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[oogaboogasphincter]

The person I reblogged this from deserves to be happy

I tried to scroll past this. I really did

[oogaboogasphincter]

second day reblog just bc i can 🤭 also bc we got random new dieter content today lol? i like to think i helped manifest this 🕯️✨

would u do a part 2 of after the beep when bunny gets home from work? because it’s very much delicious and i ate it up with a little salt and pepper

Stress Relief | Dieter Bravo x f!reader

🩷 hiii anon! 🥺 i can’t even begin to apologize for how long this took me to get to you, i’m so beyond thankful for your patience <3 i hope i delivered for you! 🫶

After an agitating day, your boyfriend Dieter helps melt all your worries away by delivering on the dirty promises he left in your voicemails earlier that morning.

word count/warnings: 4.9k+ words EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY MDNI! // hurt (reader has a terrible horrible no good very bad day) then comfort, reader and dieter have a verbal argument (in which reader throws a pillow at dieter) but it’s quickly resolved, phone sex mention, dieter threatens to blackmail your boss lol, anal play (f!receiving; fingering, licking), anal sex (f!receiving), masturbation (f), oral (m receiving), recreational drug use (weed, reader and dieter both use but it’s not a factor in their consent), insane amount of pet names (baby, kitty, bunny, sweetheart, sugar, lady, girl) // ao3 link

(this can be read as part 2 to after the beep but it can also be a standalone!)

“Dieter!?”

You shout as you wrench the door open with your rain-slicked hand and kick it closed behind you, leaving a muddy bootprint on the crisp white wood. The roaring thunder fails to drown out your enraged call, but you’re left unanswered nonetheless. The house Dieter is staying at - one of his actor friend’s vacation homes - is darkened by the storm outside and seems to sigh at your anger, upset that you roused it from its storm-induced slumber. But Dieter’s rental car is in the driveway, so you know your boyfriend is here somewhere. You yank your soaked jacket off and don’t bother finding a peg for it, throwing it on the hideous accent chair that probably cost more than your rent. 

Despite the boisterous thunder, the quiet inside swells to an intimidating glower. By now Dieter should’ve come lumbering out of whatever pit of candy wrappers or wrinkled pajamas he plunged himself into, but the air remains undisturbed. You keep your footsteps light as you walk around the unfamiliar house, peeking in and scanning each room for him. 

“Hey, Diets?” you ask another room, devoid of any activity. Your anger has softened now, eaten away by a growing concern of what Dieter could’ve possibly gotten himself into between when you left to go to work this morning and now. You know he was upset that you were leaving, but he always is. Hell, his voice gains a whiney edge when you just want to leave his grizzly embrace for all of thirty seconds to go to the bathroom. He left you those deliciously vile voicemails earlier in the day, detailing exactly what his erotic plans were for you later this evening, but it had been radio silence since then. 

More calls, no answers. Your mind races with options, getting more worrisome as your brain’s overthinking cogs are given more unresolved time to spiral with. Did he go meet up with a friend and forget to text you? Did he get let go of by a project, a studio - god forbid it isn’t his lawyer - and he’s drowning his sorrows with some chosen vice? Did he make one too many wrong friends on one of his many esoteric adventures and they have come back to haunt him? 

You circle back to the living room, taking out your phone to call the friend that owns this house. Maybe Dieter got picked up by them to have drinks and that’s why his rental is still here? You dial the number with a crease in your brow, and as you lift the phone to your ear and it starts to ring, you spot your dastardly lover: dead asleep on the couch, curled into himself. Only his muss of graying curls bobs from the surface of a sea of pillows and blankets with every light snore.

Your rage is rekindled to its fullest extent as a bolt of lightning cracks across the sky outside. You swear you can feel your eye twitch as you stand drenched from head to toe in rain before your dozing boyfriend, swaddled in cozy, dry warmth. 

“Dieter!” You take one of the pillows and lob it at him, hitting him right on the head. You don’t feel bad because you know it didn’t hurt him and it irks you when his eyes burst open, holding his hand to his forehead like it did. He blinks slowly, his eyelashes sticking together with sleep as he mumbles quietly, “What the fuck?” Then his eyes - those irritatingly gorgeous puddles of melted chocolate - widen when they take you in. His expression morphs into compassion and he shakes the blankets off, stumbling to his feet with lingering drowsiness.

“Bunny, what happened?” he asks, reaching for your arms to hold you. You take a step back from him, still steaming with anger. You get even more irritated when you feel the hot tears that prick your eyes every goddamn time you get upset. Stifling them back, you straighten your back and unleash your anger. 

“What happened? What happened is that I stayed late at work, even though my boss was being a fucking asshole, and when I went to leave, my car battery died, and since I stayed late, everyone else had already left, and my boyfriend didn’t answer my fucking calls!” You jab a finger into the air, aiming at his chest. “So I had to leave my car at work because no tow or rental company would help me, and I walked here in the fucking pouring-down rain!” 

You turn on your heel and slip against the marble floor, which you honestly should’ve seen coming but you’re too irate to think rationally right now. Dieter reaches his arms out again, wanting to steady you, but you beat him to it and stomp away angrily. With your face hidden from his sight now, you let your tears silently flow down your cheeks and blend with the fat raindrops on your neck. Dieter follows behind you, quickening his pace to match yours and subsequently slides in his slippers in your wet wake. He tries to get you to stop, sympathetically calling out to you by name. 

You beeline for the bedroom and lunge into the adjoining bathroom. Just as Dieter catches up to you, he’s pleading, “Bunny, wait, just let me-” 

You shut the door in his face and lock yourself in, leaning your back against it and crying into the darkness. You let yourself sob out loud, releasing all the pent up anger, frustration, sadness and shame you’ve been holding in all day and that hit its climax when you started arguing with Dieter. 

Your sweet, beloved boyfriend. 

The two of you haven’t officially labeled yourselves as of yet, but you know it’s more than the booty calls it began as. You… care about him. You never thought you’d see the snarky, charming jerk as anything but. However, over the past two and a half years you’ve shared a bed with him (among various other furniture and locations), he’s revealed a soft vulnerability that you were convinced he faked in order to come off to the public as empathetic, intellectual. But he’s the real deal; all those philosophical musings, whether fueled by questionable substances or not, were spoken from his heart. That four letter word that scares the daylights out of you both rings in your head, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

Just because you don’t have the wherewithal to vocalize your feelings right now, it only serves to engorge the guilt you have for shutting Dieter out, both literally and figuratively. He’s only trying to help you, trying to provide a safe space for you to lash out, cry, or forget about your grievances, like he always does. With a sniffle and a deep sigh, you open the door and jump a little when he’s standing right there; he was waiting for you to be ready. He never left. 

His genuine care for you makes your eyes well up and flood again, your voice hoarse as you begin, “I-I’m sorry, I just…”

Dieter holds his hand up in a sign of peace and softly interjects when you trail off, “Hold on. Before you say anything more, sweetheart, know that you have nothing to apologize for.”

Your last bit of resolve is blown to smithereens and you practically fall into his arms, where he catches you and envelopes you in his warmth. Openly sobbing again into his chest, Dieter presses his warm mouth against your temple and just holds it there for a moment, letting his touch calm you as he caresses your damp hair away from your face. When your spluttering gasps subside, he speaks quietly and compassionately, “I’m the sorry one. I had the balls to bother you earlier, knowing you were stressed and busy, and then being the lazy asshole I am, I fell asleep and was dead to the world for hours. I’m sorry.”

When you fish your face out of his shirt, the damp spot that your eyes made on the fabric makes you cringe. Dieter reads your discomfort and rubs his big palms up and down your back, silently pardoning you. He’s had much more vile substances on his person before, a few tears from his lover isn’t anything to make a fuss over. You shrug and collect your thoughts that finally have some sensibility to them, “It’s okay. I just had a bad day at work, they gave me so much extra shit because I scheduled a few days off so they were trying to wring me for all I had and were even pushier than usual and were yelling at me even when I was doing all the right things and what they asked and- and then my fucking car-”

You cut yourself off with a gasp, not having realized that throughout your spill you didn’t stop to breathe. Dieter strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers as he coos to you, the cool metal of his rings grounding you, “Hey, shhh. It’s over now, right? You just relax, baby, okay? Focus on taking some deep breaths, like we practiced. In through the nose and out through the mouth, remember?”

If you weren’t so distraught, it would make you chuckle. You were the one that had given him that technique to calm his own anxiety, and here you were forgetting your own advice. Dieter sets an example for you, breathing slowly through his nose and out through his mouth, and you follow along until your sobs stop catching in your throat. His hands never stop stroking you, sending waves of comfort through you. Soon, your body has stopped trembling because of your volatile emotions, but you shake in your skin from the cold rain that has seeped into your bones. 

He notices and chuckles breathily, rubbing your arms to instill some heat into your blood. There’s a hint of mischief in his smile, one that you sense will swell into some menacing devilishness as the night deepens, “Let’s get you warmed up, hm?” 

He sidesteps you to go deeper into the bathroom behind you, going to the bathtub which he takes a seat on the edge of and turns the faucet on. With his palm upturned, his forefinger points at you and wiggles in an upward motion. 

“Off,” he instructs. His eyes rake over your dripping frame, following the cold droplets’ paths over the rain-soaked clothes that mold to every delectable curve of your body. His yearning stare wedges an extra beat into your heart rate and makes it hard to swallow. 

Despite the unceremonious manner of your strip, your locked gazes are brimming with passion, ferocity, boiling with the heat of the night to come. Your sopping clothes land on the floor with a splat and Dieter sighs at your figure in all its nude glory, moving his hand to palm himself unabashedly through his pajama bottoms.

He leans back and swishes his finger through the water once the tub is filled, checking the temperature. He jerks his head toward the warm pool, “Come here, sweet thing.” 

His fingers graze along your bare hip as you step into the bath and retract back to his cock when you sink down out of reach. The water feels heavenly, and fulfilling Dieter’s wish without the need of verbal instruction, you lean your back against the slope of the tub until the water’s surface meets the underside of your chin, letting out a deep sigh. You’re about to close your eyes when he brushes a stray hair out of your face, wrangling your attention to the sweet smile that graces his lips. 

His voice is soft but firm in its sincerity, “I’ll have your car picked up and checked out.” Knowing you better than you know yourself, you’re about to pipe up to offer that he really doesn’t have to do that, that you’ll pay for the rest even if he insists on covering the tow. He leans in closer, so close you can taste his breath on your lips, robbing you of all thoughts other than the ones that spiral around him. “Don’t worry about any repairs it needs. I’ve got ya, sugar,” he supplies with a wink. 

“Your boss will be receiving an unsightly letter to treat you better or else. There’s also a blackmail package available, featuring a rather smelly, heaping pile of a ‘substance’,” his fingers scrunch in allusive air quotes, “that Bravo Enterprises can’t disclose only for the purpose of ensuring surprise for the recipient, of course, that can be left on his desk. If the lady so desires.” You’re giggling before he’s finished, smacking him on the bicep that leaves a wet handprint on his t-shirt sleeve. 

“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you. I don’t want to be fired, or jailed, depending on what this ‘substance’,” you mimic his air quotes, “is you speak of.” 

“But,” you look up at him from underneath your lashes, shyly, “how could I have known my boyfriend would send in a letter of complaint?” 

He kisses your forehead proudly, stroking your cheek with his thumb affectionately, “That’s my girl. Now, I want you to sit back and relax for a while. Let the stress of the day melt away.” His hands dip shallowly into the water to rub his thumbs into your collarbone, moving onto your shoulders to massage soothing circles there after that. His voice drops an octave, with a satisfying rasp that runs parallel to velvety smoothness, “I need you relaxed for what I’m going to do to you later, anyway.”

With your eyes closed, you smirk in anticipation. He gives a parting kiss to your cheek, leaving you to shed the stifling stress of the day on your own time. Before he does, he asks, “Want some?” 

You peek one eye open and are being offered a little white rolled paper with a twist at the end. 

“No thanks,” you shrug, “Maybe later.” 

A little while later, there’s a knock on the door so soft you don’t hear it. Dieter pokes his head in, his boyish scruff rearranging into a smile when he sees your eyes still closed in peace. He quietly lays a folded bathrobe on the counter next to the sink and steals one last admiring glance at you before he ducks back out. 

When the water has lost its warmth, you exit the bath and shrug on the thoughtful, fluffy robe with a smile, knotting the belt loosely around your waist as you go into the bedroom. Dieter is lying on his back on the bed, toying with a vibrator in his hands. The scene makes you chuckle and the playful sound draws his gaze. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, “Get over here, sweetness,” and you oblige, standing in between his parted thighs. The robe you’ve had on for all of sixty seconds becomes a redundant heap on the ground. Dieter’s hands cup your asscheeks, pulling you closer to him so he can envelope your nipple with his tongue. He bites down on your pert bud softly as you do the same to your lip, moaning through your teeth. His tongue drags a path across your chest to your other breast, where he laves his desperate tongue against the erect little peak there too. When he pulls back, he looks drunk off of you already. 

He pats the center of the bed, his tone gruff and lost in his allegiance to your pleasure, “On your knees.” 

Dieter puts the weight of his palm on your back, sculpting you into an arch. You’re on your knees but you’re also on your forearms, too. He kneels before you, sitting back on his haunches, and lifts your gaze up to his with a finger underneath your chin. “You remember what I said on the phone?” he asks, using his free hand to squeeze his bulge through his boxers. You nod, resting your cheek on his thigh and batting your lashes up at him. “Mmhm…,” you lick a stripe up the seam of the crotch, “You said you were gonna fuck my throat.”

He pulls his underwear down to his knees, freeing himself. The thick heft of him lightly smacks against your nose and a pornographic moan rumbles up from your center, whose emptiness is gnawing away at you. “Until I gag,” you tack on, remembering all his erotic details. His shoulders deflate with a sigh, his eyes shine with rapture, “Smart girl,” and he feeds you his cock. 

You take it greedily, engulfing it in your hot, warm mouth. Harsh, helpless breaths escape his chest as he stumbles through the foggy abyss of ecstasy, regaining enough consciousness to thread his fingers in your hair and glide against your waiting tongue. “Fuck,” he whispers on every thrust, taking the time to rut in and out of your mouth until enough saliva collects to aid his descent down your throat. You take it all like a good girl, his good girl. His stubbly balls nestle against your chin when he reaches that impossible smoothness at your end and he anchors himself there, waiting for that godsent sound of- 

You gag wetly around his length. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as you try to look up at him, despite the compromising position. He helps you out and leans back so he can stare at you in amazement; his wrought expression has you dripping from both ends. 

He ruefully retreats from your cavern and a thick string of saliva leaves the two of you connected. He swipes it from your lip with his thumb and drinks you down as he shuffles on his knees behind you. 

Planting himself at your opening, he sighs contentedly as he settles in to patiently work you up until you go crazy. “Open up for me, kitty,” he rubs the backs of your thighs and you concede to lay your head down on the bed, splitting yourself for his ravenous eyes. You wiggle your ass back and forth when he doesn’t do anything but sit there admiring and your antics earn you an abrupt, satisfying, open-handed slap to your ass. 

In his voicemail smut, he promised he would open you up, nice and slow, and he does just that at a tauntingly sluggish pace. His languid, sensual tongue draws rivulets up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, before his warm breath ghosts across his tight destination at the peak of your apex. Your breath catches in your throat delightedly when his wet curiosity finds your hole at last, tracing it with his tongue then deftly swirling it around your perimeter. It makes you bite your lip and your breathing come more strenuously. You’re tight, you know that and he knows that, but you don’t doubt his capability to unravel you until you can take his whole length with no resistance. 

His raspy, comforting voice murmurs into your cheek, echoing his promise, “Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll open you up. Nice and slow…” He starts with his tongue again, lubing your backdoor entrance until you can feel his heavy saliva slide down to your aching folds. You rub at your clit lazily while he massages your hole with his thumb, gradually exposing you to increased pressure. Your resistance fades in time with his patient ministrations, to the point where he can lick into you. You both groan out in relief, him at your taste and you in dire pleasure. He reaches to swap your hand for his and draws perfect circles around your clit while his tongue works magic against your hole, bringing you to the peaks of two orgasmic heights whose blissful slopes have you feeling relaxed afterward, like jelly. It takes a little while of licking into you for him to be able to slide his thick finger in there, wriggling it around. 

It tickles more than you expected, making you giggle before you’re choked out with a moan as the ticklishness ignites into absolute pleasure. The tingles crawl up your spine, fizzing out in the base of your neck and skittering sparks of dopamine all over your brain. 

He squeezes a second finger inside in between contractions of your muscle, convulsing and expanding in time with the merciless waves of ecstasy that pour over you. Dieter watches with rapt attention as you stretch around him, your impeccable body adjusting to him deliciously. When your body starts to pull him back in on every retraction of his fingers, his cock twitches. You’re ready. 

He gets to his knees, stretching over to the bedside table to grab the lube - just for extra comfort. You whimper ceaselessly underneath him on all fours, your body on fire for him. You squirm with impatience, a fiery need for him to fill you to the brim thrashing through you. Hurried by your mewling, Dieter’s fingers slip against the bottle and knock it to the floor. “Fuck!” he spits, bursting you into pieces with laughter. 

He regains possession of the bottle and settles your devilish attitude with a single smack to your asscheek. The cap pops open, the cold gel runs into his palm, and he warms it up in his hands before he coats you everywhere you’ll need it. Dieter gives himself a few additional strokes too, groaning at the thought of what’s about to come (quite literally). 

He pushes his tip against your hole, testing you, relishing in the remaining pressure your body still keeps. It feels so good to be broken by him, like he’s knocking down a barrier you don’t have the strength to keep up anymore. You want to surrender and he lets you. 

He pushes inside and you gasp sharply, immediately followed by warbling babbles of how good he feels, how big he is, how good it fucking feels! He eases into you slowly, gliding deeper until his hips are nestled against your cheeks and all he can see is his hairy base above where he’s buried inside you. His splayed hand runs from the nape of your neck down your curved spine. “Shh, bunny,” he soothes. His hand comes to a stop just above your tailbone, pressing into the small of your back to arch you further beneath him. You bend to his will and groan as the new angle seats him impossibly deeper inside. 

Your pussy drips for him, warm and fresh, and your hips wiggle of their own accord to make his intrusion a pleasurable one. His fingers wind around your pelvis and hold you steady, tongue tutting at you over your shoulder. 

“Move, goddamnit,” you seethe, on the verge of tears. You feel helpless beneath him, a prisoner to your own desire, and your voice comes out just as vulnerable despite its biting rage that he still hasn’t moved. 

Upon hearing your desperation, he doesn’t make you hold out any longer. His first thrust is gentle, experimental, opening you up even further. Breath heaving, whole body shaking with every inhale that squeezes you tighter around him, “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…”

“Holy fuck,” he blurts out in an echo to you, staring down at his thick cock lodged in your tight hole. 

Even as he starts to gain pace, he maintains a consistent degree of gentleness to his thrusts so as not to hurt you - that’d be no fun for anyone involved. 

“Feel so good, bunny,” Dieter whispers breathlessly, neck craned up to the gods with eyes closed and imperceptible, breathy oh, oh, ohs flowing from his mouth on every plunge. Meanwhile, your face is smashed into the sheets, squealing with a sensation so pleasurable that is ill-monikered by “an itch that needs to be scratched”; this is more like a firework in the night sky that you jump to catch every singing ember of. 

You grip at the bedsheets with white knuckles, grinding your teeth together. Dieter splays his hand on the crown of your head and lifts you up to release your stifled, heavy breaths, “Let go, bunny,” he encourages. Your resolve instantly weakens and your orgasm overtakes you swiftly, knocking you without warning. Wracked with blinding pleasure, every breath you take is either a scream, a desperate moan, or a wrecked sob for him to keep going! 

