim will 😂 of not damian

Hood : you fuckers stop try adopting my wife

Bruce: your

Nightwing: wife

The rest of the fam: wheeeennn did you get married!!

Mean while jason just took his short cute wife and ran away after dropping the bomb 💣

Robin: Hood, get back here this instant, you insolant fool , Nightingale will be my new cat and teacher in animal languages , gets him back or i will shall stab you

Red Robin: You how dear you hood you know i waste too long stalking and trying to make him work with me while this whole time YOU WERE MARRIED TO HIM I WILL Destroy , you 🔪

Balck bat happy: new brother ❤️

Bruce crying in the corner: married my baby boy, and I wasn't invited to the wedding 😢 🤧

Nightwing: Gasp the betrayal. How can you do this to your poor older brother ? You better did not have kids in secret. jay gets back here . You don't have kids right RIGHT!!

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for damian part, he finds danny helping some stray kitten, and heard him prrrrrr and just: mine now , come here, kitty kitty 😺

Alfred already knows everything because come on, he is ALFRED. Of course, he knows : i must prepare a room for master danny hmm near master Jason room perfect 👌🏻 , and i need to inform him to bring his wife to dinner nights 🌙

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I imagine it better inside my head, but yeah, anyway, I will edit it or add more later on , i am not sure when . Feel free to take any anything i write here , it or add more to it, but please tag me or send me a link and credit me in your works , have a great night or day , my cute little spooks 👻 👻👻👻🦇🦇🦇🦇 don't let the blob ghosts bit you

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always-andromeda · 3 days ago

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˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 ໒꒱‧₊˚

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⟡ Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⟡ 5064

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⟡ It's Emmy night. And your infamous ex-boyfriend is stirring up all kinds of trouble for you.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ⟡ Hi ho, everyone!! This piece is for Gin's ( @wannab-urs ) Dom That Middle Aged Man Campaign 2025!! I'm cutting it incredibly close but I actually ended up having a lot of fun with this one. It started as a smaller oneshot but quickly grew bigger and bigger until hey, whaddya know, Roman Roy is making a little cameo. Blame @strang3lov3 for that lol. Her writing for Roman has made that brain rot really settle in and I needed an asshole boyfriend for this one soooo uhhhh yeah. He is in there!! Anyhoo, here is the full masterlist for the event!! Hope y'all enjoy!!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟡ smut (minors, do not interact), minimally edited lol, a tiny bit of angst, no reader description given aside from reader wearing makeup and being able-bodied, one minor suicide joke, toxic relationships, shaky descriptions of the goings on of award shows (sorry, I do not keep up with them well enough to know everything <3), mentions of addiction, infidelity (reader is in a PR relationship, shoutout to Roman Roy lmao), oral, heavy mommy kink lol, pegging, some fluffy aftercare, reader is a fucking mess, dieter is a fucking mess, it's all chaos, nothing else I can think of but feel free to let me know if anything else should be added!!

“Sure you’re going to be ready in time?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Roman pops his head into the hotel bathroom. “I dunno, isn’t that a woman thing?”

“It is if you’re a misogynist.” You say before blotting your lipstick.

“Or a realist. Veeeery fine line, babe.”

You roll your eyes. Part of you wishes Roman had never been nominated.

Outstanding Lead Actor In A Drama.

When you were younger, awards shows always seemed so exciting and glamorous. Sometimes they still are. But as you built up your career and were invited to more of them you had come to realize that they were little more than glorified circle jerks. Sadly, being Roman Roy’s costar and girlfriend obligated you to attend.

You wish your publicist had booked a separate room for you so Roman wouldn’t wind you up. At this point though, you were counting the days until you no longer had to be joined at the hip. Once awards season was over you could move on from this chapter of life. Maybe you’d hide away for a while. The thought keeps you from going completely insane.

The car ride to the theater is quiet. Roman scrolls through his mentions on Twitter the whole way. A few times you assure him that it’ll be alright, that he worked so hard that he’s sure to win. None of that reassurance matters.

He’s been glued to his phone since the nominations dropped. For almost two whole months it’s been a shitshow. One minute he’s stressing about what he should say for his acceptance speech and the next he doesn’t give a shit. A few times he floated the idea of skipping the event altogether. That usually only happened when the D word came into the conversation.

Dieter fucking Bravo as Roman liked to call him.

Roman hates a lot of things. But god, he really hates Dieter. Roman’s young. He’s talented. And Dieter is…well…Dieter.

“How the fuck did that washed up prick get a nom? Asshole finally managed to find someone in the academy desperate enough to fuck him.” Roman said when he first learned that he’d be competing with Dieter. You’d ignored the pointed insult in that outburst. It wasn’t the comparison of talent or rap sheets that heated Roman up so much as the fact that you and Dieter weren’t strangers. Before he turned it all to shit, you and Dieter had dated for one tumultuous year.

Roman cares for you about as much as you care for him, that much you’re sure of. It’s the optics that bother him. It’s the fact that for almost two months, almost every Twitter user talking about him makes the assumption that Roman Roy is just a stepping stone. That you’d soaked up every bit of clout dating Dieter Bravo could give you. And that now you’d jumped to the next big thing in line.

While some folks called you a slut and a number of other awful names, some raised you to the status of feminist icon.

“‘Sucking and fucking her way through the Emmy nominees.’” Roman read to you one night in disgust. “”What a girlboss.’ Are you seeing this shit? They’re saying you’re probably going after Jeff Bridges next. You better not fuck Jeff Bridges. If you fuck Jeff Bridges, I’ll fucking hang myself.”

You try not to care too much. If being with Dieter had taught you anything it was that the media thrived off of acknowledgement. If you responded to the accusations, every outlet would release an article about it. And then another one about the backlash. And then another one about the backlash to the backlash. Then they’d roll shitty banner ads over the whole thing and call it journalism.

Not even you, yourself, gave that much of a shit about your own sex life. You’d much rather mind your own business than feed into their interest, thank you very much.

It’s why you couldn’t wait to get the carpet walk over and done with. It’s the closest thing to a goddamn parade and Roman’s desire to cut your prep time short has you feeling less than your best.

You’re in your own head, watching Roman get his picture taken by the paparazzi flash mob, and dreading your turn to join in when you’re rudely interrupted.

“He looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

You almost agree until you turn to look at who had just spoken to you.

Dieter fucking Bravo. And he looks fucking gorgeous.

You can hardly remember the last time he looked so put together. His wavy hair is gelled back, accentuating the stray silvers that he finally seems to be letting grow out. He wears a white shirt that’s buttoned up to the neck. The solid white collar is framed by a black sweater. And for once he’s not wearing pants that are too tight or too baggy; these ones are just right. The look is simple but graceful, perfect for a star settling into middle age. If things were different, you’d kiss his stylist with tongue and maybe give them a handjob for blessing you with such a glorious sight. Pressing your nails into the palms of your hands, there are a number of things you think to say.

What are you doing here? How dare you? What the fuck is wrong with you?

But none of them sound right. None are befitting of such a glamorous night either.

So you settle for replying coldly, “Are you not?”

Dieter snorts and you melt upon seeing the crinkles by his eyes in full force. “Are you kidding? I’m shocked they even invited me. Who’s dying to wheel out the washed up old guys for shit like this?”

“Thank god we’re in Hollywood; the mecca for washed up old men,” you scoff.

If Dieter acknowledges the joke, you don’t hear or see it. Your eyes are glued to Roman, afraid that if you look back at Dieter again they might just pop out of your head.

Roman

Out of the blue he asks, “He isn’t even nice to you, is he?”

It’s a question that makes you scoff and roll your eyes. How dare he? He goes away for a few months and after two years of image fixing he thinks he has any right to ask that? The old urge to swing around and give him a piece of your mind strikes you again. As the cameras flash, you become very aware that even at your place at the periphery of the carpet, a snapshot of you arguing with your ex would make a great TMZ article.

You mumble, “What he is is none of your business.”

“I was nice to you,” Dieter says, then repeats to himself, “I was nice.”

You retort with a laugh, “When you weren’t high off your ass.”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t either.”

Like you need to be reminded of how hellish it was trying to be with him and subsequently get over him. You remember taking old gifts he’d given you to the secondhand store. You remember deleting almost every trace of him from your phone. You remember the nights you struggled to stop yourself from making contact again. It had been a long, uphill battle to wash away the single most chaotic year of your life and you weren’t sliding down it again.

“We’re not having this conversation again. I hated myself when I was with you. And I’m not going back to that place. I’ve worked too hard for you to come crashing in and ruining that.” You say it more to yourself than him.

With that, you’re ushered over to Roman where you pose with him. And you almost manage to give a genuine smile to the masses.

When you’re finally seated in the theater, the night rolls on with the typical fanfare. You give your prescribed reactions; cheer when your show is called for an award and smile when you notice a camera near you. A few times Roman leans over to mumble some snotty joke about whoever’s on stage and that deep, cynical part of you manages to laugh at them.

At the very least, it makes him less nervous. That’s how you justify it to yourself.

He’s in the middle of another wisecrack when the woman at the microphone pulls Roman’s attention away. “I’m proud to announce the nominees for Lead Actor In A Drama Series.”

You don’t bother watching the giant screen as clips of the nominees play. You already know damn good and well who’s up on the platter for this one. Instead, much to your dismay, your gaze is trained on Dieter.

He’s a row ahead of you and about a dozen seats to the right so you only get a sliver of his profile. From the bits and pieces you get of his bobbing head, his jaw looks tense. In the silence that precedes the announcement you notice just how age has settled upon Dieter. With his hair a little longer and head held high he looks just like the man you once saw within him. It suits him well.

“And the Emmy goes to…”

Some small piece of you peers out from the shadows of cynicism and your lips curl into a soft smile. As uncomfortable as he seemed to be amongst this crowd, Dieter finally looked well; he looked hopeful.

“Roman Roy!”

Turning back towards Roman you expect a kiss, a squeeze of your hand, some sort of acknowledgement that you’re right there beside him. Anything. But he’s standing and walking towards the stage before you can even say a word.

Normally you treasure your alone time. This time though, the empty air truly feels depressing.

Part of you wishes Roman had come back to the hotel with you. But another part of you is grateful you won’t have to listen to his gloating. Or his “celebration”, as he called it.

You can’t stop replaying the moment over and over again. The way your breath seemed stuck in your throat as you watched him deliver his bullshit acceptance speech. He shed a genuine tear when thanking his mother; you’d known him long enough to recognize his shreds of sincerity.

For the most part, however, he’s performing. After all, that’s what got him the award to begin with.

Knowing that there’s a camera capturing your reaction you plaster on a toothy grin. While Roman plays the part of the humble award winner, you play the proud girlfriend though you feel more like a prop than his costar.

None of it matters either way. At the end of the night, you knew that Roman’s speech would be clipped and reposted thousands of times online. Maybe then he’d get the validation he seems to have been craving his entire life.

That’s why he decided to stay at the afterparty, you figured. Maybe it’s also why you were already seeing clips of him at said afterparty proclaiming with a smug grin, “Suck it, Bravo.�� Validation from his peers. The why of it all didn’t matter either. You’d had enough of pathologizing the men around you for one night.

Well. Almost enough.

The thought of Roman’s absence departs and Dieter’s presence worms its way back into your mind.

You’d never had a proper sendoff for your relationship with him. Instead you got stood up on a night he was supposed to meet you for dinner. That night you vowed you would no longer drag him out from a drug induced haze. You went nuclear; blocked him, stopped going to his house, revoked his access to your apartment building.

Through the grapevine you heard that he’d finally crashed out a few months afterwards and got shipped off to rehab. Then from there it was close to silence. The post-Dieter life was calm, if a bit predictable.

You pick up your phone from the nightstand and go through your blocked contacts until you find his name. And after nearly two years of being Dieter free you invite him right back into your life.

You half expect the message to go ignored. He might not even have the same number anymore anyways. Right as you’re about to block him again out of pure embarrassment, you see those three telltale dots pop up on the left side of the screen. They ripple for a few seconds before a reply appears.

If he were in front of you, you would’ve rolled your eyes. You quickly type out a response.

You can practically hear the shock Dieter must’ve experienced in how the message stays read for a solid two minutes before he answers again.

Of course, you wanted to scream. I missed you so bad that I binged the entire series and then looked up fanfiction of your character afterwards.

Just like before, the message stays read for a few minutes. But this time the typing dots on his end disappear and come back a few times. You end up laying your phone facedown on the bed so you wouldn’t throw it across the room. Eventually your ringtone chimes and you pick it up again.

Your stomach drops about a thousand miles down an awful pit of guilt until your memory slows it down. As much as his big brown eyes might suggest it, Dieter isn’t some helpless puppy dog. How many times had he fucked you over before? How many times did he force you to take care of his messes? And how many times did you grin and bear it because you loved him? Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was the need for some sort of closure. Or maybe it was the fact that you weren’t going to go through another night ignored and alone. But you impulsively type and send another message.

And much to your surprise, Dieter replies immediately.

From the second you pull Dieter into your hotel room you feel alive again. His lips are against yours and your stomach soars at the way he lets you deprive him of oxygen. You missed him more than you had even fathomed. You missed his eagerness. You missed the way his hands went straight to your ass. You missed his tongue. God, you could suck on his tongue right then and there and die happy.

The muffled groan he lets out when you tug on his hair reminds you the hotel room door is still partially opened. It hits you for a split second that someone easily could’ve followed him here. By morning the media could be all over whatever happens in this room tonight.

Dieter pulls away for air. As he cups your cheek and gives you that classic mischievous smirk he says, “Hi there.”

And suddenly…you don’t give a shit. Not about Roman or the media or your publicist. You’ll deal with the consequences later. Probably. But for now, it’s all Dieter fucking Bravo. And for once, that was a good thing.

Breathlessly, you command, “Get on the bed. Now.”

Dieter hadn’t felt this antsy since his last stint in rehab. With the way he was practically crawling under his skin he was surprised he made it to your hotel in one piece.

It would’ve been quite a headline if he had. Oscar Winner, Dieter Bravo, Dead at 45 After Losing Emmy. If only those leeches could see him now. The headline would probably read Oscar Winner, Dieter Bravo, Naked and Ass Up On Ex-Girlfriend’s Bed.

It hits him that he has no idea where your boyfriend is. For all he knows this is some sick joke you and him devised just so you could kick him while he’s down. Did you still despise him that much? Taking a mental inventory of everything he did when you were together…it was a possibility.

You didn’t even ask if he was busy. For all you know, he could’ve been out drowning his disappointment with as many prescription pills he could get his hands on. That’s what the old Dieter would’ve done. Old Dieter would have answered your texts between lines in the bathroom before speeding to your hotel room. New Dieter was watching reruns of X-Files in his bathrobe when you rang. Yet he still came running anyway.

He realizes that he probably always would.

Dieter’s swirling mind is soothed by your lips leaving kisses along his shoulder blades. Your fingers dance down his spine, creating waves of shivers in their wake. He stifles a contented hum. Can’t show his cards yet; can’t let you know that he’s just as pliable as he used to be for you.

He suspects you know it anyways when you purr, “You remember your place so well.”

Quiet. He stays so quiet he can hear a pin drop. Hell, he can practically hear your lips twitch as you observe him.

As he got older, Dieter found less and less joy in being watched all the time. Those greedy eyes only see him as prey. And tonight was another one of those reminders that no matter how much he tried he’d never again be the promising young actor the world had once adored.

But you liked him. You saw him for exactly what he was and you liked him. Even more, you rewarded him.

“Do you want to be good for me?” You ask tentatively.

He’s heard you say similar things more than a hundred times. Now they sound less like an invitation and more like a test. You’re testing the waters. As if him being naked on your bed wasn’t enough confirmation that he wanted you. Then again, you’ve always been that forgiving; always given him second, third, and fourth chances.

He lifts his head just enough so you can hear him clearly when he confirms, “Yes, please.”

With that, the weight of your body over his is gone. When you order him to flip over a minute later you stand before him with a familiar instrument. Judging by the size and color, he knows it isn’t the same strap you used to use on him, but it’s a welcome sight nonetheless. It’s a soft pink color with ridges that shine in the warm lamplight. He guesses that it’s likely between six and seven inches. But it’s the subtle curve of the cock that has his mouth practically watering just looking at it. Already he can’t help but imagine it inside him, reaching that spot only you were able to.

“You’re lucky I happened to pick this up the other day. Otherwise you would’ve been stuck with my fingers.” You say with a pout.

Dieter thinks for a second that you’ve got an odd idea of what qualifies as a souvenir but brushes the thought away. He blinks hard and swallows thickly. “I would’ve been fine with that,” he mumbles.

You climb back onto the bed and settle between his legs. Then you inch forward so close that he could kiss you again. Your breath is warm on his face when you whisper, “Bullshit.”

You plant a kiss on his cheek before continuing slowly, “Don’t think I forgot how much you love getting stuffed to the brim. You used to love sucking on my cock before I fucked that perfect ass of yours. Do you want that again, baby?”

He nods quickly.

“Then sit up a bit for me.”

Dieter does as he’s told and you straddle his chest. His hands find purchase around the soft flesh of your thighs. You shake your hips and the dick wobbles ever so slightly. The bulbous tip teases his lips.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“So fucking pretty…” he breathes.

Stifling the urge to take it all at once, he settles with some experimental licks. His tongue runs down the ridges along the underside. It’s firm but not rock solid; it feels almost like the real thing. A shudder runs through him imagining the thing inside him. He feels his own cock twitch.

“C’mon, you can do better than that. Get me all wet, baby,” you encourage.

Dieter’s lips part tentatively, allowing you to shift your hips forward and nudge your cock in. You moan as if you can feel the relief of his warm mouth around you. Something in his stomach fizzles at the thought of you getting off on watching him be like this.

“That’s it, take it…take it…”

He looks up, wide-eyed, and sees you gazing back with similarly entranced eyes. Your chest heaves gently as you breathe, drinking in the picture of him beneath you with your cock almost halfway in his mouth.

Dieter ventures further, pushing your hips towards him, allowing him to take another inch. You take that as a sign to slowly start thrusting.

“Good boy,” your voice is velvet as you fuck his mouth. You set a reverent, rolling rhythm, trying not to overwhelm him with the length. Despite the normally submissive position, he feels held, loved, though he tries not to get his hopes up.

He remembers this all too well; the sway of your hips and the small sighs you let out. Judging by those sounds, he guesses that you’re probably a mess yourself. His vivid imagination pictures the slick folds between your legs just begging to be squeezing him. God, how he used to make you whine and sob. But you could make him do the exact same.

“Think it’s as wet as it’ll get, huh?”

His agreement is muffled by the instrument itself and you giggle before removing it from him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.