He does, fucking you until you’re a mess beneath him. You faintly remember his threat on the phone, something like he’d pull out midway through your release and make you gape. But thank fucking god you appealed to his sympathy enough tonight that instead he treats you, keeping his length nestled in your ass for you to pulse around, choking on air as your heart pounds in your chest. 

Not too long later, your reverie is dissolved when he lands a smack to your ass, “Good girl,” he purrs. He leans over your body, his breath cool on your feverish skin as it tickles your shoulder in a whisper, “Your turn.” 

You whimper when he pulls out and stay stuck in your feline position, back arched like a cat and wishing he was still hitting it. Dieter lies down in front of you, his cock resting erect against his tummy and his stupidly big, pleading eyes beg for you. “Please, baby,” comes whimpering from between those plush lips. 

You nearly choose to leave him dangling on the edge; after all, you know how much he likes to be cucked (and how much you like to cuck him). But you want him too badly. Like in his dirty dreams this morning that he analogged for you, you mount him and begin riding. His big palms ascend your sweaty skin to cup your breasts that bounce as your thighs work to propel you up and sink you down in quicker succession. He leans forward to take one plush mound in his mouth, flicking your nipple with his tongue - but you twist your fingers in his ruffled hair and tug him back. It felt good, but the devastated crease between his brows makes you feel even better. This push and pull, give and take of dominance and submission always had to equalize with you two; your egos were too prideful for the game to be finished with a clear decision. 

With the score tied, you finally find the patience to slow down; you gyrate your hips, grinding down on Dieter and meeting his shallow thrusts in a symphony of movement. That is, until that biting urge deep in your tummy needs another orgasm thrown to it to be satiated and stop growling at you for more. You resume bouncing, not going as fast as you could but opting for a poignant, striking rhythm instead. 

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna-” he chokes.

“Fuck yeah baby, do it,” you hiss like a temptress, watching the restraint drain from his eyes and give way to the unstoppable bliss that erodes him until he’s nothing but. You lift your hips up for him to pull out and he takes himself in hand, pumping feverishly as white hot cum spills into his lap. The muscles of Dieter’s stomach jerk in tandem with his spurting, even after he’s reached empty. He runs his hand down his sweaty, wrecked face, breathing haggardly as you roll off his lap and lower your mouth to his hips to lap him up. He tastes mostly salty with a hint of sweetness, viscous and easy to swallow down. It might not be your arousal your tongue cleans him of, like he fantasized earlier, but the sinful sight drives him up the fucking wall regardless. 

Both of you lie there, him on his back and you on his chest, for a long time, just trying to catch your breath. Dieter reaches over to the nightstand for a joint and raises his eyebrow, asking your permission, which you give with a nod. He lights up and passes the smoke to you through parted lips, before handing over the rest of it for you to finish off. The thing about weed’s specific effect on you, that Dieter is very familiar with, is that it makes you feel warm, cuddly, and… aroused. With a mischievous giggle, you grind your wet folds against his thigh, asking for more, to which he grunts and gives a dry chuckle. 

“I’m not 25 anymore, bunny, you gotta give me a little bit of time to recover.” 

“What do you think I was trying to get off work for?” Your fingers waltz up his ribs with a mission to tickle him, but he catches on and swats you away with a smile. You love that shit-eating grin he gets, but it tarnishes your own when you’re hit with the thought that… you’ll miss it. 

You turn your face away to look down at the burning paper, trying to disguise the disappointment in your voice, “You’re leaving soon, right?” 

He sighs bitterly, but not at you, “Yeah, I am. But I was thinking…”

Your ears perk up so that you don’t mistake not even one word in his soft, raspy voice, “If you could, if you wanted to… you could come stay with me for a little while.”

You meet his eyes to gauge if he’s fucking with you - to your delight, he isn’t. “I have that fuck off huge house that production gave me with nobody in it but me and some makeup and costume people who are in and out for a few hours each morning. Ha,” he chuckles, raising his eyebrows in time with his words, “In and out.” 

He can never take anything seriously for very long, but that’s the Dieter that you fell in- nopedon’tsayitthatwordistooscaryheonlyinvitedyoutocomestayforalittlewhilethatdoesn’tmeananythingseriousthatdoesn’tchangeanythingbetweenyoutwo. But the softened glimmer in his eye… it’s not a high from the weed. 

“I’d love to.”

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[oogaboogasphincter]

thank you!! 🥹 so glad you liked it hehe 😋💜

would u do a part 2 of after the beep when bunny gets home from work? because it’s very much delicious and i ate it up with a little salt and pepper

Stress Relief | Dieter Bravo x f!reader

🩷 hiii anon! 🥺 i can’t even begin to apologize for how long this took me to get to you, i’m so beyond thankful for your patience <3 i hope i delivered for you! 🫶

After an agitating day, your boyfriend Dieter helps melt all your worries away by delivering on the dirty promises he left in your voicemails earlier that morning.

word count/warnings: 4.9k+ words EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY MDNI! // hurt (reader has a terrible horrible no good very bad day) then comfort, reader and dieter have a verbal argument (in which reader throws a pillow at dieter) but it’s quickly resolved, phone sex mention, dieter threatens to blackmail your boss lol, anal play (f!receiving; fingering, licking), anal sex (f!receiving), masturbation (f), oral (m receiving), recreational drug use (weed, reader and dieter both use but it’s not a factor in their consent), insane amount of pet names (baby, kitty, bunny, sweetheart, sugar, lady, girl) // ao3 link

(this can be read as part 2 to after the beep but it can also be a standalone!)

“Dieter!?”

You shout as you wrench the door open with your rain-slicked hand and kick it closed behind you, leaving a muddy bootprint on the crisp white wood. The roaring thunder fails to drown out your enraged call, but you’re left unanswered nonetheless. The house Dieter is staying at - one of his actor friend’s vacation homes - is darkened by the storm outside and seems to sigh at your anger, upset that you roused it from its storm-induced slumber. But Dieter’s rental car is in the driveway, so you know your boyfriend is here somewhere. You yank your soaked jacket off and don’t bother finding a peg for it, throwing it on the hideous accent chair that probably cost more than your rent. 

Despite the boisterous thunder, the quiet inside swells to an intimidating glower. By now Dieter should’ve come lumbering out of whatever pit of candy wrappers or wrinkled pajamas he plunged himself into, but the air remains undisturbed. You keep your footsteps light as you walk around the unfamiliar house, peeking in and scanning each room for him. 

“Hey, Diets?” you ask another room, devoid of any activity. Your anger has softened now, eaten away by a growing concern of what Dieter could’ve possibly gotten himself into between when you left to go to work this morning and now. You know he was upset that you were leaving, but he always is. Hell, his voice gains a whiney edge when you just want to leave his grizzly embrace for all of thirty seconds to go to the bathroom. He left you those deliciously vile voicemails earlier in the day, detailing exactly what his erotic plans were for you later this evening, but it had been radio silence since then. 

More calls, no answers. Your mind races with options, getting more worrisome as your brain’s overthinking cogs are given more unresolved time to spiral with. Did he go meet up with a friend and forget to text you? Did he get let go of by a project, a studio - god forbid it isn’t his lawyer - and he’s drowning his sorrows with some chosen vice? Did he make one too many wrong friends on one of his many esoteric adventures and they have come back to haunt him? 

You circle back to the living room, taking out your phone to call the friend that owns this house. Maybe Dieter got picked up by them to have drinks and that’s why his rental is still here? You dial the number with a crease in your brow, and as you lift the phone to your ear and it starts to ring, you spot your dastardly lover: dead asleep on the couch, curled into himself. Only his muss of graying curls bobs from the surface of a sea of pillows and blankets with every light snore.

Your rage is rekindled to its fullest extent as a bolt of lightning cracks across the sky outside. You swear you can feel your eye twitch as you stand drenched from head to toe in rain before your dozing boyfriend, swaddled in cozy, dry warmth. 

“Dieter!” You take one of the pillows and lob it at him, hitting him right on the head. You don’t feel bad because you know it didn’t hurt him and it irks you when his eyes burst open, holding his hand to his forehead like it did. He blinks slowly, his eyelashes sticking together with sleep as he mumbles quietly, “What the fuck?” Then his eyes - those irritatingly gorgeous puddles of melted chocolate - widen when they take you in. His expression morphs into compassion and he shakes the blankets off, stumbling to his feet with lingering drowsiness.

“Bunny, what happened?” he asks, reaching for your arms to hold you. You take a step back from him, still steaming with anger. You get even more irritated when you feel the hot tears that prick your eyes every goddamn time you get upset. Stifling them back, you straighten your back and unleash your anger. 

“What happened? What happened is that I stayed late at work, even though my boss was being a fucking asshole, and when I went to leave, my car battery died, and since I stayed late, everyone else had already left, and my boyfriend didn’t answer my fucking calls!” You jab a finger into the air, aiming at his chest. “So I had to leave my car at work because no tow or rental company would help me, and I walked here in the fucking pouring-down rain!” 

You turn on your heel and slip against the marble floor, which you honestly should’ve seen coming but you’re too irate to think rationally right now. Dieter reaches his arms out again, wanting to steady you, but you beat him to it and stomp away angrily. With your face hidden from his sight now, you let your tears silently flow down your cheeks and blend with the fat raindrops on your neck. Dieter follows behind you, quickening his pace to match yours and subsequently slides in his slippers in your wet wake. He tries to get you to stop, sympathetically calling out to you by name. 

You beeline for the bedroom and lunge into the adjoining bathroom. Just as Dieter catches up to you, he’s pleading, “Bunny, wait, just let me-” 

You shut the door in his face and lock yourself in, leaning your back against it and crying into the darkness. You let yourself sob out loud, releasing all the pent up anger, frustration, sadness and shame you’ve been holding in all day and that hit its climax when you started arguing with Dieter. 

Your sweet, beloved boyfriend. 

The two of you haven’t officially labeled yourselves as of yet, but you know it’s more than the booty calls it began as. You… care about him. You never thought you’d see the snarky, charming jerk as anything but. However, over the past two and a half years you’ve shared a bed with him (among various other furniture and locations), he’s revealed a soft vulnerability that you were convinced he faked in order to come off to the public as empathetic, intellectual. But he’s the real deal; all those philosophical musings, whether fueled by questionable substances or not, were spoken from his heart. That four letter word that scares the daylights out of you both rings in your head, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

Just because you don’t have the wherewithal to vocalize your feelings right now, it only serves to engorge the guilt you have for shutting Dieter out, both literally and figuratively. He’s only trying to help you, trying to provide a safe space for you to lash out, cry, or forget about your grievances, like he always does. With a sniffle and a deep sigh, you open the door and jump a little when he’s standing right there; he was waiting for you to be ready. He never left. 

His genuine care for you makes your eyes well up and flood again, your voice hoarse as you begin, “I-I’m sorry, I just…”

Dieter holds his hand up in a sign of peace and softly interjects when you trail off, “Hold on. Before you say anything more, sweetheart, know that you have nothing to apologize for.”

Your last bit of resolve is blown to smithereens and you practically fall into his arms, where he catches you and envelopes you in his warmth. Openly sobbing again into his chest, Dieter presses his warm mouth against your temple and just holds it there for a moment, letting his touch calm you as he caresses your damp hair away from your face. When your spluttering gasps subside, he speaks quietly and compassionately, “I’m the sorry one. I had the balls to bother you earlier, knowing you were stressed and busy, and then being the lazy asshole I am, I fell asleep and was dead to the world for hours. I’m sorry.”

When you fish your face out of his shirt, the damp spot that your eyes made on the fabric makes you cringe. Dieter reads your discomfort and rubs his big palms up and down your back, silently pardoning you. He’s had much more vile substances on his person before, a few tears from his lover isn’t anything to make a fuss over. You shrug and collect your thoughts that finally have some sensibility to them, “It’s okay. I just had a bad day at work, they gave me so much extra shit because I scheduled a few days off so they were trying to wring me for all I had and were even pushier than usual and were yelling at me even when I was doing all the right things and what they asked and- and then my fucking car-”

You cut yourself off with a gasp, not having realized that throughout your spill you didn’t stop to breathe. Dieter strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers as he coos to you, the cool metal of his rings grounding you, “Hey, shhh. It’s over now, right? You just relax, baby, okay? Focus on taking some deep breaths, like we practiced. In through the nose and out through the mouth, remember?”

If you weren’t so distraught, it would make you chuckle. You were the one that had given him that technique to calm his own anxiety, and here you were forgetting your own advice. Dieter sets an example for you, breathing slowly through his nose and out through his mouth, and you follow along until your sobs stop catching in your throat. His hands never stop stroking you, sending waves of comfort through you. Soon, your body has stopped trembling because of your volatile emotions, but you shake in your skin from the cold rain that has seeped into your bones. 

He notices and chuckles breathily, rubbing your arms to instill some heat into your blood. There’s a hint of mischief in his smile, one that you sense will swell into some menacing devilishness as the night deepens, “Let’s get you warmed up, hm?” 

He sidesteps you to go deeper into the bathroom behind you, going to the bathtub which he takes a seat on the edge of and turns the faucet on. With his palm upturned, his forefinger points at you and wiggles in an upward motion. 

“Off,” he instructs. His eyes rake over your dripping frame, following the cold droplets’ paths over the rain-soaked clothes that mold to every delectable curve of your body. His yearning stare wedges an extra beat into your heart rate and makes it hard to swallow. 

Despite the unceremonious manner of your strip, your locked gazes are brimming with passion, ferocity, boiling with the heat of the night to come. Your sopping clothes land on the floor with a splat and Dieter sighs at your figure in all its nude glory, moving his hand to palm himself unabashedly through his pajama bottoms.

He leans back and swishes his finger through the water once the tub is filled, checking the temperature. He jerks his head toward the warm pool, “Come here, sweet thing.” 

His fingers graze along your bare hip as you step into the bath and retract back to his cock when you sink down out of reach. The water feels heavenly, and fulfilling Dieter’s wish without the need of verbal instruction, you lean your back against the slope of the tub until the water’s surface meets the underside of your chin, letting out a deep sigh. You’re about to close your eyes when he brushes a stray hair out of your face, wrangling your attention to the sweet smile that graces his lips. 

His voice is soft but firm in its sincerity, “I’ll have your car picked up and checked out.” Knowing you better than you know yourself, you’re about to pipe up to offer that he really doesn’t have to do that, that you’ll pay for the rest even if he insists on covering the tow. He leans in closer, so close you can taste his breath on your lips, robbing you of all thoughts other than the ones that spiral around him. “Don’t worry about any repairs it needs. I’ve got ya, sugar,” he supplies with a wink. 

“Your boss will be receiving an unsightly letter to treat you better or else. There’s also a blackmail package available, featuring a rather smelly, heaping pile of a ‘substance’,” his fingers scrunch in allusive air quotes, “that Bravo Enterprises can’t disclose only for the purpose of ensuring surprise for the recipient, of course, that can be left on his desk. If the lady so desires.” You’re giggling before he’s finished, smacking him on the bicep that leaves a wet handprint on his t-shirt sleeve. 

“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you. I don’t want to be fired, or jailed, depending on what this ‘substance’,” you mimic his air quotes, “is you speak of.” 

“But,” you look up at him from underneath your lashes, shyly, “how could I have known my boyfriend would send in a letter of complaint?” 

He kisses your forehead proudly, stroking your cheek with his thumb affectionately, “That’s my girl. Now, I want you to sit back and relax for a while. Let the stress of the day melt away.” His hands dip shallowly into the water to rub his thumbs into your collarbone, moving onto your shoulders to massage soothing circles there after that. His voice drops an octave, with a satisfying rasp that runs parallel to velvety smoothness, “I need you relaxed for what I’m going to do to you later, anyway.”

With your eyes closed, you smirk in anticipation. He gives a parting kiss to your cheek, leaving you to shed the stifling stress of the day on your own time. Before he does, he asks, “Want some?” 

You peek one eye open and are being offered a little white rolled paper with a twist at the end. 

“No thanks,” you shrug, “Maybe later.” 

A little while later, there’s a knock on the door so soft you don’t hear it. Dieter pokes his head in, his boyish scruff rearranging into a smile when he sees your eyes still closed in peace. He quietly lays a folded bathrobe on the counter next to the sink and steals one last admiring glance at you before he ducks back out. 

When the water has lost its warmth, you exit the bath and shrug on the thoughtful, fluffy robe with a smile, knotting the belt loosely around your waist as you go into the bedroom. Dieter is lying on his back on the bed, toying with a vibrator in his hands. The scene makes you chuckle and the playful sound draws his gaze. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, “Get over here, sweetness,” and you oblige, standing in between his parted thighs. The robe you’ve had on for all of sixty seconds becomes a redundant heap on the ground. Dieter’s hands cup your asscheeks, pulling you closer to him so he can envelope your nipple with his tongue. He bites down on your pert bud softly as you do the same to your lip, moaning through your teeth. His tongue drags a path across your chest to your other breast, where he laves his desperate tongue against the erect little peak there too. When he pulls back, he looks drunk off of you already. 

He pats the center of the bed, his tone gruff and lost in his allegiance to your pleasure, “On your knees.” 

Dieter puts the weight of his palm on your back, sculpting you into an arch. You’re on your knees but you’re also on your forearms, too. He kneels before you, sitting back on his haunches, and lifts your gaze up to his with a finger underneath your chin. “You remember what I said on the phone?” he asks, using his free hand to squeeze his bulge through his boxers. You nod, resting your cheek on his thigh and batting your lashes up at him. “Mmhm…,” you lick a stripe up the seam of the crotch, “You said you were gonna fuck my throat.”

He pulls his underwear down to his knees, freeing himself. The thick heft of him lightly smacks against your nose and a pornographic moan rumbles up from your center, whose emptiness is gnawing away at you. “Until I gag,” you tack on, remembering all his erotic details. His shoulders deflate with a sigh, his eyes shine with rapture, “Smart girl,” and he feeds you his cock. 

You take it greedily, engulfing it in your hot, warm mouth. Harsh, helpless breaths escape his chest as he stumbles through the foggy abyss of ecstasy, regaining enough consciousness to thread his fingers in your hair and glide against your waiting tongue. “Fuck,” he whispers on every thrust, taking the time to rut in and out of your mouth until enough saliva collects to aid his descent down your throat. You take it all like a good girl, his good girl. His stubbly balls nestle against your chin when he reaches that impossible smoothness at your end and he anchors himself there, waiting for that godsent sound of- 

You gag wetly around his length. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as you try to look up at him, despite the compromising position. He helps you out and leans back so he can stare at you in amazement; his wrought expression has you dripping from both ends. 

He ruefully retreats from your cavern and a thick string of saliva leaves the two of you connected. He swipes it from your lip with his thumb and drinks you down as he shuffles on his knees behind you. 

Planting himself at your opening, he sighs contentedly as he settles in to patiently work you up until you go crazy. “Open up for me, kitty,” he rubs the backs of your thighs and you concede to lay your head down on the bed, splitting yourself for his ravenous eyes. You wiggle your ass back and forth when he doesn’t do anything but sit there admiring and your antics earn you an abrupt, satisfying, open-handed slap to your ass. 

In his voicemail smut, he promised he would open you up, nice and slow, and he does just that at a tauntingly sluggish pace. His languid, sensual tongue draws rivulets up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, before his warm breath ghosts across his tight destination at the peak of your apex. Your breath catches in your throat delightedly when his wet curiosity finds your hole at last, tracing it with his tongue then deftly swirling it around your perimeter. It makes you bite your lip and your breathing come more strenuously. You’re tight, you know that and he knows that, but you don’t doubt his capability to unravel you until you can take his whole length with no resistance. 