He folds and spreads his legs instinctively, though from a combination of age and lack of practice, the movement is a little strained. To ease his muscles he plants his feet on the mattress and grasps the sheets in his balled fists. In other words, he’s prepared to hold on for dear life if need be.

The seductive tone in your voice turns a bit more serious. “I’m gonna start slow. And if it hurts or you want to stop at all, you better let me know, okay?”

Dieter nods.

“Hey, I’m not playing around. I don’t want to hurt you. I need to hear you acknowledge that if this is too much you’ll tell me. Alright?”

This time he clears his throat, looks you dead in the eye, and responds, “I will. I promise. I trust you.”

You let out a shuddering breath. And it makes him realize that even with the confident demeanor, you’re likely nervous too. It strikes him that you probably haven’t done this in a while either. It makes sense that Roman wasn’t brave enough to take a cock like yours. Lucky for him, Dieter was all too willing to take the bullet in this instance. Suck it, Roy.

You prod at his hole with your tip, dipping it in and out about an inch to test the waters. As relaxed as Dieter is, he knows he’s out of practice. Fucking himself after you left had always felt a bit awkward. He desired the connection more than the feeling; your low voice coaxing him along the path to pleasure and cradling him in your arms when the journey was done. Doing it to himself always left him feeling a little emptier than before so he tended to avoid it.

Though it’s slimmer than the ones he was used to you using, it still takes a minute for him to become acquainted with the fullness of your cock again while you start to slide further in. There’s never really been anyone else he’s trusted without fear that they’d run to their social media with all the details.

You’re the only one who knows just how he likes it. With a few slow, deep thrusts you know exactly how to draw a few sharp gasps from him. You know it’ll make him whine when you dig your fingers into his hips and praise, “You take my cock so well, baby.”

Once the stretch of you feels a bit more tolerable he gurgles something akin to encouragement.

“You’re just aching for my cock aren’t ya’, sweetheart?” you tease, your confidence slowly returning.

“Pleas– please fuck me,” he moans.

“What’s my name?”

That’s the easiest question of them all. “Mommy,” Dieter blurts, “Please, mommy.”

The name seems to activate you,

“C’mon,” you pant, “I want the neighbors to hear how good you’re getting fucked. Let them hear you, baby.”

He has no trouble with that. If there is indeed someone in the room next door, he knows that they’re getting the performance of their fucking lives. Strings of his incoherent babble paired with the bang of the headboard against the wall.

“You wanna touch yourself now? Can mommy see you touch that pretty cock of yours, huh?”

Without another word, Dieter’s hand flies to his neglected dick. Even the slightest bit of pressure from his fist around the base nearly makes him sob. He’s so desperate to relieve the throbbing need in his belly that he begins pumping at an almost brutal pace. Mere seconds before he feels like the cord is about to break, you lay your own hand over his and stop him abruptly.

He lets out a sharp breath through his nose in defiance and is about to protest when you chide, “Ah, don’t get greedy, baby. Go nice and slow so mommy can really watch you.” You let go of him and continue, “It’s been so long since mommy has seen you come hard. And we’re going to make that happen, we have to be patient. Can you do that? Be patient for mommy?”

He nods feverishly.

“Say it.”

“Yes, mommy.”

Dieter tries his best to pace himself. He tries to time each drag of his fist with the drag of your cock inside of him. His body sways with the movement and if he didn’t feel so on edge, he thinks he could probably fall asleep like this; being fucked into oblivion by you.

He can’t even remember the last time he’d felt so warm and wet and safe. Probably since the last time you were on top of him.

His lidded eyes meet your expression. A few drops of sweat have formed on your forehead. You bite your bottom lip and you stare down at where your cock disappears inside of him. True to your word, you watch him slowly milk his own cock. And he swears that between small grunts he can hear you moan softly.

A bit of pride bubbles in Dieter’s chest knowing that you still crave this the same way he does. You’re just as fucked as he is; just as far gone. And he finds himself starting to slip farther and farther down the pit too.

“F-fu-u-ck– I’m so fucking…sofuckingclose–” he pants. That familiar rush of pleasure in his abdomen threatens to spill over. He knows he’s only got a few seconds until he lets go entirely. He doesn’t wait to be told to ask first. He begs, “Please, please, please, let me cum…holy fuck–”

You’re breathing so hard and so focused on hitting him just right that it takes a moment for you to gather yourself enough to respond. But you do. And Dieter is on the brink of sobbing when you whine, “Go ahead, baby. Make a fucking mess of yourself.”

Those words are the green light for him to fuck his fist a little faster, urging forward that long awaited release. Dieter’s back arches. And with your cock still sliding in and out of him, the slightly altered path makes him see the fucking heavens. God bless the Emmys. God bless the Television Academy. God bless Roman Roy. God bless whoever invented that beautiful, curved, pink cock. And God bless you, his favorite angel, for fucking him onto paradise’s doorstep with it.

Ropes of his thick spend shoot across his stomach. As your thrusts and his movements slow, each spurt begins to slowly spill over his fist. He milks every last drop of cum that he can from his softening cock; you wanted a mess, after all.

Dieter groans when you eventually pull out of him. Closing his heavy eyes, he allows himself to feel just how completely spent he is. Every one of his limbs are jelly. Exhausted but contented jelly.

Soon afterwards you pad away to the bathroom, likely going to retrieve a towel and straighten yourself up a little. When you return and begin to clean up the last hour’s work, he can’t help but notice your expression.

Your jaw is slackened and soft. You part your lips as if in pride at the result of this impulsive act. Though you’d been firm before, you were still so gentle with him. Your melodious hum fills the room with a comforting atmosphere. He missed this. He missed you.

When you both finally settled in bed, it felt as though little time had passed between this tryst and the last. There’s a comfortable silence as you brush a few strands of his hair away from his face and tuck it behind his ear. Your hand lingers for a moment on the side of his head. You hum and press your lips to his for a soft kiss.

Amongst the tangle of limbs, one of his legs is nestled between yours. For a second he wonders if you two hadn’t cleaned up as well as you thought until it hits him that the wetness on his thigh is from you.

He breaks away with urgency and you give him a confused expression. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to-? I think I can get hard again. Just give me a minute to-”

You sigh and hold him, keeping him still. “Dee, it’s okay. You don’t need to do anything.”

“Are you sure? I can go down on you if you want.”

“Hey, what did I say about being greedy, huh?” You laugh. “I’m too tired anyways.”

Dieter’s heart sinks until you continue, “We can do that tomorrow. Before breakfast? How’s that sound?”

He pulls you closer to his chest and chuckles, “I can do that.”

“You sure can pencil that into the schedule?” You tease.

“Oh, I’m not missing that appointment. Trust me.” With a hard swallow he admits, “Been waiting for that opening for a long time.”

Your voice reverberates against his ribcage when you reply, “Me too, Dee. Me too.”

Please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed!! Love ya!! 💛

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x y/n #dieter bravo smut #the bubble #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble fanfic #DMAMC2025 #DMAMC 2025

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grimesbunny · 8 hours ago

Text

tonight i feel like more

summary: dry humping. sub daryl (but he doesn’t know it) lets goo. awkward sex. probably ooc. they do everything but kiss LMAOO.

inspired by that one s2/3 panel where norman says if someone tried to kiss daryl he’d start crying cause he isn’t ready for all that. hasnt left my head since i watched it. title from digital bath by deftones

dry humping farm era daryl :( coming out to his secluded tent one night under the guise of checking on his injuries and your playful flirting gets too real too fast somehow. you’re both pent up from what feels like months of tension that you can’t even bother to shed your clothes— or maybe daryl just isn’t ready to cross that threshold yet— it doesn’t even matter because the moment you sit yourself on his broad lap and feel the hard, thick outline of him pressed against you through your clothes, you forget to care.

he’s instantly whining at the friction, ducking his head and using your neck to shield you from seeing how red his face has grown, how embarrassed he is that simply talking to you has made him so hard. you do it on purpose, talking to him in that sweet, endearing tone that you know drives him crazy. constantly teasing him with your eyes and touches until he scoffs off your advances. in your defense, the effect you have on him is just too addicting not to play with a little.

“aw, dar, don’t be shy.” you giggle out quietly, your soft arms coming to rest on his shoulders and intertwine behind his back. “look at me.”

the defiant grunt he lets out doesn’t have the same effect when it cracks with desire. like yanking the leash on a dog, you pull the hair at the nape of his neck firmly enough to send him into action. his pupils are dilated, but his eyes remain squinted stubbornly even as he does as he’s told.

“what? we gonna make out all night like a coupla teenagers?” he attempts to be snarky, but the nervous tremor in his voice betrays him.

“why, is that the farthest you’ve ever gone?” it’s half joking, half a genuine question.

from what you’ve heard, daryl had spent most of his life following merle around like a lost puppy pre-apocalypse. you wonder if any significant others had filled some of the space in between, and a part of you is jealous just thinking about it.

he snorts. “i ain’t no virgin mary, that’s for sure.”

well, that’s too bad. you could’ve really gotten off on being his first.

“oh, okay. so you know what you’re doing then?”

he’s silent, an unreadable expression on his face.

as if to prove a point, you grind down on his bulge with one fluid motion. daryl’s jaw falls slack and a barely there whimper tumbles out, eyes widening up at you with submission, vulnerability. it makes your cunt throb, makes you want to give him everything and make him beg for it at the same time.

“feels good, hm?”

“cmon, stop… stop playin’ around.” he huffs— grits out more like. as if using his voice while he’s in such a compromising position is physically paining him. you watch his eyes drift to your chest, which is quickly rising and falling with your synchronized pants.

“oh, you can do better than that, dixon.” you chide lightly. “what happened to that smart mouth of yours?”

“i… can you…” daryl sucks in a deep breath, his gaze lowering to the spot your groins are connected. “just fuckin’ move.”

you lean back, giving him a better view of the expanse of your torso, the way the strap of your camisole has started to fall down your shoulder. daryl seems to bite the bait, tongue darting out to gather the pool of drool starting to gather around his lip. it rings a laugh out of you.

“with that attitude, i should just go back inside. leave you all alone to take care of yourself.” you threaten. his response is immediate, as his large hands that were once gripping the blankets below him come to hold your waist in place with a bearish grip. waiting, you raise an eyebrow at him.

he looks off to the side. “p…please.”

it’s faint, reluctant. still, the rush of power he’s giving you makes your head spin. he’s realistically much stronger than you, could quickly take control of the situation without breaking a sweat with that advantage alone. but he’s choosing to let you lead, to do as you say. you can’t say it’s something you expected, but you’re not gonna complain.

your lips stretch into a grin, patting his cheek like one would a puppy. “attaboy. that’s what i thought.”

you can feel daryl’s cock kick at the praise, and it encourages you to buck down into it. you both moan at the same time, hands tightening around each other as you continue to slowly drag your cunt along his cock. the heat emanating from your clothes is blossoms in below your navel and traps you in.

“you like that, don’t you? doing what you’re told?” your hips slowly gain speed, hands traveling to perch on daryl’s shoulders. his muscles flex underneath your fingertips from exertion.

he does nothing but lowly whine in response, attempting to duck his head again.

“say it.” you push. “say it or i’ll stop.”

“fuck. yeah. i don’t know.” he grunts, his hips canting to chase your warmth. “i like hearin’ you say it.”

“that you’re being so good for me? letting me get off on your lap?” you tease meanly, lifting forward to talk in his ear. “that your cock feels like heaven right now and it’s not even out of your pants?”

the groan that emits out of him is followed by a frustrated sigh. daryl’s hands shakily run under your shirt, up to your waist. you can tell he’s unsure of his movements.

“you can touch me.” you allow graciously.

building up to it, his hands travel slowly. you almost start to believe he’s purposely teasing, but the clumsiness of it all makes you think otherwise. its like a dam breaks when daryl finally reaches your breasts, the fabric of your top bundling up on your chest. he squeezes hesitantly, then his calloused thumbs circle around your areola as your hips draw circles in his lap. daryl watches your nipples harden in unadulterated fascination, his breathing heavy. either he does know what he’s doing or he’s aimlessly exploring and just so happened to make the right move.

he looks up at you for permission and your nod is all he needs to lean forward, catching one of your supple titties on his tongue. it sends your back arching, nearly knocking him back onto the ground.

“fuck, yeah. just like that, baby.” you feel his spiky hair underneath your fingertips as you tug on the roots for stability, which earns a distinct noise from the man below you. the pleasure curling at your spine from his tongue spurs your movements on, beginning to hump into him with all your effort. his bulge keeps knocking against your clit in a way that has you on the verge of seeing stars. “feels so good, daryl.”

“oh, shit. y’gonna… i’m about to…” his voice splits on the last part and it makes your heart clench, disbelieving as you lift his head up to meet his eyes. sure enough, they’re glistening with unshed tears in the dim light.

“already?” your smile and voice are dripping with sympathy. “it’s okay, let it out. i want to feel it.”

you’re bound to have bruises from how hard daryl squeezes you when he releases. it’s a sight to be seen; his face twisting up, strong muscles bulging as he struggles to stifle the cry that’s ripped out of him. his hips drive up into yours, and you swear you can feel it paint his pants, his cum mingling with the damp spot you’ve left.

“you’re so sensitive. god, that’s hot.”

he’s too high on his orgasm to come up with a retort to that. to his surprise, you continue chasing your own pleasure, paying no mind to the fact that he’s rapidly softening. your hearts racing, body tingling with warmth as you reach the brink.

“wait,” his voice is watery. “s’too much.”

“don’t be selfish, dar. i’m not finished with you yet.” you’re breathless at this point, just barely expending the last of your mental energy to respond to his whines. “you can take it a little longer, can’t you?”

his head falls back, and you’re not sure if the noises come from his mouth are from pain or pleasure or both. he nods anyways, watery eyes flicking down to watch your supple tits bounce.

you squeeze onto his biceps. “you’re being so good. gonna make me cum so hard.”

daryl’s whining and squirming underneath you, fingertips piercing your thighs exposed by your shorts.

“you’re so pretty.” he sniffles, whispers in a way that seems subconscious. “how … how can i help?”

ironically that question, of all things, is what sends to the edge. your orgasm is wrung out of you, rippling through your body like a wave as you spasm on his lap. daryl’s noises rival your own in volume, the overstimulation becoming painful.

you both pant together as the last of the aftershocks fade.

“are you okay?”

“my dick is sore.” daryl says at the same time. his voice is raw, vulnerable.

“i’m sorry.” you giggle breathily, going to stand up. his hands hesitate in letting you go, but eventually he drops them to his sides again.

he scratches the back of his neck as you straighten all of your clothes out.

“where’d you learn to… talk like that?”

a smile makes its way back onto your face as you shrug. “you kinda just brought it out of me. seems like you liked it.” you pointedly glance at the large stain on the front of his pants.

“shit. gonna have to burn these in the walker pit. don’t want carol clutchin’ her pearls at me on laundry day.”

“nuh uh. save ‘em for next time.” you joke.

he squints at you again in true daryl fashion. his face is red and his hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat. the sight is almost enough to make you want round two right there and then. maybe with a little less clothes.

“ain’t gon’ be a next time.”

you snort, bending down to grab your forgotten flashlight. “right.”

he watches you unzip the tent, eyebrows pulled together pathetically. there’s definitely going to be a next time.

#idk #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd x reader #the walking dead smut #daryl dixon smut

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onboardsorasora · 1 day ago

Note

Can you bring back de-aged Daniel 😊

why yes, yes I can bestie!!

Part 1 | Part 19 | Part 20

Max flicked on his indicator, waiting for the roadway to clear before making his turn. He glanced in the rearview mirror to check in on Little Daniel who was tucked snuggly in his car seat, looking out the window placidly and kicking his feet merrily.

Satisfied with what he saw, Max focused once again on the road in front of him. They were almost back home from making a quick trip to the shopping plaza. Daniel had been talking animatedly the whole time, and Max knew he was fighting from succumbing to his inevitable nap.

“Maxy, oh no.” Little Daniel murmured. Max looked into the rearview mirror again to see his little face trained on the ceiling.

“What's wrong?”

“Das a big spider.” Little Daniel whispered and Max looked behind him again, trying to switch between looking at the road and finding this spider. He knew Daniel was afraid of them, and assumed Little Daniel would be terrified. He wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of them either, but he would fight his own fear to ensure Little Daniel’s safety.

“Where is it?” Max looked around again before locating the arachnid walking along the moonroof. It wasn't very big, tiny in comparison to the spiders on Daniel's farm in Australia. And it looked to be on the outside of the glass at least. “Oh that is a big spider friend.”

“He's holdin’ on!” Little Daniel pointed up to where the spider was clearly bothered by the speed of Max's driving.

“Are you afraid of it Daniel?” Max kept glancing in the rearview mirror, attempting to anticipate a potential freak out.

“He's outside can't hurt. Mummy says it's fine if they're outside!” Little Daniel recited happily, shaking his head.

Max nodded to himself, already thinking of the best plan of action when they got home and needed to actually exit the car. He could manage a squirmy body. At least, Little Daniel liked to cling so he could maybe have a hand free to grab their things.

Little Daniel started narrating the spider’s journey to keep clinging to the car, complete with action wind sounds. Max nodded along, asking question after question and by the time they got home the spider had an entire backstory as a movie star practising his stunts that go ‘booooom’ and ‘wooooossshhhhh’

Max parked and took a moment to steel himself. The spider was still on the ceiling, clinging on it seemed, by its own web. Max felt bad about wishing it would have blown off a few turns ago.

“Alright Daniel, we’re home. Do you think you’ll be ok with the spider being outside while we’re outside?” Max turned in his seat to look at the bright honey eyes of his passenger. Little Daniel’s eyes widened as if he hadn’t thought that far. He looked back up at the ceiling to see the spider walking around in a small circle.

Little Daniel looked back at Max with a determined clench to his little jaw. Max helplessly thought of his older self, having that same focused look– the hard set to his strong jaw– while he went over data or agreed to his rehab plan.

“Yesh, we will be fine Maxshy. Jeff won’t hurt us.” Little Daniel said confidently. Max blinked, when did he even have time to name the spider?

“He won’t? Well If you’re sure.” Max waited for Little Daniel to nod once more before he exited the car and walked around to Daniel’s door. He quickly unclipped him from his car seat and lifted him from the car. “Do you want a piggyback ride while I get our bags? You can wave bye to Jeff.” He asked.

Little Daniel grinned before clambering onto Max’s broad back and clutching his small arms around Max’s neck. He always loved a piggyback ride. Max closed the door and opened the trunk, ducking in to collect the totes that held their purchases and pressed the button for the hatch to close on its own. All the while, he kept an eye on the spider still on the roof.

“You ready? Say bye bye to Jeff. The next time we go for a drive, he’ll probably be gone to film his movie.”

Max felt when Little Daniel’s mouth opened in excitement at the thought, he heaved himself up a little higher and started waving on arm excitedly. Max tilted forward to keep him steady, along with a hand on his bottom.