His raspy, comforting voice murmurs into your cheek, echoing his promise, “Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll open you up. Nice and slow…” He starts with his tongue again, lubing your backdoor entrance until you can feel his heavy saliva slide down to your aching folds. You rub at your clit lazily while he massages your hole with his thumb, gradually exposing you to increased pressure. Your resistance fades in time with his patient ministrations, to the point where he can lick into you. You both groan out in relief, him at your taste and you in dire pleasure. He reaches to swap your hand for his and draws perfect circles around your clit while his tongue works magic against your hole, bringing you to the peaks of two orgasmic heights whose blissful slopes have you feeling relaxed afterward, like jelly. It takes a little while of licking into you for him to be able to slide his thick finger in there, wriggling it around. 

It tickles more than you expected, making you giggle before you’re choked out with a moan as the ticklishness ignites into absolute pleasure. The tingles crawl up your spine, fizzing out in the base of your neck and skittering sparks of dopamine all over your brain. 

He squeezes a second finger inside in between contractions of your muscle, convulsing and expanding in time with the merciless waves of ecstasy that pour over you. Dieter watches with rapt attention as you stretch around him, your impeccable body adjusting to him deliciously. When your body starts to pull him back in on every retraction of his fingers, his cock twitches. You’re ready. 

He gets to his knees, stretching over to the bedside table to grab the lube - just for extra comfort. You whimper ceaselessly underneath him on all fours, your body on fire for him. You squirm with impatience, a fiery need for him to fill you to the brim thrashing through you. Hurried by your mewling, Dieter’s fingers slip against the bottle and knock it to the floor. “Fuck!” he spits, bursting you into pieces with laughter. 

He regains possession of the bottle and settles your devilish attitude with a single smack to your asscheek. The cap pops open, the cold gel runs into his palm, and he warms it up in his hands before he coats you everywhere you’ll need it. Dieter gives himself a few additional strokes too, groaning at the thought of what’s about to come (quite literally). 

He pushes his tip against your hole, testing you, relishing in the remaining pressure your body still keeps. It feels so good to be broken by him, like he’s knocking down a barrier you don’t have the strength to keep up anymore. You want to surrender and he lets you. 

He pushes inside and you gasp sharply, immediately followed by warbling babbles of how good he feels, how big he is, how good it fucking feels! He eases into you slowly, gliding deeper until his hips are nestled against your cheeks and all he can see is his hairy base above where he’s buried inside you. His splayed hand runs from the nape of your neck down your curved spine. “Shh, bunny,” he soothes. His hand comes to a stop just above your tailbone, pressing into the small of your back to arch you further beneath him. You bend to his will and groan as the new angle seats him impossibly deeper inside. 

Your pussy drips for him, warm and fresh, and your hips wiggle of their own accord to make his intrusion a pleasurable one. His fingers wind around your pelvis and hold you steady, tongue tutting at you over your shoulder. 

“Move, goddamnit,” you seethe, on the verge of tears. You feel helpless beneath him, a prisoner to your own desire, and your voice comes out just as vulnerable despite its biting rage that he still hasn’t moved. 

Upon hearing your desperation, he doesn’t make you hold out any longer. His first thrust is gentle, experimental, opening you up even further. Breath heaving, whole body shaking with every inhale that squeezes you tighter around him, “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…”

“Holy fuck,” he blurts out in an echo to you, staring down at his thick cock lodged in your tight hole. 

Even as he starts to gain pace, he maintains a consistent degree of gentleness to his thrusts so as not to hurt you - that’d be no fun for anyone involved. 

“Feel so good, bunny,” Dieter whispers breathlessly, neck craned up to the gods with eyes closed and imperceptible, breathy oh, oh, ohs flowing from his mouth on every plunge. Meanwhile, your face is smashed into the sheets, squealing with a sensation so pleasurable that is ill-monikered by “an itch that needs to be scratched”; this is more like a firework in the night sky that you jump to catch every singing ember of. 

You grip at the bedsheets with white knuckles, grinding your teeth together. Dieter splays his hand on the crown of your head and lifts you up to release your stifled, heavy breaths, “Let go, bunny,” he encourages. Your resolve instantly weakens and your orgasm overtakes you swiftly, knocking you without warning. Wracked with blinding pleasure, every breath you take is either a scream, a desperate moan, or a wrecked sob for him to keep going! 

He does, fucking you until you’re a mess beneath him. You faintly remember his threat on the phone, something like he’d pull out midway through your release and make you gape. But thank fucking god you appealed to his sympathy enough tonight that instead he treats you, keeping his length nestled in your ass for you to pulse around, choking on air as your heart pounds in your chest. 

Not too long later, your reverie is dissolved when he lands a smack to your ass, “Good girl,” he purrs. He leans over your body, his breath cool on your feverish skin as it tickles your shoulder in a whisper, “Your turn.” 

You whimper when he pulls out and stay stuck in your feline position, back arched like a cat and wishing he was still hitting it. Dieter lies down in front of you, his cock resting erect against his tummy and his stupidly big, pleading eyes beg for you. “Please, baby,” comes whimpering from between those plush lips. 

You nearly choose to leave him dangling on the edge; after all, you know how much he likes to be cucked (and how much you like to cuck him). But you want him too badly. Like in his dirty dreams this morning that he analogged for you, you mount him and begin riding. His big palms ascend your sweaty skin to cup your breasts that bounce as your thighs work to propel you up and sink you down in quicker succession. He leans forward to take one plush mound in his mouth, flicking your nipple with his tongue - but you twist your fingers in his ruffled hair and tug him back. It felt good, but the devastated crease between his brows makes you feel even better. This push and pull, give and take of dominance and submission always had to equalize with you two; your egos were too prideful for the game to be finished with a clear decision. 

With the score tied, you finally find the patience to slow down; you gyrate your hips, grinding down on Dieter and meeting his shallow thrusts in a symphony of movement. That is, until that biting urge deep in your tummy needs another orgasm thrown to it to be satiated and stop growling at you for more. You resume bouncing, not going as fast as you could but opting for a poignant, striking rhythm instead. 

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna-” he chokes.

“Fuck yeah baby, do it,” you hiss like a temptress, watching the restraint drain from his eyes and give way to the unstoppable bliss that erodes him until he’s nothing but. You lift your hips up for him to pull out and he takes himself in hand, pumping feverishly as white hot cum spills into his lap. The muscles of Dieter’s stomach jerk in tandem with his spurting, even after he’s reached empty. He runs his hand down his sweaty, wrecked face, breathing haggardly as you roll off his lap and lower your mouth to his hips to lap him up. He tastes mostly salty with a hint of sweetness, viscous and easy to swallow down. It might not be your arousal your tongue cleans him of, like he fantasized earlier, but the sinful sight drives him up the fucking wall regardless. 

Both of you lie there, him on his back and you on his chest, for a long time, just trying to catch your breath. Dieter reaches over to the nightstand for a joint and raises his eyebrow, asking your permission, which you give with a nod. He lights up and passes the smoke to you through parted lips, before handing over the rest of it for you to finish off. The thing about weed’s specific effect on you, that Dieter is very familiar with, is that it makes you feel warm, cuddly, and… aroused. With a mischievous giggle, you grind your wet folds against his thigh, asking for more, to which he grunts and gives a dry chuckle. 

“I’m not 25 anymore, bunny, you gotta give me a little bit of time to recover.” 

“What do you think I was trying to get off work for?” Your fingers waltz up his ribs with a mission to tickle him, but he catches on and swats you away with a smile. You love that shit-eating grin he gets, but it tarnishes your own when you’re hit with the thought that… you’ll miss it. 

You turn your face away to look down at the burning paper, trying to disguise the disappointment in your voice, “You’re leaving soon, right?” 

He sighs bitterly, but not at you, “Yeah, I am. But I was thinking…”

Your ears perk up so that you don’t mistake not even one word in his soft, raspy voice, “If you could, if you wanted to… you could come stay with me for a little while.”

You meet his eyes to gauge if he’s fucking with you - to your delight, he isn’t. “I have that fuck off huge house that production gave me with nobody in it but me and some makeup and costume people who are in and out for a few hours each morning. Ha,” he chuckles, raising his eyebrows in time with his words, “In and out.” 

He can never take anything seriously for very long, but that’s the Dieter that you fell in- nopedon’tsayitthatwordistooscaryheonlyinvitedyoutocomestayforalittlewhilethatdoesn’tmeananythingseriousthatdoesn’tchangeanythingbetweenyoutwo. But the softened glimmer in his eye… it’s not a high from the weed. 

“I’d love to.”

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would u do a part 2 of after the beep when bunny gets home from work? because it’s very much delicious and i ate it up with a little salt and pepper

Stress Relief | Dieter Bravo x f!reader

🩷 hiii anon! 🥺 i can’t even begin to apologize for how long this took me to get to you, i’m so beyond thankful for your patience <3 i hope i delivered for you! 🫶

After an agitating day, your boyfriend Dieter helps melt all your worries away by delivering on the dirty promises he left in your voicemails earlier that morning.

word count/warnings: 4.9k+ words EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY MDNI! // hurt (reader has a terrible horrible no good very bad day) then comfort, reader and dieter have a verbal argument (in which reader throws a pillow at dieter) but it’s quickly resolved, phone sex mention, dieter threatens to blackmail your boss lol, anal play (f!receiving; fingering, licking), anal sex (f!receiving), masturbation (f), oral (m receiving), recreational drug use (weed, reader and dieter both use but it’s not a factor in their consent), insane amount of pet names (baby, kitty, bunny, sweetheart, sugar, lady, girl) // ao3 link

(this can be read as part 2 to after the beep but it can also be a standalone!)

“Dieter!?”

You shout as you wrench the door open with your rain-slicked hand and kick it closed behind you, leaving a muddy bootprint on the crisp white wood. The roaring thunder fails to drown out your enraged call, but you’re left unanswered nonetheless. The house Dieter is staying at - one of his actor friend’s vacation homes - is darkened by the storm outside and seems to sigh at your anger, upset that you roused it from its storm-induced slumber. But Dieter’s rental car is in the driveway, so you know your boyfriend is here somewhere. You yank your soaked jacket off and don’t bother finding a peg for it, throwing it on the hideous accent chair that probably cost more than your rent. 

Despite the boisterous thunder, the quiet inside swells to an intimidating glower. By now Dieter should’ve come lumbering out of whatever pit of candy wrappers or wrinkled pajamas he plunged himself into, but the air remains undisturbed. You keep your footsteps light as you walk around the unfamiliar house, peeking in and scanning each room for him. 

“Hey, Diets?” you ask another room, devoid of any activity. Your anger has softened now, eaten away by a growing concern of what Dieter could’ve possibly gotten himself into between when you left to go to work this morning and now. You know he was upset that you were leaving, but he always is. Hell, his voice gains a whiney edge when you just want to leave his grizzly embrace for all of thirty seconds to go to the bathroom. He left you those deliciously vile voicemails earlier in the day, detailing exactly what his erotic plans were for you later this evening, but it had been radio silence since then. 

More calls, no answers. Your mind races with options, getting more worrisome as your brain’s overthinking cogs are given more unresolved time to spiral with. Did he go meet up with a friend and forget to text you? Did he get let go of by a project, a studio - god forbid it isn’t his lawyer - and he’s drowning his sorrows with some chosen vice? Did he make one too many wrong friends on one of his many esoteric adventures and they have come back to haunt him? 

You circle back to the living room, taking out your phone to call the friend that owns this house. Maybe Dieter got picked up by them to have drinks and that’s why his rental is still here? You dial the number with a crease in your brow, and as you lift the phone to your ear and it starts to ring, you spot your dastardly lover: dead asleep on the couch, curled into himself. Only his muss of graying curls bobs from the surface of a sea of pillows and blankets with every light snore.

Your rage is rekindled to its fullest extent as a bolt of lightning cracks across the sky outside. You swear you can feel your eye twitch as you stand drenched from head to toe in rain before your dozing boyfriend, swaddled in cozy, dry warmth. 

“Dieter!” You take one of the pillows and lob it at him, hitting him right on the head. You don’t feel bad because you know it didn’t hurt him and it irks you when his eyes burst open, holding his hand to his forehead like it did. He blinks slowly, his eyelashes sticking together with sleep as he mumbles quietly, “What the fuck?” Then his eyes - those irritatingly gorgeous puddles of melted chocolate - widen when they take you in. His expression morphs into compassion and he shakes the blankets off, stumbling to his feet with lingering drowsiness.

“Bunny, what happened?” he asks, reaching for your arms to hold you. You take a step back from him, still steaming with anger. You get even more irritated when you feel the hot tears that prick your eyes every goddamn time you get upset. Stifling them back, you straighten your back and unleash your anger. 

“What happened? What happened is that I stayed late at work, even though my boss was being a fucking asshole, and when I went to leave, my car battery died, and since I stayed late, everyone else had already left, and my boyfriend didn’t answer my fucking calls!” You jab a finger into the air, aiming at his chest. “So I had to leave my car at work because no tow or rental company would help me, and I walked here in the fucking pouring-down rain!” 

You turn on your heel and slip against the marble floor, which you honestly should’ve seen coming but you’re too irate to think rationally right now. Dieter reaches his arms out again, wanting to steady you, but you beat him to it and stomp away angrily. With your face hidden from his sight now, you let your tears silently flow down your cheeks and blend with the fat raindrops on your neck. Dieter follows behind you, quickening his pace to match yours and subsequently slides in his slippers in your wet wake. He tries to get you to stop, sympathetically calling out to you by name. 

You beeline for the bedroom and lunge into the adjoining bathroom. Just as Dieter catches up to you, he’s pleading, “Bunny, wait, just let me-” 

You shut the door in his face and lock yourself in, leaning your back against it and crying into the darkness. You let yourself sob out loud, releasing all the pent up anger, frustration, sadness and shame you’ve been holding in all day and that hit its climax when you started arguing with Dieter. 

Your sweet, beloved boyfriend. 

The two of you haven’t officially labeled yourselves as of yet, but you know it’s more than the booty calls it began as. You… care about him. You never thought you’d see the snarky, charming jerk as anything but. However, over the past two and a half years you’ve shared a bed with him (among various other furniture and locations), he’s revealed a soft vulnerability that you were convinced he faked in order to come off to the public as empathetic, intellectual. But he’s the real deal; all those philosophical musings, whether fueled by questionable substances or not, were spoken from his heart. That four letter word that scares the daylights out of you both rings in your head, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

Just because you don’t have the wherewithal to vocalize your feelings right now, it only serves to engorge the guilt you have for shutting Dieter out, both literally and figuratively. He’s only trying to help you, trying to provide a safe space for you to lash out, cry, or forget about your grievances, like he always does. With a sniffle and a deep sigh, you open the door and jump a little when he’s standing right there; he was waiting for you to be ready. He never left. 

His genuine care for you makes your eyes well up and flood again, your voice hoarse as you begin, “I-I’m sorry, I just…”

Dieter holds his hand up in a sign of peace and softly interjects when you trail off, “Hold on. Before you say anything more, sweetheart, know that you have nothing to apologize for.”

Your last bit of resolve is blown to smithereens and you practically fall into his arms, where he catches you and envelopes you in his warmth. Openly sobbing again into his chest, Dieter presses his warm mouth against your temple and just holds it there for a moment, letting his touch calm you as he caresses your damp hair away from your face. When your spluttering gasps subside, he speaks quietly and compassionately, “I’m the sorry one. I had the balls to bother you earlier, knowing you were stressed and busy, and then being the lazy asshole I am, I fell asleep and was dead to the world for hours. I’m sorry.”

When you fish your face out of his shirt, the damp spot that your eyes made on the fabric makes you cringe. Dieter reads your discomfort and rubs his big palms up and down your back, silently pardoning you. He’s had much more vile substances on his person before, a few tears from his lover isn’t anything to make a fuss over. You shrug and collect your thoughts that finally have some sensibility to them, “It’s okay. I just had a bad day at work, they gave me so much extra shit because I scheduled a few days off so they were trying to wring me for all I had and were even pushier than usual and were yelling at me even when I was doing all the right things and what they asked and- and then my fucking car-”

You cut yourself off with a gasp, not having realized that throughout your spill you didn’t stop to breathe. Dieter strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers as he coos to you, the cool metal of his rings grounding you, “Hey, shhh. It’s over now, right? You just relax, baby, okay? Focus on taking some deep breaths, like we practiced. In through the nose and out through the mouth, remember?”

If you weren’t so distraught, it would make you chuckle. You were the one that had given him that technique to calm his own anxiety, and here you were forgetting your own advice. Dieter sets an example for you, breathing slowly through his nose and out through his mouth, and you follow along until your sobs stop catching in your throat. His hands never stop stroking you, sending waves of comfort through you. Soon, your body has stopped trembling because of your volatile emotions, but you shake in your skin from the cold rain that has seeped into your bones. 

He notices and chuckles breathily, rubbing your arms to instill some heat into your blood. There’s a hint of mischief in his smile, one that you sense will swell into some menacing devilishness as the night deepens, “Let’s get you warmed up, hm?” 

He sidesteps you to go deeper into the bathroom behind you, going to the bathtub which he takes a seat on the edge of and turns the faucet on. With his palm upturned, his forefinger points at you and wiggles in an upward motion. 

“Off,” he instructs. His eyes rake over your dripping frame, following the cold droplets’ paths over the rain-soaked clothes that mold to every delectable curve of your body. His yearning stare wedges an extra beat into your heart rate and makes it hard to swallow. 

Despite the unceremonious manner of your strip, your locked gazes are brimming with passion, ferocity, boiling with the heat of the night to come. Your sopping clothes land on the floor with a splat and Dieter sighs at your figure in all its nude glory, moving his hand to palm himself unabashedly through his pajama bottoms.

He leans back and swishes his finger through the water once the tub is filled, checking the temperature. He jerks his head toward the warm pool, “Come here, sweet thing.” 

His fingers graze along your bare hip as you step into the bath and retract back to his cock when you sink down out of reach. The water feels heavenly, and fulfilling Dieter’s wish without the need of verbal instruction, you lean your back against the slope of the tub until the water’s surface meets the underside of your chin, letting out a deep sigh. You’re about to close your eyes when he brushes a stray hair out of your face, wrangling your attention to the sweet smile that graces his lips. 

His voice is soft but firm in its sincerity, “I’ll have your car picked up and checked out.” Knowing you better than you know yourself, you’re about to pipe up to offer that he really doesn’t have to do that, that you’ll pay for the rest even if he insists on covering the tow. He leans in closer, so close you can taste his breath on your lips, robbing you of all thoughts other than the ones that spiral around him. “Don’t worry about any repairs it needs. I’ve got ya, sugar,” he supplies with a wink. 

“Your boss will be receiving an unsightly letter to treat you better or else. There’s also a blackmail package available, featuring a rather smelly, heaping pile of a ‘substance’,” his fingers scrunch in allusive air quotes, “that Bravo Enterprises can’t disclose only for the purpose of ensuring surprise for the recipient, of course, that can be left on his desk. If the lady so desires.” You’re giggling before he’s finished, smacking him on the bicep that leaves a wet handprint on his t-shirt sleeve. 

“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you. I don’t want to be fired, or jailed, depending on what this ‘substance’,” you mimic his air quotes, “is you speak of.” 

“But,” you look up at him from underneath your lashes, shyly, “how could I have known my boyfriend would send in a letter of complaint?” 

He kisses your forehead proudly, stroking your cheek with his thumb affectionately, “That’s my girl. Now, I want you to sit back and relax for a while. Let the stress of the day melt away.” His hands dip shallowly into the water to rub his thumbs into your collarbone, moving onto your shoulders to massage soothing circles there after that. His voice drops an octave, with a satisfying rasp that runs parallel to velvety smoothness, “I need you relaxed for what I’m going to do to you later, anyway.”

With your eyes closed, you smirk in anticipation. He gives a parting kiss to your cheek, leaving you to shed the stifling stress of the day on your own time. Before he does, he asks, “Want some?” 

You peek one eye open and are being offered a little white rolled paper with a twist at the end. 

“No thanks,” you shrug, “Maybe later.” 