“Byyyeeee Jeff! It wash nice meeting you! I hope the movie is funnn!” Little Daniel called excitedly before clutching at Max’s neck again. Max walked towards the elevator while Little Daniel regaled him with stories about what he thought Jeff the Spider’s movie would be about. It was racing themed, because of course it was. Max smiled to himself.

#answered #anonymous #maxiel #max/daniel #de aged daniel

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crowsofdarkness · 3 days ago

Text

Arranged: Chapter One

Pairings: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: language, 18+ smut(ch 12& ch 17), angst, fluff, mentions of death and violence. I will update the warnings with each chapter.

Summary: Reader would do anything to make her parents happy and that included agreeing to an arranged marriage. She never expected it to be to one of New York's most feared Mob Boss: Bucky Barnes. He is anything but loving towards Reader however when her parents are mysteriously killed, Bucky makes it his mission to find out who were at fault. And in the process, ends up coming close to losing Reader.

Authors Note: This was a story of mine on an old blog and I wanted to publish it on here. Since it's quite a long fic, I've decided to slowly updated it chapter by chapter. If anyone who is interested wants to be tagged, let me know!

I sighed while looking up at the large mansion in front of me, bags placed neatly behind me. The driver gave me a curt nod and with a smile of thanks, I saw him on his way before looking back at the mansion; my new home.

Anger radiated throughout my insides when I thought of the reason why I was in this mess in the first place.

My parents. I loved them to death, they would do anything for me and I for them.

I was to be married off and not to any regular man. In a week's time, I was going to be married to New York’s highest feared mob boss. Confusion filled me at first when I couldn’t quite understand why they thought this was a great idea but deep down I knew why they did it. They wanted the best for me, to be set up for the rest of my life and not have to worry about anything. Which is exactly why they set up this arrangement.

With a soft sigh, I ascended the staircase up to the front door and softly knocked, the nerves attacking me. I bounced on the soles of my heels as I waited.

The door opened, revealing a small, older lady who had a confused expression. “Can I help you?”

I nodded. “Uh, hi. My name is Y/N Y/L/N, I believe Mr.-.”

Her eyes lit up while furiously nodding. “Yes, come in.”

With a smile, I went to drag my bags inside but she waved me off. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll have someone grab that and bring it to your room.”

She motioned for me to follow her inside and that’s when I took in my new home. A large grand staircase twisted and turned upstairs, and one hallway to my right and another towards the left.

“I’m Barb. I’m here for whatever you need,” the older lady smiled.

My own matched hers. “Thank you, Barb.”

“So,” she motioned to the hallway on my left. “If you go down that hallway you’ll find the rest of the house; kitchen, living area, gym, a couple bathrooms, and the laundry room.”

She then pointed to the hallway on my right. “Down here is an empty room that’s been used for storage and his office. He doesn’t like to be bothered unless it’s an emergency. A good rule to live by: Door open means come in, door cracked means ask, door closed means turn your back and walk away.”

I quirked a brow. “You know from experience?”

“I’ve been taking care of this house and him for the last 10 years. A little piece of advice?”

When I nodded, Barb continued. “He may come off as an asshole sometimes but he really is a sweet loving man.”

Her words warmed my heart. I had heard rumors about him, everyone has. They weren’t positive ones either. There was a reason why he was the worst feared mob boss of New York.

“Upstairs is where the bedrooms are,” She motioned for me to follow, which I did.

Once we reached the top of the stairs she nodded towards two closed doors. “The door on the left is the master bedroom and that one across the hall is yours.”

“Wait, we’re not sharing a room?” I questioned.

Barb shook her head. “He doesn’t want to pressure you. He already knows that you weren’t too fond of this arrangement so he wanted you to have your own space until you’re ready to stay with him.”

I could only nod, not sure what to say exactly, so Barb opened my bedroom door allowing me to step inside.

The room wasn’t anything special, I mean it was the size of my old apartment so the extra space was nice and the bathroom was breathtaking with the large tub facing the large open fields behind the home. But what caught my attention was the large bouquet of roses on the bedside table and a gorgeous floor length black dress lay on the edge of the bed with a note.

Dinner tonight. I’ll meet you at the bottom of the stairs at seven.

B.B.

“Where is he anyway?” I asked Barb while shedding off my coat, letting it drop onto my bed.

“In a meeting but should be finishing up soon. Feel free to have a look around and make yourself at home. Just make sure to check his-.”

“Check his door before entering,” I finished Barb’s sentence with a smile.

Barb waved goodbye, letting me be by myself to settle in. However, just as I was about to call after her for my bags, a large blonde walked into my room and placed all of my things in the doorway.

I knew in the way that the muscles in his back and arms flexed that carrying all of my things didn’t bother him. He stood tall before a smile peaked out from underneath his beard and he slicked back his long blonde hair out of his face. He was dressed in a light blue dress shirt and dark dress pants, the shirt bringing out the blueness of his eyes.

He definitely had to work for him.

“That should be everything.”

I nodded at him. “Yeah, thank you, uh-.”

“Steve Rogers. But you can call me Steve,” he extended his hands.

Hesitantly I placed my own in his and with his size, I was shocked at how soft his grip was; almost as if he was afraid. Our hands lingered together for a few more beats before he dropped his hand away and stuffed them into the pockets of his pants.

“Do you need anything?” Steve asked.

“I think I’m good, thank you.” I gave him a smile.

“Of course but if you do, let me know. I’ve been assigned to you.”

I squinted my eyes at him. “Assigned?”

“Your bodyguard. You’re not allowed to go anywhere without me,” Steve informed.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I cursed, suddenly feeling the anger that was dormant since before I walked into this house.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

Steve hesitantly nodded. “I understand but he insists.”

Not saying another word, I pushed past Steve and sprinted down the stairs towards the office, not caring to look to see what his door was like. I may have agreed to this marriage, reluctantly, but I did not agree to have a babysitter and be followed around everywhere I went. I needed to have some rules in this arrangement.

Thankfully the door to his office was cracked but I didn’t bother to ask if I could come in.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” I seethed as I entered.

He was in the middle of sitting on his green velvet couch and crossed his leg over his other knee. Even underneath his smirk, I knew he was upset about my barging in. I was so angry about this that I didn’t even notice how breathtaking he looked under the faint light that emanated from the lamps next to his couch. But then once the anger dissipated slightly, my gaze fell onto his left arm as he ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and an audible gasp fell through my lips when I realized that the biggest rumor about him was true. The light brushed off the metal, his fingers poking out of the sweater he was wearing.

“Sit,” he pointed to the chair across from him.

I stood my ground while crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t need a fucking baby sitter, Barnes.”

“Call me Bucky.”

I wanted to wipe the smug smirk off of his face.

“I can take care of myself,” I stated flatly.

“I’m sure you can but given my reputation, I think it’s best. Steve’s one of my best men, he’s worked for me since the beginning. I trust him.”

My soon to be husband leaned back into his couch, resting the different arm across the back of it. If he noticed me staring, he made no comment about it, only nodded to the chair across from him once again.

I ignored him, yet again.

“Next time you make a decision about me or how I’m going to live around here, run it by me first alright?” I suggested.

Bucky’s eyes turned dark. “You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

I scoffed. “I don’t give a fuck who you are, James Buchanan Barnes. The only reason why I’m here is because of my parents and their wishes.”

We were interrupted by a knock to the door, a group of men clutching briefcases close to them.

“I thought our meeting was scheduled for four,” one of them said.

These men screamed ‘sketchy’ and knew whatever kind of meeting they were about to have was going to be one that I shouldn’t be around for.

Bucky nodded. “We were just finishing up here.”

He then turned his attention towards me. “We can finish this discussion during dinner.”

“Consider this conversation over,” I muttered while storming out of the room, letting the door slam behind me.

#mob!bucky #mob!bucky barnes #mob!bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky barnes and reader #mob!boss bucky and yn #mob!boss bucky barnes x yn #mob!boss bucky barnes x y/n #mob!bucky barnes and y/n #mobboss!bucky barnes and reader #ssebastian stan #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes

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dilf-docs · 18 hours ago

Text

Can We Hit It Now, Low-Down And Gritty?

dieter bravo x younger!reader

summary: the last thing you need is world-renowed asshole slash actor dieter bravo to yell at you for doing your job. he'll pay for that.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., pwp, size kink, brat taming, degradation kink, fingering, oral (f. receiving), pussy spanking (again?! dilf-docs u horndog WE GET IT), creampie, tbh this is just pure filth pls forgive me Lord I have sinned, dieter bravo (yes that's a warning), nicknames (doll), reader is a glorified porn writer, she can also speak spanish but no physical description/nationality is mentioned

word count: 6,324 words

side note: hello someone please take away ai bots from me thank you. won't add anything else, just enjoy this horny mess sponsored by our fluffy disaster king (did enjoy writing their banter though). i need to be on horny jail bc i'm on those days and wrote this in about 24 hours talk about desperate like i'm going to hell wow if you know me irl no you don't

The set was quiet, well, as quiet as it could be: quick footsteps, flickers of lights, turning of pages, sips of freshly bought coffee and instructions yelled to the air.

That is something you can control. Like, even. But this job isn't easy, given not only what but also who you need to handle.

And speaking about the devil, here comes the who: world-renowned asshole and actor, Dieter Bravo, storming into the place with a strenuous walk.

Just what you need: he's coming in your direction with what you recognize is the movie's script in his hands.

"Who wrote this?!" he angrily shouts, glaring at the people on the set.

"I did" you stand still, defiant even. "Is that a problem?"

Dieter scoffs when he hears your response.

"Is that a problem?" he mocks. "Look at this!"

He holds up the script but you don't even bother to look at it: you've read it so many times, you could recite it from memory.

"This crap isn't going to sell" Dieter argues. "People aren't going to be interested in this story"

There's an irritated expression on his face as he looks down on you. Does Dieter think you care? Of course you knew it was bullshit as soon as you finished the first page, but you had to pay bills, and working this shitty jobs would get you closer to the contacts you needed―the only reason you're doing this in the first place.

"Tell me" he stands before you, and he's so close, you can hear his uneven breathing. "Did you really write this garbage?"

What's the point in lying? The only reason why you did is because you wanted to make him mad. Is it childish? Yes. But you have your reasons, the biggest one being that in no way would you allow a celebrity to talk down on you like that. It's one of the worst parts of your job, and not even Dieter and his handsome face would let you take his shit.

"No, I didn't. But I approved it" you cross your arms, revealing the truth. "You know, you're being very dissmisive of people's hard work because you can't stand not being so called perfect. It's called humilty, you could try"

(You don't really care about this people's hard work that much. They did a bad job, but in the end, a job. He should respect them for that, not the result. A bad one, objectively speaking)

Dieter scoffs at your response, obviously not liking the snarky tone.

"Oh, you approved it?" his tone comes out annoyed. "Which means you know it's crap, right?"

You shrug your shoulders, making him visibly frustrated with the conversation.

"This has nothing to do with me wanting to be the spotlight, you idiot" Dieter raises his voice, "did you even stop to think about the viewers?"

Okay, so now you're the villain. Frankly, it's been a bad week, and the last thing you want is this guy thinking he can get away with harrassing and talking down a less payed crew member just because he's rich, famous and hot. Whatever. If he wanted to play with fire, you'll happily be the match.

"Listen, I approved it because I want to go home and be at peace. Don't give me crap about the viewers. Of course I know this is shit! But I don't get paid enough to care. Besides, even if I wanted, I couldn't change it. You're angry at the wrong person; I'm just following orders"

Dieter clenches his fist, clearly struggling to keep his calm.

"So you just do whatever the hell the director says?" he spits in a irritated tone.

"That's about my job"

"You do know that could mean this movie flops, right? Is that how little you care about what you do?"

Dieter stands before you, crossing his arms, the veins on them popping with annoyance.

"You don't know shit about me" you reply while trying not to look at his flexing biceps too much, hoping he doesn't notice. "And I'm sorry to break it to you, but not all of us are big names that can do whatever they please or hold that much power. If it was up to me, I wouldn't hire this stupid director, writer or you, who, by the way, are way past your prime"

It's an unnecesary offense you truly didn't mean, but you hate the way he talks to you as if you were stupid. And maybe the blow felt bigger because you are a fan. Geez. You thought working with him would be a dream, despite his reputation, yet now all the claims are becoming true in the worst way possible. The last thing you need is Dieter finding out you're a fan, and even if it's a coward way out, you'll defend what's left of your dignity however it takes.

Dieter's brown eyes widen in disbelief at your petty comment. Then, they spark with rage, as he looks quite furious.

"Excuse me?! You don't get to talk about me like that" Dieter moves his ringed hands erratically in the air, as to make his point any more clear. "Do you know how hard I've worked for my career? I won't have anyone, less a little brat, tell me I'm past my prime"

You admire his career, that's the worst of it all. But the annoyance has settled deeply in between you both, and you find yourself at loss for words or energy to keep bickering. Besides, behind you, you can hear the order to continue filming in a few.

"Yeah, you don't get to talk to me like that either. I guess we're even" you sigh, tiredly. "Anything else I can help with, Mr. Bravo?"

If you could, you would cover your mouth in horror. You didn't mean to call his name like that, as if you're allured by him. Fuck Dieter. You hope he doesn't read too much into the tone.

But of course his drug-fried brain would notice that, the actor staring at you with a puzzled look when you call his name.

"Oh, now you're calling me Mr. Bravo, eh? Trying to flirt your way out of this? I'm not a dumbass, you know"

The fact that he associates the calling with flirting rather than nerves makes your eyes twitch. He keeps staring at you, heat making it's way to your face. It's like he's trying to find out if what you said was indeed flirting, and given by the smirk he's giving you, it seems Dieter's got the wrong veredict.

"I'm not stupid either, but here you're talking to me like I am"

Great. That came out even more childish than you intended.

You think the color painting your cheeks is noticeable now, as Dieter lets out a small chuckle. He then cuts the distance even more, the irritating smirk still on his face.

"Well, then don't try and play me like I'm an idiot." Dieter pauses for a moment, then continues in a teasing tone when he sees your flushed face. "Oh, you're so red... It's cute"

"Cute?" the sound you let out is a mix of a chuckle and scoff. "Did you just call me cute? Are you too trying to flirt your way out with of this?" you repeat his same words from earlier. He chuckles amused at your behavior, his smirk turning into a cocky smile as he stares down at you.

"Me? flirt my way out? I would never." he then continues to speak in an amused tone. "I call people I find cute, cute...and you are definitely cute"

"Oh, I'm not the only one then, huh? And here I thought I was special" you feign hurt, and even if you're not an actor, you hope it sells. "And here I thought we were playing the same game. Well, I suppose we're done, and you can go back to filming or complaining, whatever suits you. Oh, the director is here: now bother someone else"

"Special? Nah, can't say you are." he says playfully at your attempt to brush him off. Then Dieter glances over in the director's direction but his gaze returns to you. "Oh, I'll deal with him later, you worry about yourself, sweet cheeks"

You know it's part of the banter, but it's no news to anyone who truly knows you the insecurity you've felt after so many projects rejected, ideas scrapped and terrible dating life. The you're not special hangs in the air, suffocating you; it feels like a slap to the face. Not to be a downer or such a mood changer, but it's hard to pretend. Yeah, you couldn't be an actor even if you tried to.

"Yeah I know" you answer, this time not pretending. Your voice may have given you away, so you turn around, hoping he doesn't get to see your face fall. "You're right, I'll take care of myself or whatever you said before. Bye, Mr. Bravo" you rush the words out, embarrased at yourself and how easily he's got you wrapped around his finger.

Really? And I called him again like that? So stupid.

But he notices that your face has changed a bit, picking up the slight change. Dieter feels a slight pang of guilt for what he said, his smirk disappearing from his face. He lets out a sigh when you bid goodbye; he was having fun.

"Hey, wait a minute"

The actor reaches out and gently grabs your arm, stopping you from leaving.

"What do you want?" you dryly ask, trying to keep a stoic façade, hoping Dieter doesn't catch the racing heartbeat by touching your wrist. "Go bother someone else"

"What I want..." he pauses for a brief moment, "...is for you to not walk away"

Dieter's grasp on your wrist loosens a bit, but he still keeps a hold on you. "I made a mistake. I was being an ass"

Was he, apologizing? For a moment, it seemed like Dieter was going to admit to what he did, which was unlike him, but his voice sounded genuine.

"D-Dieter!" you squeak his name in surprise, then blushing at the embarrassing sound. "You can't be serious, I mean- I'm the one that's sorry, I was an ass first. I think I deserve that"

It doesn't make sense and yes, you deserve his apology, yet at this point you're braindead and this is nothing but just nervous rambling at his actioms, so out of character from what you've heard and know.

A small chuckle escapes from the actor's mouth when he hears you squeak his name.

"I am serious. I mean it. You did not deserve it" his light grasp on your wrist stays as he slowly runs his thumb over your skin. Dieter stands even closer, making your breath hitch.

"W-what are you doing? You realize we're on set, right?" I laugh nervously, yanking my arm, even if you want him to still hold you.

The actor slowly loosens his grasp on you and lets go of your wrist, but the relief is short-lived as he moves his hand to your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

"Of course I know we're on set. Why? You think I'm doing something you don't like?"

Mischief glistens in his eyes, and you gulp nervously at the turn of events.

"I don't like it because it's not what I've heard from you" you confess before even stopping to think a proper answer. "You know, they warned us... to not get involved with the cast, and you? This isn't who I thought... heard- I think I'm going insane" you get very nervous, well aware you're doing a very poor job at hiding it. "Y-you have an exhibition kink or something?"

Ah, why. Yes, of course your mouth and brain had teamed up against you, the duo an expert on ruining your life.

See, it was a joke, but it comes out horribly wrong, making you cover your mouth. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I truly didn't mean-"

Dieter lets out a soft chuckle when you cover your mouth in embarrassment, clearly enjoying this.

"An exhibition kink? That's interesting. I've never been asked that before..."

His hand gently grabs your wrist, slowly moving it away from your mouth.

"Oh, don't cover your mouth. I like the things you say, although some are dumb"

"Wow, you're still hellbent on calling me dumb. I thought we were friends" you breath relieved at the way he took your stupid move, playfully nudging his side, feeling plush skin under his clothes. Fuck. You better leave before you dig this hole deeper. "So, do you or not? Answer the question. The joke may have backfired but my curiosity is still there"

"Dumb, stupid, idiot... you choose. I'm still going to call you that, doll. Can't let you off that easily" Dieter chuckles before answering your question, because of your boldness and the reappearing dark shade over your face. "Alright, I'll answer your question. Are you sure you want to know, though? You have a wild imagination"

"How do you know?" you fake gasp. "Have you read my works?"