A little while later, there’s a knock on the door so soft you don’t hear it. Dieter pokes his head in, his boyish scruff rearranging into a smile when he sees your eyes still closed in peace. He quietly lays a folded bathrobe on the counter next to the sink and steals one last admiring glance at you before he ducks back out. 

When the water has lost its warmth, you exit the bath and shrug on the thoughtful, fluffy robe with a smile, knotting the belt loosely around your waist as you go into the bedroom. Dieter is lying on his back on the bed, toying with a vibrator in his hands. The scene makes you chuckle and the playful sound draws his gaze. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, “Get over here, sweetness,” and you oblige, standing in between his parted thighs. The robe you’ve had on for all of sixty seconds becomes a redundant heap on the ground. Dieter’s hands cup your asscheeks, pulling you closer to him so he can envelope your nipple with his tongue. He bites down on your pert bud softly as you do the same to your lip, moaning through your teeth. His tongue drags a path across your chest to your other breast, where he laves his desperate tongue against the erect little peak there too. When he pulls back, he looks drunk off of you already. 

He pats the center of the bed, his tone gruff and lost in his allegiance to your pleasure, “On your knees.” 

Dieter puts the weight of his palm on your back, sculpting you into an arch. You’re on your knees but you’re also on your forearms, too. He kneels before you, sitting back on his haunches, and lifts your gaze up to his with a finger underneath your chin. “You remember what I said on the phone?” he asks, using his free hand to squeeze his bulge through his boxers. You nod, resting your cheek on his thigh and batting your lashes up at him. “Mmhm…,” you lick a stripe up the seam of the crotch, “You said you were gonna fuck my throat.”

He pulls his underwear down to his knees, freeing himself. The thick heft of him lightly smacks against your nose and a pornographic moan rumbles up from your center, whose emptiness is gnawing away at you. “Until I gag,” you tack on, remembering all his erotic details. His shoulders deflate with a sigh, his eyes shine with rapture, “Smart girl,” and he feeds you his cock. 

You take it greedily, engulfing it in your hot, warm mouth. Harsh, helpless breaths escape his chest as he stumbles through the foggy abyss of ecstasy, regaining enough consciousness to thread his fingers in your hair and glide against your waiting tongue. “Fuck,” he whispers on every thrust, taking the time to rut in and out of your mouth until enough saliva collects to aid his descent down your throat. You take it all like a good girl, his good girl. His stubbly balls nestle against your chin when he reaches that impossible smoothness at your end and he anchors himself there, waiting for that godsent sound of- 

You gag wetly around his length. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as you try to look up at him, despite the compromising position. He helps you out and leans back so he can stare at you in amazement; his wrought expression has you dripping from both ends. 

He ruefully retreats from your cavern and a thick string of saliva leaves the two of you connected. He swipes it from your lip with his thumb and drinks you down as he shuffles on his knees behind you. 

Planting himself at your opening, he sighs contentedly as he settles in to patiently work you up until you go crazy. “Open up for me, kitty,” he rubs the backs of your thighs and you concede to lay your head down on the bed, splitting yourself for his ravenous eyes. You wiggle your ass back and forth when he doesn’t do anything but sit there admiring and your antics earn you an abrupt, satisfying, open-handed slap to your ass. 

In his voicemail smut, he promised he would open you up, nice and slow, and he does just that at a tauntingly sluggish pace. His languid, sensual tongue draws rivulets up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, before his warm breath ghosts across his tight destination at the peak of your apex. Your breath catches in your throat delightedly when his wet curiosity finds your hole at last, tracing it with his tongue then deftly swirling it around your perimeter. It makes you bite your lip and your breathing come more strenuously. You’re tight, you know that and he knows that, but you don’t doubt his capability to unravel you until you can take his whole length with no resistance. 

His raspy, comforting voice murmurs into your cheek, echoing his promise, “Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll open you up. Nice and slow…” He starts with his tongue again, lubing your backdoor entrance until you can feel his heavy saliva slide down to your aching folds. You rub at your clit lazily while he massages your hole with his thumb, gradually exposing you to increased pressure. Your resistance fades in time with his patient ministrations, to the point where he can lick into you. You both groan out in relief, him at your taste and you in dire pleasure. He reaches to swap your hand for his and draws perfect circles around your clit while his tongue works magic against your hole, bringing you to the peaks of two orgasmic heights whose blissful slopes have you feeling relaxed afterward, like jelly. It takes a little while of licking into you for him to be able to slide his thick finger in there, wriggling it around. 

It tickles more than you expected, making you giggle before you’re choked out with a moan as the ticklishness ignites into absolute pleasure. The tingles crawl up your spine, fizzing out in the base of your neck and skittering sparks of dopamine all over your brain. 

He squeezes a second finger inside in between contractions of your muscle, convulsing and expanding in time with the merciless waves of ecstasy that pour over you. Dieter watches with rapt attention as you stretch around him, your impeccable body adjusting to him deliciously. When your body starts to pull him back in on every retraction of his fingers, his cock twitches. You’re ready. 

He gets to his knees, stretching over to the bedside table to grab the lube - just for extra comfort. You whimper ceaselessly underneath him on all fours, your body on fire for him. You squirm with impatience, a fiery need for him to fill you to the brim thrashing through you. Hurried by your mewling, Dieter’s fingers slip against the bottle and knock it to the floor. “Fuck!” he spits, bursting you into pieces with laughter. 

He regains possession of the bottle and settles your devilish attitude with a single smack to your asscheek. The cap pops open, the cold gel runs into his palm, and he warms it up in his hands before he coats you everywhere you’ll need it. Dieter gives himself a few additional strokes too, groaning at the thought of what’s about to come (quite literally). 

He pushes his tip against your hole, testing you, relishing in the remaining pressure your body still keeps. It feels so good to be broken by him, like he’s knocking down a barrier you don’t have the strength to keep up anymore. You want to surrender and he lets you. 

He pushes inside and you gasp sharply, immediately followed by warbling babbles of how good he feels, how big he is, how good it fucking feels! He eases into you slowly, gliding deeper until his hips are nestled against your cheeks and all he can see is his hairy base above where he’s buried inside you. His splayed hand runs from the nape of your neck down your curved spine. “Shh, bunny,” he soothes. His hand comes to a stop just above your tailbone, pressing into the small of your back to arch you further beneath him. You bend to his will and groan as the new angle seats him impossibly deeper inside. 

Your pussy drips for him, warm and fresh, and your hips wiggle of their own accord to make his intrusion a pleasurable one. His fingers wind around your pelvis and hold you steady, tongue tutting at you over your shoulder. 

“Move, goddamnit,” you seethe, on the verge of tears. You feel helpless beneath him, a prisoner to your own desire, and your voice comes out just as vulnerable despite its biting rage that he still hasn’t moved. 

Upon hearing your desperation, he doesn’t make you hold out any longer. His first thrust is gentle, experimental, opening you up even further. Breath heaving, whole body shaking with every inhale that squeezes you tighter around him, “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…”

“Holy fuck,” he blurts out in an echo to you, staring down at his thick cock lodged in your tight hole. 

Even as he starts to gain pace, he maintains a consistent degree of gentleness to his thrusts so as not to hurt you - that’d be no fun for anyone involved. 

“Feel so good, bunny,” Dieter whispers breathlessly, neck craned up to the gods with eyes closed and imperceptible, breathy oh, oh, ohs flowing from his mouth on every plunge. Meanwhile, your face is smashed into the sheets, squealing with a sensation so pleasurable that is ill-monikered by “an itch that needs to be scratched”; this is more like a firework in the night sky that you jump to catch every singing ember of. 

You grip at the bedsheets with white knuckles, grinding your teeth together. Dieter splays his hand on the crown of your head and lifts you up to release your stifled, heavy breaths, “Let go, bunny,” he encourages. Your resolve instantly weakens and your orgasm overtakes you swiftly, knocking you without warning. Wracked with blinding pleasure, every breath you take is either a scream, a desperate moan, or a wrecked sob for him to keep going! 

He does, fucking you until you’re a mess beneath him. You faintly remember his threat on the phone, something like he’d pull out midway through your release and make you gape. But thank fucking god you appealed to his sympathy enough tonight that instead he treats you, keeping his length nestled in your ass for you to pulse around, choking on air as your heart pounds in your chest. 

Not too long later, your reverie is dissolved when he lands a smack to your ass, “Good girl,” he purrs. He leans over your body, his breath cool on your feverish skin as it tickles your shoulder in a whisper, “Your turn.” 

You whimper when he pulls out and stay stuck in your feline position, back arched like a cat and wishing he was still hitting it. Dieter lies down in front of you, his cock resting erect against his tummy and his stupidly big, pleading eyes beg for you. “Please, baby,” comes whimpering from between those plush lips. 

You nearly choose to leave him dangling on the edge; after all, you know how much he likes to be cucked (and how much you like to cuck him). But you want him too badly. Like in his dirty dreams this morning that he analogged for you, you mount him and begin riding. His big palms ascend your sweaty skin to cup your breasts that bounce as your thighs work to propel you up and sink you down in quicker succession. He leans forward to take one plush mound in his mouth, flicking your nipple with his tongue - but you twist your fingers in his ruffled hair and tug him back. It felt good, but the devastated crease between his brows makes you feel even better. This push and pull, give and take of dominance and submission always had to equalize with you two; your egos were too prideful for the game to be finished with a clear decision. 

With the score tied, you finally find the patience to slow down; you gyrate your hips, grinding down on Dieter and meeting his shallow thrusts in a symphony of movement. That is, until that biting urge deep in your tummy needs another orgasm thrown to it to be satiated and stop growling at you for more. You resume bouncing, not going as fast as you could but opting for a poignant, striking rhythm instead. 

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna-” he chokes.

“Fuck yeah baby, do it,” you hiss like a temptress, watching the restraint drain from his eyes and give way to the unstoppable bliss that erodes him until he’s nothing but. You lift your hips up for him to pull out and he takes himself in hand, pumping feverishly as white hot cum spills into his lap. The muscles of Dieter’s stomach jerk in tandem with his spurting, even after he’s reached empty. He runs his hand down his sweaty, wrecked face, breathing haggardly as you roll off his lap and lower your mouth to his hips to lap him up. He tastes mostly salty with a hint of sweetness, viscous and easy to swallow down. It might not be your arousal your tongue cleans him of, like he fantasized earlier, but the sinful sight drives him up the fucking wall regardless. 

Both of you lie there, him on his back and you on his chest, for a long time, just trying to catch your breath. Dieter reaches over to the nightstand for a joint and raises his eyebrow, asking your permission, which you give with a nod. He lights up and passes the smoke to you through parted lips, before handing over the rest of it for you to finish off. The thing about weed’s specific effect on you, that Dieter is very familiar with, is that it makes you feel warm, cuddly, and… aroused. With a mischievous giggle, you grind your wet folds against his thigh, asking for more, to which he grunts and gives a dry chuckle. 

“I’m not 25 anymore, bunny, you gotta give me a little bit of time to recover.” 

“What do you think I was trying to get off work for?” Your fingers waltz up his ribs with a mission to tickle him, but he catches on and swats you away with a smile. You love that shit-eating grin he gets, but it tarnishes your own when you’re hit with the thought that… you’ll miss it. 

You turn your face away to look down at the burning paper, trying to disguise the disappointment in your voice, “You’re leaving soon, right?” 

He sighs bitterly, but not at you, “Yeah, I am. But I was thinking…”

Your ears perk up so that you don’t mistake not even one word in his soft, raspy voice, “If you could, if you wanted to… you could come stay with me for a little while.”

You meet his eyes to gauge if he’s fucking with you - to your delight, he isn’t. “I have that fuck off huge house that production gave me with nobody in it but me and some makeup and costume people who are in and out for a few hours each morning. Ha,” he chuckles, raising his eyebrows in time with his words, “In and out.” 

He can never take anything seriously for very long, but that’s the Dieter that you fell in- nopedon’tsayitthatwordistooscaryheonlyinvitedyoutocomestayforalittlewhilethatdoesn’tmeananythingseriousthatdoesn’tchangeanythingbetweenyoutwo. But the softened glimmer in his eye… it’s not a high from the weed. 

“I’d love to.”

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💘taglist: @pascalpanic @maievdenoir @pedrostories @your-voice-is-mellifluous @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed @scentedcandletidalwave @oscar-wilde-thing @kiki13522

[oogaboogasphincter]

seeing this man fundamentally changed me as a human being

NARCOS

season one | episode one - descenso

[oogaboogasphincter]

YAYYY🩷

Headcanon: How do they behave when you have a migraine? (Pedro Pascal characters)🩹😴

Joel:

✰ Joel, obviously, hates to see you like this. Your suffering literally breaks his heart. But of course, he knows he has to take care of you.

✰ The first thing he'll do is try to get some painkillers.

Next, he'll make sure he gets some food you like. He knows you often get nauseous when you have a migraine, but he wants to make sure that if you get hungry, there's something you enjoy waiting for you.

✰ Joel will sit on the couch and encourage you to put your head in his lap. And he will gently massage your scalp.

✰ If it doesn't bother you, he'll be quietly humming a calm song under his breath. But if you tell him it's not helping you, he will be quiet.

✰ Only, from time to time, he will quietly ask, "How are you feel, baby girl? Do you need anything?"

✰ When you finally fall asleep, Joel won't move. He won't care about back pain and leg numbness. Your rest will be the most important.

Javier Peña:

✰ Javi can be a little insecure at first. He'll be afraid that you don't want his presence when you're so vulnerable. However, as soon as he is convinced that you need his help, he will turn on caring mode.

✰ He will make sure that your medicine, glass of water, and cold compress are on the bedside table. He will close the windows and turn on the fans, but he will arrange them so that their noise is not too bothersome for you.

✰ He will also try to smoke less because when you have a migraine, the smell of cigarettes makes you nauseous.

✰ Javier also has his secret weapon: orgasm. He only had to hear once that female orgasms were painkillers.

✰ Of course, he will only do this if you agree. He will spend long hours between your legs. And when you fall asleep with a blissful smile on your face, he will make sure that none of the neighbors will make noise. He won't hesitate to knock on their door and show his badge. Your rest is the most important.

Oberyn:

❂ The first thing he does is of course summon the maesters, the best ones. But he does not tolerate stupid ideas. If one of them suggests bloodletting or other nonsense, they can count on a close meeting with his spear.

❂ Oberyn will order servants to prepare the best room and make sure that the bed is full of soft pillows.

❂ He will also order a light meal to be prepared and send all the servants away, saying that he will take care of the rest himself.

❂ He'll prepare a bath of lukewarm water for both of you. He will take you in his arms and carry you to the tub. He will be very gentle and restrained. He will place kisses on your shoulders, neck, and head and whisper soothing words.

❂ Then he will lie down next to you and stroke your head until you fall asleep.

❂ He will put guards in front of the chamber door to make sure that no one dares to disturb your rest.

Javi G:

⊛ When Javi sees you in pain, he looks at you with sad puppy eyes and suddenly becomes extremely quiet. He tiptoes around you and waits for your commands. He'll bring you anything you ask for: a glass of water, broth, a cold compress... Autograph of your favorite actor? Give him an hour and he'll get that too. "Everything for you, mi amor. If it will lessen your pain."

⊛ He won't be able to resist hugging you. He will do it very gently, but he just needs to be close to you. It's like he wants to absorb your pain.

⊛ He will definitely want to hold your hand and kiss your head every now and then.

⊛ If you agree, he will turn on a quiet movie and cuddle you to his chest.

⊛ As soon as he notices that you have fallen asleep, he will immediately turn off the TV and look at your peaceful face.

Agent Whiskey:

✧ Jack, of course, is not a fan of strong painkillers, but he can't stand your suffering. Therefore, he will ask Ginger to create an effective cure for migraines, but without the risk of becoming addicted.

✧ Also he makes sure you have everything you need on hand.

✧ When you have a migraine, Jack becomes ridiculously protective, like a mother hen. His concern can be a bit irritating at times. "Sugar, does the blanket cover your feet?" He adjusts the pillows behind your back, makes sure you drink enough water, and, "No, Sugar, you can't take your medicine on an empty stomach."

✧ He will kiss your forehead and look at you sadly. If he could, he would take this pain away from you.

✧ You know he loves you and you forgive him for being overprotective.

✧ Eventually, he will sit next to you, put his arm around you, and pull you to his chest. If you start whining that the light hurts your eyes, he'll even let you wear his cowboy hat. Everything for you.

✧ When he notices you're asleep, he'll adjust your blanket and let himself take a nap, but he'll still be very alert. Your slightest moan will immediately wake him up.

Frankie:

✰ Frankie will use "google" help first. He will start reading about all the possible ways to relieve migraines.

✰ He makes sure your bedroom lights are dim and the temperature in the room is right. It will remove all sources of noise.

✰ He will ask if he should go to the pharmacy/the store for something you need. If so, he'll be back in 20 minutes. Probably breaking a few traffic rules along the way. He just has to provide his "princess" with everything she needs as soon as possible.

✰ Frankie will gently hug you and kiss your temples. If you let him, he will start massaging your head, neck, and shoulders.

✰ He will whisper to you anecdotes from his life.

✰ Once you fall asleep in his arms, Frankie won't leave you. Keeping you safe is his new, most important mission.

Din Djarin :

✭ Din has a secret weapon: Grogu. He knows the green baby loves you (and you love Grogu), so he will encourage him to use his healing powers on you. The migraine will pass immediately.

✭ But if for some reason he can't use Grogu's help because the little one will be exhausted, Din will make sure You get everything you need.

✭ He will avoid space-time jumps. And if possible, he will land on a peaceful planet.

✭ He will prepare a comfortable bed for you and gently stroke your head.

✭ For you, he will even take off his armor so that you can fall asleep on his warm chest.

✭ But of course, he would never admit it. Only in front of you and Grogu, he can drop his mask of a cold galactic bounty hunter.

As my poor @creedslove has a migraine (and my migraine is just around the corner) we need our husbands/boyfriends/fiances (delete as appropriate) to look after us.

[oogaboogasphincter]

DAMN i loved this so much!! can’t wait to read part 2 hehehe 😈💗 *mantis finger rubbing*

The Devil Right Beside Me: Chapter 1

Someone very stupid has put a price on your head. Three very dangerous men intend to keep it on your shoulders.

chapter 1 | chapter 2

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pairing: pero tovar/dave york/frankie morales x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

chapter tags/warnings: reverse harem, married fluff, wife-sharing, ex-military men, evil corporations, fingering, pero tovar is a munch, brief girl-on-girl slut shaming, frankie and dave are down bad for pero's wife, extremely protective pero/dave/frankie, biting, squirting, foursome activities (f/m/m/m)

word count: ~ 10.6k

read on ao3!

a/n: this is yet another fic from ao3 that i'm bringing to tumblr (i will post part two soon)! i hope you enjoy my loves 🫶 she's a filthy one xoxo

chapter one: killer instincts

Dave is slicing an apple with a knife when a wallet-sized image slides under his nose. 

He almost nicks his thumb when his eyes shift to the picture, lifting his feet off the desk and leaning in to examine your face a little closer. He’s always knocked a little askew by the brilliance of your smile; he feels like he needs to punch his heart back into place. You’re wearing the sweetest little white dress, your left hand shielding your eyes from the sun. A generous diamond ring shimmers on your finger. 

“What the fuck is this?”

Kovac blinks across the desk at Dave. “It’s a contract.”

“No. No, it’s not. This is an insult.” Dave glares at his colleague and slides the picture across the desk. 

Kovac pushes it back toward him. “It’s a good cut, Dave. It’d be easy, too. She’s just some chick.”

Dave’s ears are ringing. “How long?”

Kovac scratches his bushy beard. He’s a good killer with excellent trigger discipline. But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s done by placing this picture in front of Dave York.

“Went live a couple hours ago.”

That’s too long. Way too fucking long. 

There’s red mist clouding Dave’s vision. He white-knuckles the hilt of the knife. “I’m a fucking assassin, Kovac.” He scoffs at the picture. How could someone look at your pretty, smiling, sun-kissed face and want you dead? “I don't kill civilians.”

Kovac clearly doesn't give a fuck about your death. “You can get the job done. You know it; you’re the best out there.”

Dave is going to make him give a fuck. He brings the knife down into the table and splinters the wood. The handle jiggles back and forth. “I don't kill civilians,” he says, “and I will not kill this woman.”

Kovac, to his credit, isn't scared of a stab wound to the mahogany. “She's a fucking nobody, Dave. And nobody’s gonna miss her. Do you know how much they're offering?”

“You want me to repeat myself again?” Dave isn't known for patience. “Who put out the contract?”

“Orlov.” 

“I expect every single employee on my payroll to know that nobody accepts this contract or goes near this woman unless they want to find themselves out of a job and a goddamn life.” Dave rises to his feet, tucks the picture into his breast pocket, and doesn’t bother looking Kovac’s way as he bursts out of his office. He doesn’t even let himself breathe until he throws open the front doors of his home and squints in the sunshine. He presses two buttons on his cell phone and is grateful for the fact he doesn’t need to dial a number. He doesn’t think he could clear the red in his eyes for long enough.

“York,” answers a growling voice on the other end of the line. It’s a voice that’s coiled tight, poised to strike.

Dave’s jaw ticks. “You know.”

“Yes,” says Tovar. Dave can practically hear him grinding his teeth. “I know.”

“Is she with you?”

“At work.”

“Fuck.” Dave pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s been hours since the contract went live. “Someone could have—”

“¡Bastardo, me cago en tus muertos, que te jodan!” The unmistakable roar of Tovar’s Aston Martin DB11 is only suppressed by the equally unmistakable sound of his palm slamming hard against the steering wheel. “Callaté coño. She’s alive. She’s fine. Don’t fucking finish your sentence, amigo, or so help me—”

Dave slips into his Range Rover and hastily punches in the code for the garage. Pero has a volatile temper on the best of days and it’s a stark miracle how the mere sight of you can ease the tension he carries in his face, shoulders, back, everywhere. Take you away from him, however, and…

Oh, yes. Dave understands. 

Someone very, very stupid has laid a bet on the table. The winner takes the lucrative spoils, and all it costs is one pretty head for proof. It’s a good deal. 

If they have to toss every contender on a pile of kindling at your feet and light a match, so be it. You’ll look so beautiful up there on the pyre, flames dancing in your eyes.

THREE DAYS EARLIER

“Thanks for coming tonight, man. It means a lot to Frank, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

Pero Tovar grunts in response, hiding a smile in a swig of his bottle. Francisco Morales has plenty of friends, most of whom are sitting at their typical table in the corner of the bar. He certainly doesn’t need Pero to be here. Still, the beer is decent, and the company isn’t horrid. He’s got his eyes on the beautiful woman sitting with the men in the corner, singing “Happy Birthday” to Frankie with a pink cocktail held high in the air. 

Dave York watches the way Pero’s eyes soften a little at the sight of you. It’s a look meant for nobody else in the world. Pero Tovar hates the world, for Christ’s sake. Dave doesn’t know where he’d be if he never met you all those years ago. Maybe a little more surly than usual. Maybe a little more dead.

The horrendous rendition of the song ends with a loud cheer erupting throughout the bar as Frankie flushes crimson under his dirty cap. Pero and Dave lift their beer bottles in solidarity. His Delta buddies are shoving each other around in a rowdy, good-natured pissing match, which makes you roll your eyes. “One hell of a singing voice, hermosa,” says Frankie in your ear. 

“That’s all you’re getting until the next birthday, smartass.” You kiss him fondly on the cheek.

Frankie pats your hip as you shift off him to make your way across the bar. Dave turns to Pero. “You going through with that meeting tomorrow?”

“I have no reason not to, amigo.” Pero takes another drink, his eyes on you the whole time. One of Frankie’s friends, Will something-or-other, stops you for conversation, and you entertain him happily with a tale Pero cannot hear. “Orlov will meet me with me no matter whether I want to or not. This way, I decide the terms.”

Dave clicks his tongue. “You ever wonder why a mob boss wants to meet with you so badly?”

“I would hardly call him the boss of anything. He has no reason to pick a fight with me. What is there to lose?”

Sometimes, Dave wants to smack Pero upside the head for his arrogance. He hates himself so much it makes him go blind to the fact he has so many good things to live for. 

“You know damn well what you have to lose,” says Dave. 

“Pero.”

Your sweet voice could scrub thoughts of violence from the minds of the most malicious men. Pero is no different. He offers his hand to you only to tug you toward him. You land sideways in his lap with his rough hands sliding and squeezing up your thighs until they settle comfortably on your ass. 

You nearly drop your drink in his eagerness. “Greedy,” you whisper in his ear. 

He just nudges your cheek with his nose so he can kiss you. “Hmm. There will never be enough of you in this world to make it good enough.” 

“Just for that…” You pluck the maraschino cherry from your Tequila Sunrise and dangle it in front of Pero’s mouth. He chases it with his pouty lips until it’s between his teeth. You lean down, cupping his face in your palm, and kiss him. 

He would eat anything you tell him to, even those horrid candied cherries. But he passes it from his mouth to yours and takes advantage of your sweet parted lips, slipping his tongue along yours. He knows you like them best, anyway. 

Dave watches, his cock stiffening in his pants, taking a sip of bourbon to feel something light up in his nerves. Jesus, you're beautiful. You're the very vision of sunlight; you can make a man go blind with your shine. And you're a siren all the same, sultry and swaying in that black scrap of a dress, drawing every eye in the bar to your body only for them to find you’re perfectly happy where you are. 

Sometimes—most times—Dave doesn't understand how you fell in love with Pero Tovar. If he hadn't been friends with the pair of you since his, Frankie's, and Pero’s Army years, he would've laughed in the face of anyone who told him the infamous asshole Tovar managed to fall in love. With someone as beautiful as you, no less. 

But he is in love. It’s so sickeningly clear to anyone who looks your way. For one, he actually smiles when you look at him. It’s jarring to see Pero’s brutal scar scrunch up with his eyes when he gazes at you the way he does. Fuck. Dave understands. He knows Frankie does, too. It’s all you. It’s always been you. 

Frankie approaches Dave’s side and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Lovebirds over there won't let each other breathe long enough to give you the time of day, huh?”

Dave snorts. He certainly doesn't mind watching the way your body shifts and rolls subtly under your husband’s touch as he devours your mouth. “Why, you want in?” he asks Frankie. 

Frankie pouts. “Well, it's my fuckin’ birthday.”

When Pero finally lets you pull away from his mouth, you grin at Dave, looking a little dishevelled. Your pretty lips are swollen with the force of Pero’s kissing. “Hi, Dave. Enjoying the party?” you ask. 

“Always fun to see Frank get publicly humiliated in song form,” says Dave good-naturedly. Frankie tosses a muttered curse at him. “Are you having fun, pretty girl?”

“Very much so.” You nip at Pero’s jaw and earn a smack to the side of your thigh. 

Dave’s cock is growing insistently hard against his zipper. He looks to Pero, who nods imperceptibly. No one else would see it save for him and Frankie. They've all since perfected each other’s language. 

“Wanna come over here and show me how much fun you're having?”

Your eyes meet Pero's, and he gently pats your ass. You slip off the stool and stretch out your hand, which Dave takes eagerly. He pulls you close and wraps his arms around your waist until his hands rest just above your ass. Your nipples are visible through your little dress, piquing yet more interest from his cock. “Pretty,” he whispers, mostly to himself, indulging in the warmth of your body against his. 

You take a sip of your drink before you stand on your toes to kiss him. Dave can taste the sweetness of the Sunrise on your tongue and the intoxicating softness of your skin under his hands when you lift your arms up around his neck. His erection prods your belly and it makes you giggle into his mouth. Dave just takes the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours, asserting his need. 

Pero orders another beer and places his hand just above your ass at the same time Frankie lifts a hand to your face and gently brushes your hair behind your ear. You pull away from Dave, who pouts when he loses your mouth. Of course, he knows never to complain. Pero would put a broken bottle through Dave’s neck if he got greedy with you. 

“Is it a good party, Frank?” Your eyes are wide and vulnerable, seeking any indication of real discomfort in his eyes. You're so attentive and so damn sweet it makes Frankie’s chest ache. “Be honest.”

He squeezes your side. “Don't love being reminded how old I am—”

“Frank, you are not—”

“—but this is great, hermosa. I mean it.” He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and gives you a gentle shake. “You did great.”

You grin, happily inviting Frankie’s kiss. He's gentler than his friends. He likes to cup your face when he kisses you, his beard scratchy and his soft hair tickling your nose. Faint whoops bombard them from the corner of the bar as the Delta guys cheer you on. You break the kiss just to laugh, hiding your blush behind your hand. 

Pero tugs you back toward him and nuzzles his strong nose against your temple. “Star of the show,” he whispers, “mi estrellita. Such a beautiful girl.”

A higher-pitched voice to your left isn’t so encouraging. The pretty blonde woman has her eyes set on Frankie. “I hear it's your birthday. Mind if I buy you a drink?”

Frankie flushes a little with the attention, but he's polite as ever when he lets her down. “No, thanks,” he says, indicating his half-full bottle. “I’m set.”

“Aw, c’mon,” presses the woman, giving her best flirtatious smile. “I’m sure she's got enough on her hands.” Her eyes flick toward you impassively. 

Pero’s hand tightens on your hip when you frown. It's you who speaks up first. “He said no,” you remind the woman. “You should find somebody else.”

The woman turns to look at you, that fake smile still plastered on her face, and says, “Don’t you get enough attention, sweetie? I’m sure you can spare one.”

You blink, startled by her brashness. “Excuse me?”

“You had better leave,” comes Pero’s growling voice by your side. “Now.”

You take his hand instinctively and he brushes his thumb over your wedding and engagement rings. The intruder notices. “You like passing around your wife like she’s a trophy?”

Pero scowls, stepping around your body. Dave jumps between him and the woman as Frankie slaps his hand on Pero’s chest, restraining him. He would never harm a lady. But he’s certainly willing to give her a piece of his fucking mind for insinuating you’re a whore. “We’re all friends,” says Dave, keeping his tone even despite the heavy-set press of rage on his spine. He directs his attention toward the woman. “This is a big city. You’ll have to find someone else. Sorry.”

He is not sorry. Not when he caught a glimpse of the hurt look in your eye at her comment. But the woman seems to realise she needs to pick her battles, backing away and exiting the bar. Around the four of you, the party continues, the other patrons unaware of the thickening tension in the dimly-lit room. Pero’s hand is around your waist, squeezing in rhythmic pulses as if he’s kneading out his stress. Dave and Frankie can both see it: the feathering in his jaw, the squint of his eyes, the possessive grip he keeps on you. Neither of them are particularly cheery anymore, either. You’re the first to speak.

“What a… vindictive woman.” You shrug your shoulders and thread your fingers through your husband’s. “There’s still a party going on, you grumps.”

You drag Pero toward the bathrooms while Frankie and Dave rejoin the group, ordering more beers for the sake of it. This is Frankie’s night. One sour encounter won't spoil it. 

Pero shoves you up against the bathroom door once you've locked yourselves inside and sinks to his knees, shucking down your panties on the descent. “Pero,” you gasp, grinning as your head falls back against the door with a soft thunk. “So greedy.”

He’s always been a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. It's why he roughly grabs your thigh and hoists it onto his shoulder, scrunching up the fabric above your hips. He allows himself to take in the sight of your glistening cunt in the dim bathroom, squeezing the flesh of your thighs as he tilts his head up to look into your darkening eyes. 

In moments like these, neither of you need to speak. You gently brush some of his short hair away from his face and trace the scar on his cheek. He eases his head between your thighs, kissing his way along the soft, ticklish flesh. You giggle and squirm, letting him indulge in your body because you know he's tense. The leather of his jacket rubs relentlessly against your thighs. Music and more poor, drunken renditions of “Happy Birthday” are muffled between you and the door. You wouldn't be able to hear them clearly either way. Your head is swimming with the climbing arousal, your ears ringing with need as you try not to rush your husband in his exploration of you. He needs this.

Two fingers slide languidly through your slick folds and part them to make way for the aching drag of his tongue. You moan softly, fighting the urge to shut your eyes. He likes it when you look at him while he's going down on you, because he's always looking up at you. Those eyes of his are an intimidation tactic: dark and hungry, they dare you to break away. For a moment, you imagine you can see the blood on those hands that knead your soft flesh. For a moment, you see the predator he refuses to let you see. It strikes flint upon rock in your core and you burn. 

“Please,” you whimper, looking down past your own heaving chest to his black eyes. 

His mouth is suctioned to you; he couldn't speak if he wanted to. He just hums, easing the vibrations through you until your eyes are rolling back into your head and language flees your tangible capabilities. 

Pero licks your clit, slathering his saliva all over your cunt like he owns it. But he does. He owns you, and he knows it. Intimate moments like these do well to make you remember it. Your husband is the only person in the world who can understand you this way, love you this way. 

He trusts Frankie and Dave to treat you like you deserve, but they will never have this: the lacing of your fingers through Pero’s over your belly, the glint of metal wedding bands under the illumination of the single pot light. You’re his wife. His job is to make you happy. His job is to keep you safe. 

He has never been a good man. Dave and Frankie can—and would happily—corroborate that fact. He’s done terrible things. He’s slept restlessly and woke up screaming. His scar still twinges when it rains. 

You like to bake. It helps you relax when your husband is out late, hunting. You can’t sleep without him, and God knows he needs you practically wrapped around him to get a decent six hours. It nearly scared him away all those years ago: how deeply you worried for him. He couldn’t live with himself knowing you made yourself sick with fright on those long nights and weekends away. Long before you asked him on that first date, Pero made a habit of creating examples of those who upset you. He hated being the one who made you frown. 

The thing about your smile, though, is that it can make a man forget his own name. It’s especially adept at making him forget all his selfless self-loathing in favour of selfishly chasing the feeling that smile gives him. 

“Pero!”

You threw open the door and flung yourself into his arms, beaming so fucking brightly that he could feel your smile buried in his neck. He closed his eyes for a moment, dropping all his training and his caution just to inhale the scent of you. 

“You’re okay,” you whispered, your voice breaking in a small cry. It punched him right in the chest. His breath shuddered out of him, his hands (stained with blood that was not his own; he couldn’t waste time scrubbing it away when he itched to see you so badly) pressing against your back and pulling you close. 

“I’m okay, amor. I’m all right.” He walked you both back inside your door and kicked it shut behind him. “Let me look at you.”

Your teary smile had all his tension fluttering away. It was all so fucking insignificant when he looked down at you and realised how rare it was to have someone love him this much. Pero cupped your face in his hands and frowned. “You’re tired, my love.”

“You’ve got blood on your hands,” you retorted. Pero huffed, undeterred by your whip-quick mouth. 

“It’s not mine.” 

“And you’re okay?” Your hands prodded him beneath his jacket, his shirt, giving him the distinct impression of a frisking. 

“I’m unharmed.” He pressed a kiss to your nose. “My beautiful girl. So worried for me.”

“You mock my misery, Pero Tovar.”

He swiped a small splotch of white powder from your nose. “This is how we’re choosing to stay awake now?”

You pushed him gently in the chest, but he just crowded you again, the need to be close trumping the temptation to tease. “It’s flour. I made cookies.”

Pero grinned. “You know, you shouldn’t open your door so carelessly.”

Your smile turned wicked—the sort of wicked that had his entire body humming for you. “But I’ve got a big, strong man to keep me safe.”

Pero growled playfully, nipping your jaw. You shrieked with laughter when he lifted you up onto the counter and kissed you hard. “Mi alma. You will always be safe with me. Siempre.”

You sigh happily as your husband lavishes his attention on your clit, licking and sucking with so much fervour and precision it isn’t surprising that your thighs are already shaking. “Pero,” you whisper, the word a prayer that hovers between two pairs of locked eyes. 

He makes you come with a few more gentle pulls of your clit between his lips, your cry hoarse and your chest heaving. Your eyes finally squeeze shut, your head falling back against the door, as Pero licks you through your orgasm like a cat after milk. He groans at the feeling of you soaking his chin, the vibrations making your hips buck uselessly against him. He’s strong. He holds you down easily.

“Come back to me, amor,” he urges, pressing warm, melty kisses all over your inner thighs and your belly. You blink open your teary eyes and rake your fingers through his hair, smiling fondly at your husband. 

“You okay?” you ask softly, your thumb tracing his taut jaw. He can get in his head sometimes, and the nasty woman in the bar made him mad. He doesn’t like it when people look at you the wrong way—he hates knowing he can’t always stop people from saying the wrong things. 

Pero rests his chin against your belly and looks up at you. “You are no whore,” he says fiercely.

“I know, baby.”

“You are my wife,” he continues, squeezing your hips. As he rises to his feet, Pero cradles the back of your head and smooths the fabric of your dress back down over your ass. “You are the most beautiful creature to ever walk this Earth, y eres la diosa a la que rezo todas las mañanas (and you are the goddess I pray to every morning).”

“Pero.” You press a kiss against the stubble on his jaw, making a path to his mouth. “She couldn’t hurt me. Nothing can hurt me. I’m with you, baby, and I’ll be in love with you no matter how many times some nobody tries to tell me I married an asshole.”

Pero huffs, burying his face in your neck as his arms wrap around your waist in a tight, uncompromising hug. “Te casaste con un pendejo (You did marry an asshole),” he grumbles.

You laugh, and the sound is an upper straight to his bloodstream. “And ten years later, I’m still happy as a clam.”

Alexander Orlov’s office is on the penthouse floor of Orlov Plaza. His father owned the building, as did his father before. And all that corny bullshit. 

Pero punches the Close Door button on the elevator to ensure he doesn’t have to speak to another living soul on the ride up. And it’s a long ride. Muzak crackles in his ears and makes him grind his teeth. Everything about this perfectly polished building sets him on edge. There are stone gargoyles on the roof, for fuck’s sake. He isn’t an interior decorator—he lets you make every decision when it comes to your home—but he knows white marble and cracked stone don’t mix. It’s like walking a tightrope between two different centuries.

Sometimes, he misses the days before he went legitimate. Before he had a certain obligation to carry out business dealings with superficial handshakes and contracts. Before his old Army buddy Dave York approached him with an offer to put his skills to good use. 

Orlov’s assistant, some young kid wearing a too-big suit (probably a nephew), ushers Pero through a set of double doors into an obnoxious fucking office. One wall is entirely windows, allowing one to peer down onto the street and observe those in the lower tax brackets. The room is decorated with animal skins and too many globes and glass furniture. It’s not meant to be lived in. Pero thinks of his own home, with its many houseplants (you don’t let him look at them for too long because you’re convinced his frown will kill them), its pops of colour, and warm tones. You’re smarter than this man and Pero hasn’t even met him yet. 

But, then again, you’re better than most people. 

“Have a seat,” says the man standing at the windows, adjusting his watch on his wrist. A douchebag move, as you would call it. He’s wearing a nice suit, sure, but it’s the cold, faraway look in his eye that makes Pero itch. No good. A man whose smile does not reach his eyes. Never good. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet with you, Señor Tovar.” Orlov sits behind his desk, which is also obnoxiously large, and it is only then that Pero sits, too. “How was your trip?”

“Temperate,” says Pero, spinning the globe on the desk and stopping it over Spain. He doesn’t meet the other man’s eye. “I like your windows. Very… clear.”

Orlov smiles again, and it’s calculated. “With that small talk over, I suppose you’re wondering why I contacted you.”

“You want a contract,” says Pero. “If you believe I pondered the reason for your phone call for even a second, señor, you’d be mistaken. You should just tell me who you want dead and stop wasting our precious time. I’m sure we both have places we would rather be.”