It came out in the moment, not something you're used to saying out loud, especially when you're simply an assistant, because honestly, it's embarrassing.

Dieter gives you a small smirk when you fake gasp at his statement. He then continues to look down at you.

"I've heard some things. That some of the scenes you've written are a bit... steamy. If you know what I mean"

There is that same treacherous blush again. How could you get out of this?

"No I don't" and a tricky smile adorns your features, "enlighten me"

Great. The best way out seems to be going down.

"Is that right? You don't know what I mean? Well, you're the hand behind these love scenes, aren't you?"

The small input in this movie, by yours truly. When he received the script, he recoiled at how bad it was, almost calling his agent to call quits on the project. But then he had read the first of many scenes involving a certain type of action, and he decided to stay. Now that he stands before you, knowing it's you who's written them, he finds the discovery amusing and worth entertaining, no matter if he was initially pissed at the fact you were also part of the reasons why he wanted to quit.

A cocky smile appears on the actor's face when you get closer: he likes how, despite the embarrasing events you still find it in you to stand before him, spark behind your eyes full of mischief. It all starts to make sense, he thinks with amusement.

"Love scenes?" you taunt. "You mean the ones were they break furniture and blow off steam with the nasties sounds ever heard to human kind? Nope, doesn't sound like it; no idea what you're talking about" Then you pause, to keep suspense. You lick your lips, making sure to hold his gaze. "Unless..."

Dieter snickers when you describe the scenes; filming hadn't yet get there but he is eager. The actor's gaze is fixed on you as he lets out a low hum.

"Unless what? You can't just pause there, now that got me intrigued"

This isn't real, because he genuinely seems interested in what you'll say next.

"Unless you want to recreate them before filming, since you know, you're so damn interested. Sweeping your big nose in business you shouldn't" you called his nose big not as an offense but rather a compliment: it's literally the prettiest you've ever seen. Hell, it's not only endearment you feel towards it; you've literally wrote a scene where the female lead grinds off it, all while thinking of him. You really hope he's lying about reading your stuff. "Metiche"

Dieter lets out a surprised laugh at your comment about his nose, positive in his mind. He found it amusing that you called it big, which usually would be negative to some, but he didn't really mind. It's also funny in a way, and he finds to be enjoying this more than he should, long forgotten his complains or the movie he's supposed to be shooting as of now.

"Metiche, huh? You have quite the mouth on you"

"Do I?" are you confident, bold or stupid? "You haven't even seen anything yet, Mr. Bravo"

Dieter lets out another chuckle at your confidence. He's definitely entertained by your responses. He tilts his head while giving you a curious expression.

"Is that so? You have something more you'd like to share, doll? I'm open to see whatever you have if I haven't seen it already"

"Or read" I joke, "like I seriously need to check my friends to see who would sell me out. Did you truly read my stuff or you're just fucking with me?"

Dieter lets out another chuckle, finding your joke funny. He then gets a more serious, but still amused, expression on his face.

"I'm not messing with you, I did read some of them, including the ones on this movie. I didn't lie about that, I promise" he pauses for a brief moment, letting out an amused hum. "Y no te preocupes, linda. No estoy jugando contigo"

"If you didn't lie then I suppose you'd know who I had in mind when I wrote that scene of a guy eating a girl's pussy while she sits in his face, grinding on it. I'll give you a clue" you tiptoe, until the hot of your breathe clashes against the cold of his ear's skin, "he's got a big nose"

Dieter lets out a low hum when you drop the clue. "A big nose huh? Sounds familiar"

"It does?" you ask on an overly saccharine tone, fingers carressing the bridge of his nose, softly.

How did we get here?

He leans in a bit to get closer, clearly into your little taunts.

"Yeah, it does. And you just confirmed it too, no need to try to hide it now"

"Woah, don't let the ego win over, Mr. Bravo. A lot of people got big nose, you included" you smirk, removing your fingers from his face, and he would never admit out loud he instantly misses the warmth of your touch. "It's just coincidental you got the part and matched the character's description. You know what they say: all events depicted in this movie are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental" you recite.

He laughs, shyly. "I know a lot of people have big noses, but I do wonder why you chose that trait in particular"

"I wonder too" then your tone drops low, "We should try, you know, to see if it's viable before we get to filming that part... call it exploratory research"

He feels your fingers touching again his nose.

"Exploratory research, you say?" Dieter lets out a soft chuckle. "How about you be a doll and show me some of that research. I'll gladly be the test subject"

You get flustered. This went too far. Why aren't you running away, or banging your head against a wall for some common sense? This is getting ridiculous, but so is the wet spot between your legs.

"Um, I- wow, I- do you really...? No way" you become a rambling mess again, trying to steady yourself, "You want to eat my pussy?"

The words come out brash, making you cringe.

"Is that what you're saying, Mr. Bravo? You can still turn around and pretend you don't know me. Muero de pena"

Hee tilts his head to the side, looking at you with an almost wolf-like look in his eyes. He takes a step closer, so more of his body is against your own, his face closer to yours.

"Don't do that. You don't have to be embarassed, doll" his finger plays with your lower lip. "I'm saying exactly that"

"Please" voice so small it feels like you'll break, "do it"

The actor lets out a hum in response to your small voice.

"Right here...?"

"No!" you jump horrified, getting out of the horny haze for a bit. "Oh, God. Do you want to be blacklisted, Dieter?" squeaky, lowering your gaze to avoid his, resorting to playing with your fingers. "You have a room, right? They gave you one.... just for you, right?"

He nods his head in response.

"Perks of being the lead actor" he beams a bit proud with full-blown ego in display. "I have my own trailer, and it's not that far away"

"It's okay, I like walking anyways" you reply. "As a matter of fact, I like a lot of things"

The actor lets out another soft laugh in response.

"You're cheeky, you know that, baby?"

He starts to lead you towards his trailer, putting his arm around your waist. It feels big and warm, his touch making a current shoot down until it looses in between your legs. If this is what fighting and low paid terrible jobs got you, you'd do it more often.

"Cheeky? Cute? Do you want to kill me?" I laugh as we almost make it there. "Turns out, I kinda like that"

Now, where you testing your luck by keeping on running your mouth? You need to shut it up forever.

The actor chuckles when you ask if he wants to kill you, stopping in his tracks when you mention that you kind of like that. He looks down at you with a soft, yet cocky smile, but his arm still lingers around your waist.

"I've never heard a woman say that before, doll. I'm starting to believe you have some weird things you're into"

I'm a porn writer, but now you stop before saying more shit. His comment makes you flustered, getting shy all of the sudden as if you hadn't just half-admitted part of your kinks.

Whatever, what's out in the open air can't be unsaid. And Dieter seems to be just as into this as you, finally someone to match your freak after all those men whose cowardice made them leave before the fun started. I'm a porn writer, what'd you expect? It would be fun if I was into vainilla stuff.

"Weird things?" you pretend to be offended, "what do you have in mind?"

"Me? You want me to think? My head is still hurting from yesterday's hangover" he jokes, "why don't you be a doll and tell me exactly what you want?"

You smirk devilishly and he's taken back by the change of your demeanor. You were truly a little wolf disguised as a sheep.

"What I want is for you to press your weight onto me as you fuck me raw" you get red as you spill the lewd thoughts out loud, but it's what you write so it's not new. Your eyes dart to the curve of his soft belly, tight against his shirt. You look away, even redder if possible. "For the research, of course! All with purpose, to uh- See if I don't suffocate- the character, I mean!"

Your dirty words darken his brown kit-kat eyes, clearly enjoying the way you talk to him.

"Of course, for the research. Got to make sure the scene is accurate, right?"

He lets out a small hum and moves his hand on your waist, until they dig in your hips.

"Yeah, because we're professionals. Is this your trailer?" you ask, trying to deviate the conversation because your face keeps getting hotter. "This is your last chance to turn your back before this gets weirder. Hell, I might even leave the country"

The actor smiles at your comment about being professionals, finding it amusing.

"It's my trailer, doll. And I'm not turning my back after how this conversation is going. If I wanted, I would've already left. You'd have to try to get rid of me yourself"

Dieter then grabs his door handle and turns it, opening the door to his trailer. Your heart beats faster than humanely possible.

"Please don't look at me like that"

Dieter lets out a soft hum and looks down at you with a cheeky smile.

"Why not? I like to look at you"

He leads you inside the trailer. Once you're both inside, he shuts the door behind him. With lock. Hearing the click makes your heart skip a beat.

"Don't look at me like you'd do all the stupid things I've said"

The actor is clearly amused by your words.

"What makes you think I wouldn't?"

He licks his lips with anticipation, bracing himself for what's to come.

"I think you're smart. That you know what's best for you" your fingers go to his curls, and you can feel him shiver at the touch. His hungry expression goes soft for a brief moment, and you think you like that too.

"Mmm... your hands feel nice..."

You smile like the Cheshire cat. "And they feel even better when you put them to good use"

The actor lets out a low chuckle in response to your words and looks down at you with a cocky smile.

"Is that a hint, darling?"

"A hint?" you snort. "That's a whole ass answer in red, bold and capital letters"

The man lets out a loud laugh at your response.

"Damn, you're feisty with that attitude, aren't you, doll?"

"Am I?" your eyes darken, body walking in automatic, closing the distance. His soft body irradiates warmth, the section between his pants feeling hard. "Will you punish me for that?"

The actor lets out a soft hum when he feels your body against his own. Dieter's face slowly gets more lustful.