Like at home, between his wife’s thighs. Sipping coffee and trading sleepy smiles. It’s too fucking early to be trading fake words with a mobster.

Orlov laces his fingers together and lets the façade fall. Now, Pero can see a businessman. “What I want, Mr. Tovar,” he says, “are your skills. Exclusively.”

Pero lifts a scarred brow. That, he can admit, is a surprise. “And why me? Surely there are more ideal options.”

“There are always more ideal options.” The slight is meant to sting, but it breezes past Pero. It's not like he's considering the offer, anyway. “But you are a capable man. And we can pay you well. You and your wife can live in luxury.”

Pero Tovar is an easy man to anger. It's something he has been trying to work on. Therapy is a no-go, but he meditates sometimes. It helps. Not nearly as many things can set him off nowadays. But some things still do. Unfailingly. 

Like, for example, the fact that Alexander Orlov knows about you, when Pero (with Dave’s help) does everything in his power to ensure very few people even know he's married.  

His ears are ringing, but Orlov keeps talking. “If you choose to sign our contract, we will pay you a handsome salary. We will give you benefits.” No retirement option, Pero guesses. “We will ensure you and your family can thrive.”

“We,” Pero echoes with a chuckle. “Who is we? You and your father? You and the little voices?”

Orlov’s steely eyes narrow minutely. “As I’m sure you know, I will take over my father’s business when he retires. I plan to expand his endeavours.”

“Ah, yes. Beyond stealing from the poor to give to the rich.” Pero checks his watch. You’ll be leaving for work now, and the potential for a lazy morning has been thoroughly wasted. He spins the globe again. “Very noble, amigo.”

“Have you considered how many pools my family have dipped our toes into?” Orlov leans over his desk and calmly stops the globe. “Have you considered how beneficial it would be to work for a company who can provide everything you need? I think you should consider it, Mr. Tovar. I think you should ask yourself if you truly want to live the rest of your life from contract to contract.”

“If I take your offer,” says Pero, “I will still be living contract-to-contract. Only, I will not be able to choose whether or not I agree to carry out a particular service. I value my freedom.”

Freedom is something he never used to have when he was with the Army. Now, as a mercenary, he picks and chooses his battles. Orlov smiles politely, though Pero sees a touch of venom in it. 

“With us,” he says, “we can protect you. We can offer you amnesty. We can ensure your wife is safe from any harm that may come to her.”

Pero’s eye twitches, and his old scar burns. It's a double-edged sword. Orlov is making it known how easily he can go after you. Decline, and we can do whatever we want to her. 

Pero Tovar does not respond well to threats. Especially not when they involve the one person he cannot live without. 

He can protect you himself. He's made it his life’s divine purpose. He cannot ensure your safety if he's under the thumb of a notorious gang. They'll use you as leverage with no remorse. 

Images flash on his eyelids, the same violent visions he used to see when he’d returned home: your pretty eyes filled with tears, your mouth trapped behind a meaty palm or a piece of duct tape, your limbs strapped to a chair. A cut on your face, because they always want to hurt you a little bit before they send the message. 

We have your wife. 

He cannot let it happen. He’ll die for you, certainly, but he’ll happily kill for you, too. And you will not be used like a pawn in a game you have no role in. 

Pero stands swiftly from the chair and plants his fingers on the desk, leering at Orlov. “I appreciate your offer, amigo, but I must respectfully decline.”

Orlov laces his fingers together, places them over his stomach, and leans back in his chair. That cold smile is back on his face. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Tovar. This has been enlightening.”

It's a deliberate choice of words, as is everything in this godforsaken world. Pero does not shake his hand before he leaves. 

Instead, he says, “You’re a sadistic bastard who thrives off suffering. I hope you manage to make your father proud. I’m sure he hopes the same.”

Alexander can hear Tovar call his wife the second he exits the office. “Buenos dias, amor,” he says, no longer the killer but the husband. “How was your drive? Lo siento, mi cielo, I wish I could have stayed for breakfast…”

The voice fades soon. Alexander chuckles, spinning the globe back around so he faces home. His nephew Ricky knocks on the door, and Alexander waves him inside. 

It was a good offer. Tovar should have taken it. Orlov, Inc. would have benefited from a strong worker like him. Most times, he takes contracts through York, and a couple freelance on the side. It pays well, judging from the looks of his house. Most of its curb appeal comes from his lovely wife, of course. 

She's a vision. No wonder Tovar keeps her under wraps—at least, to those without the resources to dig deeper. Alexander’s family has resources. And they tell him that you spend plenty of time with Tovar’s longtime Army friends, too. York is one of them. The other, a Morales who flies tourists around for a living. Dull. No wonder he used to snort powder. 

It's a shame not to have the talent of such a killer. But Tovar didn't understand that it was never a choice. 

“Ricky,” he answers. 

“He said no.”

“As I figured he would.” Ricky watches his uncle twirl a pen around his fingers. A generational habit: spinning things. 

“So… what, then?” asks Ricky. “You just let him go?”

“I let him go,” says Alexander. “But he decided to insult me, Ricky. I’m not in the habit of letting insults against my family slide.”

Alexander looks down at his computer screen. On it is Mrs. Tovar’s smiling face, squinting in the sunlight with that gleaming rock on her finger. “The contract will be live in an hour,” he tells his nephew, turning the screen around so he can see. 

“She's got a pretty face,” says Ricky. 

“Yes. It’s a real shame.”

Ricky starts when he sees how much her body is worth. “Three million is—”

“Pocket change, if it means Tovar will learn.”

“Learn what?”

“Learn not to slight me.” Alexander sneers. 

“You know there's no going back once the contract goes live,” says Ricky. “She’s his life.”

Alexander hums. “What happens when you take a man’s life, Ricky?”

“He… dies?”

“He loses.” Alexander turns the screen back toward him and admires Mrs. Tovar’s face once more. “He loses everything.”

NOW

“Irene?”

“Yes?” replies your assistant, her nose stuck in the pages of a romance novel as she hurries along beside you. 

“Is there something on my face?”

She doesn’t look up from her novel. “Beautiful as always, ma’am.”

“I just feel like…” Irene clearly isn’t listening, but you say it anyway. Maybe you aren’t crazy. Maybe others have noticed. “People are watching me.”

You pick up your pace a little bit as you walk through the lobby of Viva headquarters. Normally, you find your employees scurrying back and forth in a whirlwind to accomplish their tasks. As COO, it’s your job to make sure they don't spin out. But today feels different. 

There are loiterers in your lobby as usual, some waiting for an appointment in the cushy pink chairs and others taking advantage of the free coffee station. You don't recognise most of the clients in the lounge, but eyes keep sliding your way as if they're expecting you to bolt out of the building. Their gazes make you want to run. 

“Irene, do I have any meetings scheduled today?”

“No, ma’am.”

Something cloudy and dark rolls in your gut. An oncoming storm. 

Trust your instincts, my darling. 

“Please call my husband. Let him know I’ll be home early today. Tell him it’s vegetarian tonight.” 

Code for trouble . You don't look at Irene. Your eyes are on a swivel between all the people looking your way. You're cornered: a caged bird, peered in at by hungry cats. “Take the rest of the day off.”

Irene scampers off to make the call. You’ll pay her for her lost hours, of course. But—

If you feel you need to run, run. Your instincts are never wrong. 

And what if they are? you asked him one night. 

Then you're still safe, if not mildly paranoid. I like your head attached to your shoulders, mi amor. 

You back toward the elevator and punch in the parking garage before repeatedly pressing the Close Door button. There isn't another soul in the elevator with you, so you scramble for your keys on your lanyard. There's a switchblade in the desk in your office, but you're closer to the one in your car. If you aren't being paranoid, and you really are in danger, you need to get the hell out of this building. Down is better than up. 

But when the elevator doors slide open, you can only back farther into the car as a huge man wielding a handgun blocks your way out. 

“Ma’am,” he greets. It’s almost polite, almost pitiful. The gun in his meaty hand looks like a toy. He could kill you with a flick of his wrist, let alone a bullet. Fear is a tangible rope that slips around your throat and ties a knot at the nape of your neck.

“Hi,” you manage, your breaths coming in jagged. “I suppose someone wants me dead. Any chance you know who?”

The man shrugs his huge shoulders. “Last I heard, your husband made a bad business move.”

You lift your brows. The elevator doors stay open with his body blocking your only exit. “This is about the Orlov contract? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He doesn't answer, but it makes sense. Your husband refused to sign a contract that would sign away his skills to the Orlov mob’s poster boy, Alexander. It was the right choice, of course: Orlov would own his life. Sadistic bastard, you distinctly remember him calling Orlov. To his face. It was evidently a mistake. Now, it looks like they want to take a life in retribution. 

If you try to fight him off, he’ll kill you. Your husband has taught you many things about self-defence, but this man in front of you is twice your size. So, you wield the best bargaining chip you have: your husband’s wrath. 

“I could persuade him to forgive you, but if you kill me, nothing will stop him from extending the courtesy to you.”

It's bland and it's only half-true. Pero will track this man down and murder him just for threatening your life. But your only chance is to offer an out. 

The man shrugs. “I’ll take my chances. Three million can buy me a nice hideaway.”

Your mouth goes dry. 

Three million fucking dollars?

“That's…” You swallow thickly. “That's a lot of money.”

“Yeah,” says the man. “You seem like a nice lady. I’m sorry, for what it's worth.”

“I appreciate your apology,” you tell him, “but I can promise you: it will not be worth it.”

He just lifts the gun to your head. “I’ll be quick about it.”

The man collapses to the ground at the same time you lift your arms over your head to protect yourself from the imminent blow. Someone has come to claim the prize instead. Someone else will take a knife to your throat. If they fail, someone else will aim the barrel of a gun between your eyes. It won’t end until you’re dead. It won’t—

“Hey, hey, look at me. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

The gunshot never comes, you realise. You slowly lower your arms at the sound of your rescuer’s voice.

“Frankie!” you cry, throwing yourself at him and winding your arms around his neck. “Oh, God. Oh, God, I thought… How did you…?”

“Shh, shh.” Frankie holds you tight, his hands cupping your face when he pulls away to examine your face. His jaw ticks with loosening tension when he finds you unharmed. “Pero and Dave called me. They knew I was the closest to you. We’re meeting them at the safe house. Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, holding onto his hand so tightly you could hurt him if he wasn’t so familiar with stress and pain. “My car’s close.”

“We’re taking mine.” His tone leaves no room for argument. You guess the bounty contract lists your exact make, model, and license plate.

Frankie has entered soldier mode now that he’s confirmed you’re not in any pain. He's tactical in the way he guards your body with his, eyes sweeping every potential entry point and hiding spot. The weight of his arm across your body is heavy and reassuring. The two of you hurry across the parking garage until you can climb up into Frankie’s beat-up truck. He places his hand on your knee, which bounces anxiously, and meets your eyes. “You with me?” he asks. 

“I’m with you, Frankie.” You squeeze his hand. “You got me. I’m safe.”

“You're safe,” he repeats to himself. 

He peels out of his parking spot and makes for the light of the exit. You ground yourself with your fingers caressing the worn leather of the seat. “Frankie, it's three million dollars.”

“I know,” he says gruffly. 

You stare at him, wide-eyed, but he's got his own eyes on the road, his jaw firmly clenched and his curls peeking out from under his cap. “That's a lot of money. What does Orlov want with me?”

“Pero pissed him off,” says Frankie plainly, white-knuckling the wheel. “Other than that… he doesn't need a reason. It’s a hit to his pride if word gets out that a standard contract killer insulted him by rejecting his job offer.”

“I think the rejection and the insults came separately.”

“Knowing the dickhead you married, probably.” Frankie shakes his head. “He’s sorry, honey. We're all sorry. We should've known.”

“You couldn't have known. Normal people don't call hits on civilians when their husbands make them mad.” You tuck a curl behind Frankie’s ear. “You did beautifully, Frank. He would've killed me.”

Frankie blows out air from his nose like a charging bull. “Dave is working on getting the word out to his contacts that you're off-limits. Pero is too fucking angry to move, let alone think. He's wound up tight.”

You shake your head fondly. “Whenever I get the flu, he thinks that's it for me. He doesn't do well when he’s not in control.”

“No, baby. He doesn't do well because it's you.” Frankie lifts your hand and kisses your palm, his thumb stroking your skin just because he needs to. It reminds him that you're all right, for now. “If he's not in control, he gets control. If you're in trouble…”

“I know,” you finish, letting silence settle between you. 

Pero has been wearing a hole in the hardwood with all his pacing. He's counted each of the slats in the floor ten times and debated all the most satisfying ways he's going to murder Alexander Orlov. Better yet, his whole family. 

Yes, that'll send the right message. 

“Will you sit the fuck down?” says Dave, rubbing his thumb over his mouth. Pero just growls, turning to pace again. Dave has stripped out of his jacket and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. “Frankie sent the message. She’s with him. She's—”

“Ay coño, malo, puta,” curses Pero. “Do not say she's safe. She's not safe, not until this ends.” He shakes his head, refusing to lift his eyes from the floor. “I’ll take off his skin.”

Dave keeps eyeing the driveway for signs of Frankie’s vehicle. It won't be long now. “Flaying sounds great,” he says diplomatically, “but you need to sit down, man. You need to relax. She’s safe with Frank. You know it's true.”

Of the three of them, Pero certainly isn't the smartest. He wouldn't have taunted a mobster if he were. But he's smart enough to know that Dave—who is the smartest—is right. “I want him dead,” he says, sitting down next to Dave at the kitchen table. “And I want it to fucking hurt.”

The sound of an engine shutting off has them briefly exchanging glances. The sputtering of Frankie’s truck. 

Pero stands up from the chair so fast it clatters to the floor. You climb out of Frankie’s truck and hold yourself a bit more reserved than usual as he escorts you up the driveway. Pero throws open the front door and you're running toward him with tears in your eyes before he can take a step out the door. 

You throw yourself at him and wrap your arms around his neck, choking the life out of him. He's not even sure you're real until he closes his eyes and tangles his fingers in your hair, memorising its softness and its distinct scent of coconut. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and finally, finally, lets himself breathe. 

“Pero,” you cry, squeezing your thighs around his waist. He carries you inside the house, not once considering setting you down. “I was so scared, Pero.”

“I know, I know,” he whispers, his arm firm around your waist. He kisses you from your neck to your cheek to your mouth, where you lean into him desperately, grabbing his jaw to keep him against you. “You’re safe, my love. You’re with me.”

You whimper against his lips when he pulls away to inspect you closely, setting you carefully on your feet. “Mi alma.” His thumb traces your unharmed cheek. “You’re okay? No one hurt you?”

He cannot stomach the thought. He does not think he's capable of letting go of you for one second. He will track down every single person who even considered hunting you down and string their guts for decoration outside your home. 

You shake your head, cupping his face in your hands. “Frankie saved me,” you tell him. “That man would’ve… he would’ve…”

“Shhh, my beautiful girl.” He kisses your forehead and rests his against it, swiping away a tear that slips down your cheek. “Lo siento. I never should have taunted him.”

You shake your head. “He should have known not to fuck with you. He’s the idiot.”

Pero nudges your cheek with his nose. “So forgiving,” he murmurs. “How did I find you?”

“Luck.” You seek another kiss and hear the door click shut behind Frankie. “I love you.”

“Amor de mi vida,” he whispers, tucking you under his chin as he brings you into his side. 

Frankie claps him on the shoulder. “Got there as fast as I could.”

“Right on time, it seems, amigo.” Pero clasps his arm. “Thank you, Francisco.”

Frankie squeezes your hand. “You know I’d do anything.”

“We know,” you say softly. “You saved my life.”

Dave enters the foyer and zeroes in on you right away, stroking his thumb over your cheek with his brows pulled taut. “You're okay?

“I’m okay.”

He shuts his eyes for a moment and drops his hand to the back of your neck. “Good,” he rasps. “Kovac wanted me to take the contract.”

“What?” growls Pero. 

“Puta,” says Frankie, scratching at his beard. 

“He'll be dealt with. But it means he doesn't know who you are,” says Dave, his eyes sliding to Pero, “or who she is to you.”

“Orlov and his family have fingers everywhere,” you supply.

Pero nods gravely. “His father holds stock in her company.”

“And probably employees on my payroll,” you add, the realisation striking you. “That's probably how he was able to get so much information about me.”

“What about online articles?” says Frankie. “Interviews, magazines?”

“Pero and I agreed I would keep my personal life confidential,” you tell him, rubbing your hand up and down your husband’s arm. “All the public knows is that Viva ’s COO is a woman, and her last name isn't Tovar. Our CEO Jade handles public relations.”

“Her wife isn't a hired killer,” says Pero, idly kissing your temple. “She gets to live a life of safety.”

You brush your fingertips over the scar on his face. “She's also probably bored,” you say lightly, giving him a gentle kiss on the jaw. 

Pero looks down at you with gooey brown eyes. “Don't say a thing like that, mi amor. Not until we can get you safe.”

A muscle in Dave’s jaw flickers. “Kovac and the rest know not to go for you. I’ve reached out personally to other agencies who I can trust.”

“You can't trust anyone, man,” says Frankie. “The guy who put a gun to her forehead may have worked for one of those agencies, for all we fuckin’ know.”

Pero curses in Spanish. You chew on your bottom lip. “And someone will let slip that I’m married to Pero. That he turned down Orlov. The public will know.”

“The public will sympathise,” says Dave. “But the public doesn't matter. This is all underground.”

“But I’m a civilian.”

“And going after a civilian breaches etiquette,” agrees Dave, “but it's not illegal.”

“But,” you interject, “it might make him more vulnerable to double-crossing. If underworld criminals don't like other criminals breaking rules of engagement, they may sway to your side. Help you take down Orlov.”

“She's right,” says Frankie. 

“Of course she is,” murmurs Pero, kissing the crown of your head. “York, make some calls. Let it be known that my wife is innocent in all this.”

“I’ll lay it on thick,” says Dave, winking at you even though he isn't smiling, still gravely rubbing his fingers over his mouth in habit. 

“We need to stay on the move,” says Frankie. “Someone is bound to have seen one of us come here. Baby, I can get you somewhere safer, outside the city.”

Pero sighs. “Francisco’s right. You cannot stay.”

“I know that,” you say, “and I’ll stay out of the way. But baby, you’re all walking right into Orlov’s trap. He knows you'll want revenge. He’ll kill you.”

“He doesn't have the skill,” says Dave. “He's a figurehead at best. And he doesn't have the motivation.”

You pin him and your husband with stern glares. “Do not get cocky. He may not have the skill, but he has the money to hire the skill. And you two are not dying for me.”

“No, my love,” says Pero. “We are going to kill for you.”

“I’m not saying the asshole doesn't deserve it”—you recall the clash of terror and helplessness as the man held a gun to your head—“but the three of you need to seriously consider the odds.”

“I have considered,” Pero says fiercely, “and there is nothing in this world I will not face to keep you alive. ¿Claro?”

It's hard to ignore the spark of excitement in your core. Your husband may be a killer, but you aren't perfect, either. Case in point: the way your body reacts when he gets angry. And judging from the way his eyes turn black, he can see the shift in you. 

“Mi cielo,” he says, his voice like gravel. 

You hook your thumbs in his belt loops. “Mmm?”

His hand gently strokes your hair, cupping the back of your head. “You know we must go.” 

“I know,” you muse, tugging him a little closer, “but does that have to be right this second?”

Pero makes eye contact with Frankie over your shoulder and inclines his head. Behind you, hands gently come to rest on your hips, bunching the fabric of your blouse. Frankie’s mouth ghosts warm air over your neck, his plush lips and soft moustache finding the spot below your ear. 

“My beautiful girl,” says Pero, watching your head roll back against Frankie’s shoulder. Your husband frees the top button of your blouse and shucks it open to reveal the lacy bra underneath. His jaw ticks. “Did you wear this for us, mi amor?”

Frankie’s hands untuck the blouse from your skirt and his warm, rough hands are a balm to the tension in your stomach. He pulls you back against his chest, keeping your ass firm to his growing erection. Pero shifts to your side, and Dave takes his place in front of you, helping unbutton the rest of your blouse as your husband tilts your chin up and kisses you. 

“Yeah, she did,” says Dave, answering in your place since you're having trouble forming words with Pero’s tongue down your throat. He slides the blouse off your shoulders and lets it pool on the floor. “Such a pretty girl.”

“So beautiful,” murmurs Frankie, whose mouth hasn't left your throat. Hands unclip your bra and fling it aside, and you don't realise whose they are through the haze of pheromones and cologne and the tang of cigarette smoke. It sticks to your ribs and thrums in your blood like triple heartbeats. You're so wet that you're dripping in your panties, unable to lift your arms long enough to touch one of them. 

They're in control when they have you like this. They're using your body to assure themselves that you're unharmed. 

Pero smells of leather and the cologne you always buy him for his birthday. He kisses like he's starved, as he always does. It’s aggressive and biting and commanding. You melt under his kiss, under Frankie’s mouth, under Dave’s hands on your waist. 

Frankie unzips your skirt and shucks it down, leaving you in your panties. You feel your cheeks warm as Dave goes to his knees in front of you, kissing his way from your sternum to your navel. 

“Such soft skin, hmm, hermano?” coos Pero, his face nuzzled in the right curve of your throat as Frankie continues to occupy the left. “It will never see so much as a cut again.”

Dave hums against your body, taking his panties down so you're exposed to the three of them. Frankie reaches around you and palms your breasts, forcing your back to curve into Dave’s grasp. 

“What do you want him to do, amor?” asks Pero, nipping your earlobe. His voice makes your ribs tremble. Dave presses gentle kisses to your inner thighs while Frankie rolls your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

Your head lolls around your shoulders, supported by Pero’s hand fisting your hair. It's hands and lips and teeth. It's the warm, wet sensation of Frankie’s mouth sucking greedy little marks into your neck and Dave’s murderous hands, so gentle on your hips. “I… ngh…”

Pero nudges his nose against a ticklish spot in your neck, making you shiver. “He won't do a thing until you let him,” he says. As a confirmation, Dave gently nips your thigh. The corded muscle of their arms keeps you in place, ensuring you won't fall, letting you feel without fear. 

“I want to come,” you manage, meeting your husband's eyes beneath your lashes. 

Pero nudges his nose against your cheek. “Do you want their fingers, my love?”

“God, yes,” you whine, your body keening as Dave runs two fingers through your slit. “Please, yes.”

“We got you, baby,” says Frankie, squeezing your tits. 

“You heard my wife. Make her feel good.”

Dave nudges your thighs farther apart and licks a bold stripe through your slit. You yelp, tangling your fingers in his hair. “I said fingers, York,” warns Pero. “No seas codicioso (Don't be greedy).”

“It's okay, Dave,” you say breathlessly. “Just surprised me. It feels good.”

“Relax, baby,” says Frankie, letting you rest your head back on his shoulder. The stretch of your throat gives Pero better access, and he takes advantage: making his own marks on his side of your neck, tracing his path with his nose as Dave sinks two fingers deep inside your cunt. 

“Ah!” you moan, your chest heaving and your eyes rolling back. “Fuck, Dave!”

Groans vibrate through your body. They like hearing you. They get off on knowing you feel good. Dave curls his fingers against your front wall and you see spots, your other hand curling around Frankie’s wrist. “Oh my—” 

Even though your legs are trembling as Dave repeatedly presses up against your g-spot, Frankie’s hand glides down your body and, his teeth nipping at your jaw, finds your clit. 

“Ohhh, Frank— ie!”

He huffs into your skin, refraining from bucking his hips against you because he knows it's greedy. He rubs your clit in slow circles as Dave works his fingers inside you. “So good for us, sweet girl,” he says, admiring the deep flush of arousal on your body. You're warm and inviting and spread open for them, your eyes struggling to stay open. 

Pero sucks on the spot beneath your ear that he knows drives you mad, and you moan long and loud, squirming in the men’s grasp while pleasure burns through you. 

“Bésame,” says Pero. You're overwhelmed by the attention, close to coming apart under their hands, and you need an anchor. So you turn your head to the side and kiss him again. 

The need to come is cataclysmic. Your pleasure mounts from the efforts of the men around you, their limbs and their souls fine-tuned to your body. Your stomach tightens, your nerve endings bursting with white-hot sensation, your thighs trembling as you climb toward your high. 

“She's coming,” says Dave, curling his fingers forward. You cry out, unable to form words.

“Yeah, she is,” says Frankie, watching your chest heave with every breath. 

“Record time,” says Pero, grinning into your neck. 

“I’m— I’m—!”

You feel teeth sinking into your throat. Frankie, if you have any sense left. He likes to bite. You lose the ability to support your head and crush your face in Pero’s chest, grasping Dave’s hair and choking on a sob. 

Your entire body stiffens, and though you cannot hear through the ringing in your ears, the three men around you can see the surge of wetness spray out around Dave’s fingers, splashing onto his tie. “Jesus Christ,” he says. 

“That's it, baby,” says Frankie, soothing the bite mark he left with his tongue. 

You whimper, held down by their strong arms, your orgasm devastating you. Pero mumbles soft Spanish in your ears. Dave gently withdraws his soaked fingers as Frankie removes his hand from your clit, letting you come down slowly. You're dizzy, covered in a faint sheen of sweat, and all you can see, taste, smell is the presence of the men around you. They help you come back to Earth with gentle kisses and soft touches. In the field, they’re killers. Here, they know nothing but keeping you safe and happy. 

Compared to the afternoon you've had, you feel really fucking happy now. 

“You with us?” asks Dave, patting your hip with his dry hand. You nod, because your mouth can only produce a faint squeak. Dave rises to his feet and, after exchanging a look with Pero, lifts his slick-soaked fingers to your lips. “Then you can open up for me, hmm?”

You do, letting him place his fingers on your tongue. You swirl it around his digits, tasting your own tang, watching him through bleary eyes. “ Thaaat’s it,” he says warmly. “Now you know why we're all fucking starved for you. You taste good. Don’t you?”

You nod again and close your lips around his fingers. Pero holds your jaw, keeping your head in place, while Frankie kneads your tits. “Made a mess of Dave, honey,” says the latter. 

Dave pops his fingers out of your mouth to let you speak, though your voice is hoarse. “Didn’t… didn’t mean to.”

“It's okay, sweet girl,” says Dave, his hand skating up and down the curve of your waist. “My tie looks better this way.”

You feel yourself flush, but Dave is kissing you, his chest pressed up against yours, forcing Frankie to keep you from stumbling. Pero steps back, relishing in the sight: you, unharmed and satiated, in the arms of two men he knows can keep you safe. Frankie kisses along your jawline as Dave claims your mouth, both of them drawing soft moans from you and seeping the tension from your bones. 

Dave pulls away and brushes the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. “Thank you, baby,” he says softly. “I have to make some calls before Frankie takes you out of the city. You gonna be okay?”

You smile up at him and fix his tousled hair. “I am okay. Thank you, Dave.”

He kisses your forehead and makes for the basement, where he and Frankie once fashioned a makeshift ammunition store. You turn in Frankie’s arms and adjust his cap over his head. His shirt is rumpled and his hair is a mess, his erection still achingly obvious in his jeans. “Knocked you all askew,” you say regretfully. You know how much he likes his order. 

“Don't mind when it's you,” he says, cupping the right side of your face. His thumb strokes your jaw, his dark eyes soft and buttery. “You did good. You did everything right today.”

You glance at Pero, who moves closer with your clothes in his hands. “It doesn't feel like it,” you say as your husband shrugs your blouse back over your shoulders for a modicum of warmth. He'll have a change of clothes for you upstairs, anyway; this house is stocked with everything a person could need. 

“You did everything right,” Pero repeats, his lips at your temple. “I could have lost you today, mi amor. Staying alive is all I ask of you.”

“Well, you can thank Frankie for that.” You send the man in question a wry smile. “I certainly will.”

You want to bite that pout right off his mouth. “I’ll get thanks when I deserve it.” He presses a kiss to your nose. 

That's a certainty about these men: they never make you feel used. Frankie follows Dave into the basement, leaving you alone with your husband. He takes your hand, pulling you against him. You hold onto the lapels of his leather jacket and kiss him deeply. “I’m sorry about all this,” you whisper. 

Pero blinks. “Why are you apologising to me?”

“You're in your head, baby.” Your fingers trace his old scar and disappear into his thick locks, combing them back from his forehead. He closes his eyes, damn near purring at your attentive touch. “You can't dive headfirst into a plan when you’re overthinking everything. I’ll lose you, and I refuse to lose you. You know this is not your fault, right?”

“It is.” He grabs your waist and kneads your soft flesh. “He would never have sought revenge if I hadn't insulted him.”

“You were right to insult him,” you say fiercely. “He and his family trample over the less fortunate. They look down on the poor from their skyscrapers and renege on their promises of providing low-income housing. They're leeches, Pero, and you were right to take Alexander down a peg. His pride is hurt, which means he's vulnerable. Putting a price on my head shows it.”

Instinctively, he sneers at your words, grasping you tighter. You only admire the changing planes of his beautiful face, the scrunch of his white scar and the regret in his dark eyes. “He will pay,” promises Pero. “He will pay for thinking you were ever an option.”

“I know he will.” You scratch your nails through the hair at the nape of his neck and watch his expression soften. “But you’ll promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don't think about me,” you tell him. “Treat it like a standard mission. I’ll be sitting in a house somewhere, far away from danger, waiting anxiously for my husband to come home to me. And he will. Come. Home.” You pin him with your best wifely glare. “So do not think about me. It will only distract you. ¿Claro?”

Pero nods, zealously grasping your head in his hands and kissing you all over: your lips and cheeks and nose and eyelids. “I love you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I love when you smile and laugh and get angry. I love when you boss me around. I love when you use my words. I love your heart. I've never seen a thing like it. And I will never, ever drop it. I will come home to you, amor.”

You sniffle, grinning at him through your tears. “Promise me,” you say firmly, “please, mi esposo.”

“I promise,” says Pero, “I will not think about you. Not even once. Not your laugh or your smile. Not the sight of you naked and panting, not the sounds you make when—”

“That's enough promising,” you laugh, leaping onto him to kiss him again. 

next

[oogaboogasphincter]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PEDRITO!!! 🥳💟🎂🥹🫶🫂

[oogaboogasphincter]

[oogaboogasphincter]

finally! some good fucking food to make me feel better when i have a migraine!

Headcanon: How do they behave when you have a migraine? (Pedro Pascal characters)🩹😴

Joel:

✰ Joel, obviously, hates to see you like this. Your suffering literally breaks his heart. But of course, he knows he has to take care of you.

✰ The first thing he'll do is try to get some painkillers.

Next, he'll make sure he gets some food you like. He knows you often get nauseous when you have a migraine, but he wants to make sure that if you get hungry, there's something you enjoy waiting for you.

✰ Joel will sit on the couch and encourage you to put your head in his lap. And he will gently massage your scalp.

✰ If it doesn't bother you, he'll be quietly humming a calm song under his breath. But if you tell him it's not helping you, he will be quiet.

✰ Only, from time to time, he will quietly ask, "How are you feel, baby girl? Do you need anything?"

✰ When you finally fall asleep, Joel won't move. He won't care about back pain and leg numbness. Your rest will be the most important.

Javier Peña:

✰ Javi can be a little insecure at first. He'll be afraid that you don't want his presence when you're so vulnerable. However, as soon as he is convinced that you need his help, he will turn on caring mode.

✰ He will make sure that your medicine, glass of water, and cold compress are on the bedside table. He will close the windows and turn on the fans, but he will arrange them so that their noise is not too bothersome for you.

✰ He will also try to smoke less because when you have a migraine, the smell of cigarettes makes you nauseous.

✰ Javier also has his secret weapon: orgasm. He only had to hear once that female orgasms were painkillers.

✰ Of course, he will only do this if you agree. He will spend long hours between your legs. And when you fall asleep with a blissful smile on your face, he will make sure that none of the neighbors will make noise. He won't hesitate to knock on their door and show his badge. Your rest is the most important.

Oberyn:

❂ The first thing he does is of course summon the maesters, the best ones. But he does not tolerate stupid ideas. If one of them suggests bloodletting or other nonsense, they can count on a close meeting with his spear.

❂ Oberyn will order servants to prepare the best room and make sure that the bed is full of soft pillows.

❂ He will also order a light meal to be prepared and send all the servants away, saying that he will take care of the rest himself.

❂ He'll prepare a bath of lukewarm water for both of you. He will take you in his arms and carry you to the tub. He will be very gentle and restrained. He will place kisses on your shoulders, neck, and head and whisper soothing words.

❂ Then he will lie down next to you and stroke your head until you fall asleep.

❂ He will put guards in front of the chamber door to make sure that no one dares to disturb your rest.

Javi G:

⊛ When Javi sees you in pain, he looks at you with sad puppy eyes and suddenly becomes extremely quiet. He tiptoes around you and waits for your commands. He'll bring you anything you ask for: a glass of water, broth, a cold compress... Autograph of your favorite actor? Give him an hour and he'll get that too. "Everything for you, mi amor. If it will lessen your pain."

⊛ He won't be able to resist hugging you. He will do it very gently, but he just needs to be close to you. It's like he wants to absorb your pain.

⊛ He will definitely want to hold your hand and kiss your head every now and then.

⊛ If you agree, he will turn on a quiet movie and cuddle you to his chest.

⊛ As soon as he notices that you have fallen asleep, he will immediately turn off the TV and look at your peaceful face.

Agent Whiskey:

✧ Jack, of course, is not a fan of strong painkillers, but he can't stand your suffering. Therefore, he will ask Ginger to create an effective cure for migraines, but without the risk of becoming addicted.

✧ Also he makes sure you have everything you need on hand.

✧ When you have a migraine, Jack becomes ridiculously protective, like a mother hen. His concern can be a bit irritating at times. "Sugar, does the blanket cover your feet?" He adjusts the pillows behind your back, makes sure you drink enough water, and, "No, Sugar, you can't take your medicine on an empty stomach."

✧ He will kiss your forehead and look at you sadly. If he could, he would take this pain away from you.

✧ You know he loves you and you forgive him for being overprotective.

✧ Eventually, he will sit next to you, put his arm around you, and pull you to his chest. If you start whining that the light hurts your eyes, he'll even let you wear his cowboy hat. Everything for you.

✧ When he notices you're asleep, he'll adjust your blanket and let himself take a nap, but he'll still be very alert. Your slightest moan will immediately wake him up.

Frankie:

✰ Frankie will use "google" help first. He will start reading about all the possible ways to relieve migraines.

✰ He makes sure your bedroom lights are dim and the temperature in the room is right. It will remove all sources of noise.

✰ He will ask if he should go to the pharmacy/the store for something you need. If so, he'll be back in 20 minutes. Probably breaking a few traffic rules along the way. He just has to provide his "princess" with everything she needs as soon as possible.

✰ Frankie will gently hug you and kiss your temples. If you let him, he will start massaging your head, neck, and shoulders.

✰ He will whisper to you anecdotes from his life.

✰ Once you fall asleep in his arms, Frankie won't leave you. Keeping you safe is his new, most important mission.

Din Djarin :

✭ Din has a secret weapon: Grogu. He knows the green baby loves you (and you love Grogu), so he will encourage him to use his healing powers on you. The migraine will pass immediately.

✭ But if for some reason he can't use Grogu's help because the little one will be exhausted, Din will make sure You get everything you need.

✭ He will avoid space-time jumps. And if possible, he will land on a peaceful planet.

✭ He will prepare a comfortable bed for you and gently stroke your head.

✭ For you, he will even take off his armor so that you can fall asleep on his warm chest.

✭ But of course, he would never admit it. Only in front of you and Grogu, he can drop his mask of a cold galactic bounty hunter.

As my poor @creedslove has a migraine (and my migraine is just around the corner) we need our husbands/boyfriends/fiances (delete as appropriate) to look after us.

[oogaboogasphincter]

WOWWW

what do you need?

Pairing: BratTamer!Joel Miller x Brat!F!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: no show spoilers, established relationship, non-canon compliant, post-outbreak, smut, swearing, brat “taming”, D/s dynamic, dirty talk, degradation kink, praise kink, pain kink, impact play, collar wearing, maybe might have taken a snippet of dialogue from how the world works by bo burnh@m for horny reasons, unprotected piv sex, crying, shower, overstimulation, choking, spitting in mouth, fluff

A/N: I feel like this story is going to be presented as evidence when I'm rejected from the pearly gates post-mortem. Happy birthday to Joel Miller, sorry your birthday was a huge bummer that one time. Big big smoochies to @frannyzooey for helping me with several things and just generally being awesome.

[ my masterlist ] [ taglist ] [ AO3 ]

You’re having one of those days. 

You know. 

The kind of day where everything you come into contact with barbs into your flesh and tugs at your nerves. 

Noises out on the street too loud, cupboards too empty, coffee too weak, counters too cluttered, shower too cold, clothing too tight—fuck, even your skin feels too fucking tight. 

Overstimulated. 

Exhausted. 

Restless. 

You’ve given pieces of yourself out hand over foot, and now you’re at a deficit and the world around you is still hungry, even though you’ve been picked to bare bones. Everything is too much and too little all at the same time. 

The toddler that lives in the apartment above yours is throwing a temper tantrum. The kid’s defiant screeching rubs against your brain like fiberglass until all four walls of your living room feel like they’re closing in around you, squeezing you out like a tube of toothpaste, suffocating you. 

And you’re thinking: If I don’t release some of this pressure I might go all fucking Hindenburg and explode. 

The apartment door swings open, and Joel walks in, his broad shoulders all slumped like he’s carrying the goddamn weight of the word. He glances over at you as he slides the chain lock closed, “Hey, darlin’.”

You look up from your place on the couch, where you’re hunched over crossed legs, elbows digging into your thighs. All sharp angles and tense muscles. Without responding, you return your attention to the glass of moonshine dangling from your grip. Swirl it around a little. Take a big swallow and try not to wince as it burns down to your belly. 

Joel stands there for a beat, watching you, waiting for your manners to kick in. When they don’t, he huffs and stomps into the kitchen. Cupboard doors slam and glass clinks as he searches for a clean cup, then pours himself a drink. 

And, christ, he’s so fucking loud. 

Every noise he makes is an exclamation mark. A shard of glass pressing into your eardrum. A sliver wedging further and further under your fingernail. 

He walks over, eyes glued to you, each heavy footfall a stubborn grain of sand that won’t leave that space between your toes no matter how much you wiggle them. 

By the time his weight shifts the couch cushions and sets you off balance, tilting in his direction, you know what you need. 

You need to get under his skin like he’s under yours. To push him until his edges are hardened and sharp to the touch. You need him to pry open the emergency hatch and empty your mind. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Your nostrils flare. You bring the cup to your lips and take another big, burning swig of bootleg liquor, then say, “Nothing.” 

“Nothin’,” he repeats, his voice low and disbelieving, “Now, why don’t I believe that?” 

You sit up and glare at him, meeting his dark eyes, all shadowed by his drooping brow as he tilts his blank stare at you. 

Excitement flickers inside you. You tilt your head right back and drop your voice, mocking him, “Reckon it’s ‘cuz I got a fucken attitude.” 

His jaw tightens, mouth flattening into a straight line as he narrows his eyes at you, “You gonna talk about what’s got your panties all in a twist, or just be a nuisance about it?” 

You bat your eyelashes at him and shrug. 

“I see,” he searches your face, turning his wrist in slow circles, moonshine sloshing around in his cup, “You know, if you need me to do somethin’ for you, or… to you, all you have to do is ask. You don’ need to do this whole thing.”