"Mmm, depends on how bad you are, doll. I could punish you if you misbehave"

"What would you count as misbeheaving, Mr. Bravo? I just want to be a good girl" you whisper, batting eyelashes.

The man smirks at your comment and the way you bat your eyelashes teasingly.

"You'll see. You wouldn't want me to spoil the surprise, doll. Being a good girl will get you a nice reward, though"

"Like" you caress his nose, "helping me on the research part?"

Dieter enjoys your teasing touch on his nose and smirks at your comment.

"Mmm, just like the research part, doll"

"Would you show me?" you ask out in a tone so sweet, he's about to come right there. He didn't think it was possible, even. So he lets out a cocky laugh as he says, tone dropping too:

"Maybe I should if you're so persistent in not believing me"

You roll you eyes. "You really think I'm that easy to convince?"

"That's not a no" Dieter smirks.

You scoff. "It's also not a yes"

His tricky ringed fingers trace until it gets in the middle of your legs, feeling your dripping arousal. He then removes the finger and licks it with his long tongue, the scene as obscene as it is but never removing his gaze from yours.

"You sure? Your words might say one thing, but your body says something else"

You get defensive, despite him cornering your frame against one of the trailers walls.

"What would you know about my body?"

Even if his eyes bear irritation, he lets out an entertained laugh.

"I see you like playing these games. Pissing me off until I shut you up myself"

"I don't care" your tongue drips in snark, and he's equally pissed and turned on.

"You're a bad liar, doll. Can't act even if your life depended on it"

You scoff, as you muster the most annoyed tone you can. "Yeah?"

"I ain't met you that long, but I can tell how your body needs me" his voice sends shivers down your spine. "Still think I'm dumb? That I can't see the way you look at me, lips almost drooling, body shaking, pleading me to touch it?" all words you could say die in your throat. "What's that? Cat got your tongue? I see you're busier getting wet"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about" but there's no confidence in your voice anymore, giving away how turned on you were. Your mind goes numb at the dangerous game you're playing, coming only to your senses when his hard cock grinds against your soaked panties.

"I think you do" Dieter bites his lip, giving your core another hard rub. "I know you'd love to feel my cock around your pretty soaked pussy. Hell, you've been begging for it"

Your mind may be backtracking, but your body definitely wasn't.

"C'mon. Stop playing hard to get, doll" Dieter chuckles, "I know you want this"

He doesn't get a word out of you, but the patch against his jeans growing wetter is enough.

"Answer me" a little moan leaves your lips as he presses himself closer, his lips devouring yours in a rough fashion. "You better talk when I tell you to. Thought you'd behave" his hand easily pulls up your knitted sweater, revealing no bra. "Damn brat. Of course you wanted this: wearin' nothing to the set and writing those scenes getting off to me like some fuckin' creep" you moan at the humiliating words coming out of his filthy mouth as he touches the rosy skin gently before giving your hardened nipple a lick and then a little bite just to hear you whine.

Dieter then grabs you by your thighs, placing you down on top of what appears to be a small kitchen's counter, his growing bulge pressed against your cunt: the hard, the cold meeting hot... it all has you incredibly turned on. You feel the cool of the rings on his hand as it starts to eagerly wander under your skirt, rubbing his middle finger in between your clothed folds.

"That's right, I wore this to have you" you moan against his lips as his fingers find your clit, making slow but steady circles, "because yes, I wrote those scenes thinking of you"

"What a bad bad girl" Dieter chuckles darkly, "wanna hear you take your well deserved punishment. And don't worry, we're far away so you can scream my name as loud as you need to, doll"

He wastes no time in giving you such, pulling down the hem of your panties until they fall down to the trailer's floor. Before him, the best sight ever revealed to men: your sticky mess of a pussy. Dieter grabs onto your thighs, spreading them slowly as he leaves a trail of kisses on the inside, his beard and fluffy hair creating tickles. He then licks the folds of your moisty entrance. When you move, you hear him tut. "Be a good girl, yeah? Stay still" and now his hands hold your thighs, keeping them in place as the rings fig in your skin. His tongue hits your sensitive folds just right, making a series of sounds leave your lips. So addicting, he thinks.

"I-I'll be a good girl" you whine, "just please. Don't stop"

Your toes curl and you begin to see stars. You're surprised he's quite compliant, adding extra pressure with his tongue, slurping on your juices with a sound so obscene, even your dirty horny mind hadn't been capable of picturing. But here he was, Dieter fucking Bravo: the reason you started writing steamy scenes and agreed to do them for this project he was starring in, him always in your mind, now eating your pussy like a starved man inside the walls of his trailer.

Your mind turns into goo and your body into a sensitive mess. Your legs start to shake, clench up and tremble, leaving you a moaning mess. You weren't going to pull away, and Dieter seemed to like that feisty side of yours, yet his hold didn't loose a bit. His index and middle finger leave your red clit and slide into your soaked nub, his thumb now doing the work on it.

"That's right, baby. Tell Dieter how much you love his fingers inside of you, you cock hungry slut"

You come all over his hand, legs tensing up as you tug his messy curls into your now tight-white fists.

"I said talk" he now grabs your hair, pulling your face closer. "Gonna be ungrateful, when I just gave you the best orgasm of your life? Say it, brat"

"Thank you, Mr. Bravo" you pant out, still recovering from the high.

That makes it two discoveries as of now:

You weren't wrong when you wrote those scenes picturing him

Dieter lived up to his reputation, because that is indeed, the best orgasm of your life

You won't stroke his ego, though. And he doesn't need it either, as he's calling you good girl while leaving love bites all over your neck. "Mine" he hisses, and you let yourself believe it for a while.

"We done, sweetheart?" you shake your head. "That's right, research has just began. Bet you want my rock hard dick inside of you now"

You whine, and he leans closer. "Why do I even ask? Gonna give you my cock for you to take like the little whore you are"

You slid your hand into his pair of briefs, giving his cock a few strokes.

"See? such a hungry girl" he seethes. "Who gave you permission, you fucking brat?"

A sting spreads across your bare clit, making you moan. That's not what you had in mind, but it's embarrassing how turned on it's making you. Well, you have some certainly interesting ideas for what to write next.

"Answer me" his tone is demanding, his large palm delivering another harsh slap to your cunt.

"N-no one"

"How do we say, then? Be a good girl and show me your manners"

"P-please!" you mewl, soon feeling his tongue soothing the pain.

"So you do know how to be a good girl" Dieter praises, pressing a light kiss to your puffy folds. "Now, where were we?"

He frees his pulsating member from the confines of the underwear, revealing his throbbing cock, ready to rub it against your folds. A little whine left your lips as he kept rocking his hips back and forth.

"Talking back to me before, where is that girl gone? All I see is a hungry slut, ready to take my cock like the little good girl she is"

Dieter pushes his tip further enough to be at the entrance of your burning hole, and you whine in frustration and need, that attitude he teases you with, long gone. All you want is him to fuck you.

"That's right, beg like the fucking whore you are"

"Just fill me up with your thick cum and fuck me until I won't be able to stand up"

"Dangerous game you playin', doll" but his expression is all hunger and no warning.

"Just fuck me" you spit. "I'm yours. Use me"

That seems to do the trick.

"Good girl" and Dieter fully pushes himself inside of you, he abuses your clit, entering him fully inside of you over and over again, not even giving you time to adjust to his girth; surprinsgly (or not), you liked it rough. His wet kisses become sloppier and rushed, landing on your lips, corners of your mouth, jaw and neck. A string of drool is on his as he pulls them out, rather prefering to hear the sounds you drowned against his lips on full volume. His hands grab you by your hips while his buck back a forth in a rough pace. Surpringsly, Dieter remembers his promise, your body caged by his bigger frame as he fucks you on the counter, feeling the swell of his belly against your lower abdomen. He pushes hard, his heavier weight making your back start to ache against the cold metal, the wall behind you digging painfully on your skin. But doesn't it feel so good?

"So fucking good" he groans, his forehead pressed against yours, breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he stares intensely into your eyes, "so tight"

You grab onto his back as he stretches you out, his pace speeding up. You moan against his ear as your nails dig further into his back with every thrust, saying his name. You come closer to your orgasm as he hits the right spot over and over again.

"Fuck... the way you beg for it, like a needy little slut. It's so fucking hot" Dieter wraps his hand around your throat, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. "I'm going to ruin you, doll. Gonna fuck you so hard that you'll forget your own fucking name" his voice is a low, guttural growl, filled with a raw, animalistic desire. "All you'll know is the feeling of my cock splitting you open, claiming you"

His words and movements edge you close, sweat dripping and clinging uncomfortably to your skin due to the reduced space.

"I-I'm close again"

"But you better come with me, spoiled little girl. Ain't doin' it alone after all I've done for you" he groans, his thrusts becoming more and more aggressive.

Your walls clench against his soaked dick, his pace suddenly slowing as his cum fills your hole, coating your walls.

"F-fuck"

You try to even your breaths as he rests his head on your shoulder, bodies pressed together.

"So, was I of help?"

You chuckle at his attempt for small talk.

"You di good, Dieter. Mission accomplished"

"Right" he sounds a bit dissapointed, making the corners of your lips raise. "Well, If you ever need a helping hand" he wiggles his brows, "you know were to find me"

"I do" you press a brief kiss to his lips. "As a matter of fact, you can also tell me when you need my helping hand" said hand travels down, feeling his dick hard again. The sight alone makes you drool. "What'd you say, cowboy? Up for analyzing the collected data? We didn't even try with your nose"

"I knew it was mine!"

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