“What thing?” you blink. Play dumb. 

His eyes roll a little as he brings the glass to his lips and tips it back. Taking its contents all in one swallow, he slams the glass down on the end table with a thunk. Shaking his head, he looks at you, “Are you fuckin’ done?” 

You smirk at him, dragging your eyes up and down his body. He’s studying you with this stern stare, teeth clenched, the muscles in his jaw twitching like little warning signals: PROCEED WITH CAUTION. 

A warm fluttering starts at your center. Setting your glass down, you crawl onto his lap. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t do anything but watch your face as you drag your fingernail along the tightened line of his jaw. 

Threading your brows together, you coo, “You’re just so cute when you’re angry.” 

“That’s enough,” he grabs your hand and squeezes it hard enough to make you gasp with delight, then says, “Open your mouth.” 

“Make me.” 

It happens so fast. 

One hand on your forehead, the other gripping your jaw, yanking your mouth open. 

“Stick your fuckin’ tongue out.” 

You do. 

You hear it first. The squelch of him gathering moisture. He spits onto your tongue, his saliva moonshine flavored and melting into yours. He does it again, then groans as he rubs it into your tastebuds, the rough pad of his thumb scraping against the tender muscle. 

“So, what, you had a shitty day, now you’re actin’ out? Tryin’ to get me all worked up so I punish you?” 

The words are all hoarse and heated against your cheek. His cock twitches beneath you and you grind into him, tongue still stretched out. 

He spits on it again. 

“Is this what you wanted, you little shit? Hmm?” he tugs on your chin, “Do you like it when I spit in your fuckin’ mouth?” 

“I like it,” you tell him, nodding, placing your palm on his chest. 

His throat rumbles like he’s pleased. He loosens his grip, then brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, glancing down at your mouth, “Do you want more?” 

“Yes—yes, please.”

“Much better,” he purrs, “Open.” 

You open your mouth wide and stick out your tongue. Another hot wad of spit plops down on it, moonshine flavored, Joel flavored, and you moan.

He cups your cheek and murmurs, “See? You can be a good girl. Can’t you?” 

Sparks sizzle up your back bone. You nod and bat your eyelashes at him, closing your mouth and swallowing his spit, sliding your hand through the soft patches of gray in his beard. 

His throat rumbles. Dark gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, ”Now, tell me, darlin’, what do you need?” 

The question trickles down the middle of you and twists into a stubborn knot. Your heart flutters when your lips part, but courage dies in your chest. 

You shake your head and mutter, mostly to yourself, “It’s stupid.”

His brow furrows just slightly. 

Heat blooms in your chest and on your face. Nervous energy makes your throat bob and your tongue go numb, and you shake your head, “Sorry.” 

He fully frowns now, searching your face, “Sorry? What for?”

You shake your head again, dropping your gaze, and clamp your mouth shut. 

Joel releases a big sigh, curling your body into his, and kisses your forehead. He murmurs against your skin, “Do you trust me?” 

“With my life.” 

He lets you sit in the wake of your own answer. The weight of his expectant silence wriggles under your skin and makes you squirm. You cast your gaze downward and shrug, “I don’t know.” 

He’s quiet.

When you glance back up at him, his expression has softened into one that makes your heart ache. It’s almost doleful, the way he looks at you. 

“I don’t know how to explain it, I feel,” you intertwine your fingers with his, “Empty here,” you pull the clasped hands to your chest, “But full… in-in my head. Everything feels like too much—I don’t know, Joel.”

The tears that prick your eyes take you by surprise. Usually you keep these pesky blue feelings to yourself, so as not to burden him. You should be used to this world by now. Your skin should be thicker. 

You feel weak. 

Pathetic. 

Shame rips through you. More tears erupt from deep within your chest and stream down your cheeks, burning the whole way. A rush of adrenaline pumps through your body. It tinges your blood cold and makes you panic. 

You let go of his hand and bring your knees to your chest, burying your face between them, blubbering, “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, don’t,” he sighs, not quite sure what to do with this, and slides his warm palm up and down the curve of your back, “It’s—it’s ok.” 

All you can do is shake your head. It’s not ok. He doesn’t want someone like this. A crying, sputtering mess. Someone who gets upset because, what, noises seem too loud? 

“Look at me, babygirl.”

You can’t help the whimper that bubbles up your throat. He only uses the term of endearment during rare, tender moments. When he needs you to know, really know, that above the games and the rules and the agreements behind the locked door of this apartment… he cares for you.

You sniffle and wipe your tears on the stiff denim of your work pants, then peak up at him. 

He searches your face, and says, “Let me take care of you.” 

Your eyebrows thread together and your lips part. He just keeps staring at you like that, so earnest, his eyes fertile earth you could take root in. 

“Ok,” you whisper. 

“Go take a shower. You can be a good girl and do that for me, can’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

You stay there for a moment, eyes locked on his, and ask, “Can I have a kiss?” 

He hums, dropping his gaze to your lips, “How do we ask?” 

Heat coils around you. He studies your movements as you unfold yourself and sit up straight, then climb on top of him, knees framing his hips, “Can I have a kiss… please?” 

His hands land on your waist, “Course you can.” 

You slide your palms up his chest, his neck, to cradle his jaw, then lean in to capture his lips in yours. The kiss is molasses and moonshine. Syrupy and rich. Intoxicating. It warms your insides and leaves you wanting more. 

When he pulls back, he smooths his touch around your backside and gives your ass a firm smack, “Go on now.” 

You try on his Texas accent and tease, “Go on, git,” and start giggling when he blinks at you, then add, “Ok ok I’m going!” 

“You’re lucky you’re cute, y’know that?” he calls after you as you scamper into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. 

You pull back the shower curtain, flip on the hot water, and strip off your clothes. The weak stream splatters hot against your skin when you step inside. For a minute, you just stand there with your eyes closed, relishing the warmth. 

The bathroom door opens, then closes. 

You wash your hair as Joel strips off his clothing into a pile on top of yours. His shadow on the shower curtain grows, then disappears as he pulls it back and steps inside. Your eyes close as you tip your head back into the water stream and massage the conditioner from your hair. 

He plants his palm at the small of your back and brings himself closer. A soapy washcloth meets your bellybutton and moves in circular motions, working up a lather. When he hits a weak spot, and a tickle shoots up your body, you giggle and grab his wrist. 

“You don’t like it?” 

Feeling through your wet hair for any remaining gobs of conditioner, you open your eyes to meet his, grinning, “I do, I’m just ticklish.”

His lips curve into a smirk and he shakes his head as he returns his attention to the task at hand, scrubbing the day’s grime off your body. The hot water works with his meticulous attention to dull the serrated edges under your skin. 

“Turn.” 

You do, taking a backwards step towards him. Your nerves tingle with want, the snarled tips of them all stretching in his direction, untangling to beckon him closer. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and starts on your back. Your shoulders relax under his praise. Under the firm pressure of the washcloth scouring your skin. He draws circles down your spine, around your hip, between your legs, leaving a trail of suds for you to rinse off. 

When he’s finished sudsing and you’re finished rinsing, he says, “Go wait for me in the bedroom,” so you swap places with him and squeeze the excess water from your body and hair. You step out onto the bath mat and wrap a towel around yourself, then tiptoe into the bedroom. 

Across the patchwork quilt, Joel laid out your collar. You dry yourself off and fasten the leather strap around your neck, then wait for him in the middle of the bed with your legs crossed. 

When Joel enters the room, it seems to shrink around him. Every inch of him is gleaming and dewy, his hairline all steely gray and combed back into damp, dark waves. He appraises you while tucking a ratty towel around his waist. You feel your shoulders pull back. Your spine uncurls, pointing straight at the ceiling. 

His eyes flick around the room as he walks to the side of the bed and hooks a finger in the little loop of your collar, tugging you to your knees. You crawl to him, following his firm guidance until you’re eye-to-eye and just an inch or so apart. 

Under the squeaky-clean soap scent lies something so unmistakably Joel. Woodsy and masculine, it cattle-prods your heart. 

“What am I gonna do with you?”

Heat sparks from deep within you and blooms in your guts, your cheeks. You feel yourself arching towards him, leaning closer, trying to taste his breath. 

Some smart-aleck answer parts your lips, but he preemptively interrupts you. 

“Rhetorical question.” 

An amused smile twitches the corners of his mouth. 

His mouth. 

You stare at it, fingertips buzzing with energy, yearning to feel the soft curve of his plush lips.  

“Look at me.”

Your eyes flick to his, smoldering but critical. A wide, calloused palm lands on your waist and slides around to your backside, cupping the heft of your asscheek. You swallow hard. This thick, pulsing ache starts between your legs and makes you whimper. An attestation to your pliancy. 

His throat rumbles and he pulls a sharp breath through his teeth. Joel likes the noise, because he knows what it means. It means you’re putty in his hands. Giving yourself over to him, letting him take control. He digs his fingers into the tender flesh of your ass and smirks when you gasp.

“That’s what you need, hmm?”

You nod, eyebrows drawing together, batting your lashes at him. 

He doesn’t let up. Quite the opposite, actually, he grips you harder, rumbling out, “Jus’ need someone to take care of you? Fuck the angry out of you?”

Again, you nod. 

He tugs on your collar, “Use your words.”

The grasp is bruising and constant and fucking delicious. Dropping your gaze, you  breathe, “Yes si—”

“Look at me.” 

Your cunt clenches around nothing as you comply, meeting his lust-blown eyes. 

“Yes sir.” 

“That’s better.”

Joel releases your ass cheek and tugs at your collar. 

When his lips meet yours with a firm, ravenous kiss, urgency overcomes you. You clamber closer, hooking your hands behind his neck, dragging your nails through his damp curls. Each time the kiss renews, it gains traction, intensity, evident in his nips and groans, and his harsh, wandering touch. Grabbing your ass, your tits, your thighs. Pinching your nipples so hard you gasp and nod. 

He buries his fist in your hair and pulls back, panting, “Turn around ‘n’ bend over.” 

You do, reluctantly parting from his lips to spin 180° and raise your ass in the air, pressing your ear to the mattress. 

“Close your eyes,” he knocks your knees further apart, and when you comply, letting your eyelids flutter closed, he murmurs, “That’s it. Now you’re gonna sit there and take what I give you, hmm?” 

The rough pads of his fingers trail electric up your seam, ghosting along the hungry, aching nerves. You gasp and nod, “Yes sir.” 

His throat rumbles, and his fingertips start to work your throbbing clit in hard-pressed circles. He’s heavy-handed in the way he touches you. It’s not delicate, or teasing, or gentle—it’s fucking perfect. Heat bubbles up your middle and spreads across your skin, pulling a whimper from your throat. 

Joel’s free hand slides up your spine, his palm pressing firm and slow across every vertebrae, coaxing you to stretch your backbone, arching your hips towards him. 

“There we go, that’s my good girl—”

You moan at the rush of pleasure his praise gives you. Your heart starts to thud, heavy and thick in your chest, and his hand between your legs starts to work you faster, jolting your center. 

“Fuck, Joel—”

Another gravelly sound surfaces from his chest. He slaps your ass, hard and firm, and you gasp at the sharp sting. He does it again. The smack rings in your ears and the divine pain it’s coupled with resonates deep in your bones. He does it again and again and again, all the while rubbing your clit in vigorous, tight circles, growling out, “All fuckin’ wound up, acting out, this is what you needed, hmm?”

“Yes yes yes yes—”

The feeling at your center grows and spreads, building building building—then it swallows you whole. Your body convulses with pleasure so acute and overwhelming, you try to pull away from him, to close his hand between your thighs, but he grabs your hip and kneels on your calf, keeping you spread open. 

“Don’t you run away from this,” he barks as you let out a choked sob, “You take this fucking like a good girl, you hear me?”

“It’s—fuck, it’s it’s—”

You want to tell him it’s too much, but the tide of pleasure draws you back with violent force and washes over you again. The noise that comes out of you is guttural, barely human, this half-howl, half-cry. It’s excruciating and overwhelming and so fucking good. 

Joel chuckles, “That’s it, let it go, darlin’.”

You do. A sensation overtakes you, that’s warm and secure. The weight strapped to your shoulders, that skin-too-tight, noises-too-loud sort of feeling melts away and you nod, “Yes, sir.”

He withdraws his hand from between your legs and grabs your waist, bringing your bodies closer. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance and he plunges forward. 

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you gasp as his thick, throbbing length slides into your well-lubricated cunt. 

He splits you open cell-by-cell, his own needy moan mingling with yours, and tells you, “God, your pussy—fuck, that’s good—”

There’s no warm-up period. No sweet, slow strokes, or whispered words of comfort, or gentle anything. Immediately, he’s fucking you hard and fast. You push back against his harsh thrusts, each impact devastating and intoxicating and heady with a feral energy that fills your body with static. 

Joel closes a fist in your hair and yanks, tilting your head to the ceiling, and you let out a long, sick moan that makes him groan with delight. His arm slips around you and pulls your back to his chest. Your head falls back on his shoulder, mouth gaping open to babble out, “So fucking good, fuck fuck fuck—I fucking love it, Joel, holy fuck—”

His big hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, restricting your airflow, and you let out wheezing, gasping breathes as he grunts in your ear, “Yeah you fucking do. Pussy jus’ needs a good pounding, that it? My little slut just needs to get fucked, hmm?”

You whimper and nod, as much as his grip will allow. His fingers crush your pulse, leaving you light-headed. The scraps of breath you manage to take in carry the sharp, tangy scent of sex. You revel in the feeling of him filling you over and over, each roll of his hips collects electric at your core, gaining traction and energy. 

When you look up at him and meet the corner of his dark, lust-blown eyes, he releases his grip on your throat and pulls you into a heated kiss. Both of you start to take in short, frantic breaths, passing soft moans back and forth. That gooey static in your middle grows and grows. Your limbs start to quiver and you cry, “Oh my fucking god, Joel—you’re gonna make me come—”

“That’s it, babygirl, let it go.”

You do. 

You let it consume you, a bright, blissful warmth that pulses through every inch of your body. Joel moans as your cunt clenches down around him, then pulls out in time to shoot his load onto the bedspread. 

For a moment, the only things in existence are the two of you. His ragged breath in your ear, your heaving chests and empty minds. 

He departs your body and stretches out on the bed with a groan. You only feel his absence for a second before he hooks his finger into your collar’s loop to pull you closer, “C’mere.”

An obedient creature, for the time being at least, you follow the suggestion and curl up at his side. You smooth your palm up his heated chest, all dewy with sweat, and admire his broad frame. His distinguished features. While surveying the map of scars and wrinkles and grays on his rugged exterior, your gaze meets his, and you find a remarkable softness there. 

He seems to study you with the same sort of reverence as you do him. 

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” 

It makes you smile, which, in turn, makes him smile. A gorgeous and rare spectacle. The expression carves out a dimple in his cheek and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

You scoot closer and kiss him, your lips soft, gentle. He kisses you back in a similar manner, slow and sweet, twisting your brain in a big, beautiful kaleidoscope of emotions. 

The intimidation you felt when you met him, still hot-to-the-touch after all these years, tumbling around with tiny glimmering glass bits of desire and apprehension and pride and excitement and awe and dread and security. 

And love. 

Of course love, even though neither of you dare look at it directly. Only suckers allow such a thing to exist in this world. But it’s there, nonetheless. Weaving its way through each fragmented shard, pulling it all together. 

[oogaboogasphincter]

boosting this bc i'll be writing all weekend! :)

hi guys!! i have a few different projects that i’m writing that i’m be finishing + posting soon eeee 🥳 but i wanted to try some fun headcanons in the meantime 😋 send me a number from either of the lists below (be sure to specify which list!) and a pedro character and i’ll write you a blurb! don’t be shy to send multiple numbers and/or characters 🫶 i’ll be answering asks all weekend! :)

🌸springtime asks

💤sleepytime asks

i write for the following characters (listed in no particular order): marcus pike, din djarin, joel miller, frankie morales, agent whiskey (jack daniels), ezra (prospect), marcus moreno, pero tovar, maxwell lord, max phillips, javi g, javier peña, oberyn martell, nico (house comes with a bird), dave york 💗

[oogaboogasphincter]

Hey there 😊💤 26, 33 & 34 with Ezra

hi!! 💗💞 aww i haven’t written for ezra in so long, i missed him 🥺🌱💎 thank you for sending in an ask!

26 - does your muse have any odd or atypical sleeping habits?

I think, contrary to popular fanon belief hehe, Ezra can’t fall asleep just anywhere or at anytime. He gives me major insomniac energy - spending hours into the night toiling over research until his under-eyes grow purple or venturing through the darkness and getting himself into capers with horrors that go bump only in the night. He has to simulate a cocoon whenever he’s ready to sleep so he can shut himself off from the rest of the galaxy, even if it’s only imagined. And yes - he sleeps with socks on.

33 - when sharing a bed with someone else, is your muse a cuddler?

Definitely. If the bed is fit for one but he has to share, Ezra is not the type to shrink himself to the edge to the point where he’s nearly falling off the mattress. He’s not budging from his spot of comfort, no matter how minimal. He’ll talk his bunkmate’s ear off - I can imagine him fiddling with the buttons and switches on Number Two’s robotic armor and drawling on about stories of his travels, both fictional and factual, uninterrupted by his companion’s silence.

If he’s romantically inclined, he’ll get a little playful when you’re trying to sleep.

Brush the back of his fingers against your bare bicep because, “You had some… aurelac membrane on you.” Yeah, right.

Turn over from his back to his stomach only to face you; his sleepy, warm breaths puffing softly against your shoulder.

You don’t know if he’s done it on purpose, or if his body subconsciously sought you out in the night, but sometimes you’ll wake up with him molded to your back and his arms wound firmly around your waist, his prickly chin hooked over your shoulder and his cheek pressed against yours.

34 - has your muse ever cried themselves to sleep?

Many, many times. To best know how to get underneath the skin of others, to throw their scent off his guilty tracks, to masterfully negotiate deals that end with him on top, Ezra has had to study the emotions of others to a neurotic degree, and feel them in turn. Paired with a rough upbringing and a traumatic, tumultuous adulthood, Ezra has a lot of tears in his reserve that he needs to drain periodically, else he would be unable to maintain his smarmy facade. He only allows a river of tears to carry him into sleep when he’s out of sight of others - that is, until he has a romantic partner. Ezra won’t let anyone but his most intimate companions see him let go in that way, but when he does, it’s the most rejuvenated he’s ever felt in his rugged life.

send me springtime🌸/sleepytime💤 prompts here!

[oogaboogasphincter]

hi guys!! i have a few different projects that i’m writing that i’m be finishing + posting soon eeee 🥳 but i wanted to try some fun headcanons in the meantime 😋 send me a number from either of the lists below (be sure to specify which list!) and a pedro character and i’ll write you a blurb! don’t be shy to send multiple numbers and/or characters 🫶 i’ll be answering asks all weekend! :)

🌸springtime asks

💤sleepytime asks

i write for the following characters (listed in no particular order): marcus pike, din djarin, joel miller, frankie morales, agent whiskey (jack daniels), ezra (prospect), marcus moreno, pero tovar, maxwell lord, max phillips, javi g, javier peña, oberyn martell, nico (house comes with a bird), dave york 💗

[oogaboogasphincter]

the concoction of a fic starring our resident texan peepaw has begun thank you for voting besties <3

[oogaboogasphincter]

I would like to make something very very clear, this is NOT an AI friendly blog.

I do not consent to my fics being fed to AI or used to make AI chat bots. Please don’t do it to me or to other fic writers unless you get their very clear consent to do so.

This includes stealing the premise of a fic written by someone else in order to make a chat bot for the character.

And if I’m made aware that any of my writing has been violated and debased in such a way I will be immediately deleting and wiping all of my work from all platforms and deleting this Tumblr.

Please, have some respect and decency for other people’s hard work. Writing is an intimate thing, and this is a gross violation.