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heyimkana · 1 year

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24 Hours with You (Satoru Ver.) - Ep. 2

Series Masterlist Chapter Summary: The second episode of a mini-series where you’ll live through the hours you spend together with your husband, Gojo Satoru. Pairings: Gojo Satoru x Female Reader Genre: Domestic AU, Fluff, Romance, Humor Word Count: 9K Warnings: no plot, just a compilation of fluffy scenes that you share with your whipped, super annoying husband, Satoru. there's a bit of a smutty scene but it's not explicitly written.

Episode 2: Daylight

07.04 AM

The morning sunray seeps through your windows, kissing your skin with familiar warmth. The red roses Satoru bought you yesterday greet you with their sweet scent as they sit prettily in a glass vase that glimmers like crystal underneath the light. You take a quick scan around, expecting the worst but surprisingly, besides the bedroom, your place is still recognizable despite the drunk antics that you and your husband did last night after finishing a whole bottle of wine to yourselves.

Your work doesn’t start until nine, and although usually, you would leave at 8.15 to avoid the risk of turning up late, after noticing what day it is, you reckon that traffic won’t be so bad. Plus, your home is only around ten minutes away from your office anyway. It’s the main reason why Satoru insisted on buying this condominium in the first place—to give you more time to yourself (and for him to cuddle with you on the sofa because you always look so snuggly in the morning). Maybe you can take it easy today. Brushing your teeth and changing your nightgown into an oversized hoodie (Satoru’s) and a pair of comfy sweatpants, you get yourself to work.

Among the clutters on the floor are your cocktail dress and Satoru’s expensive suit and tie, scattered all over the carpet, giving you a quick flashback of what happened after you arrived home from the fancy restaurant he took you last night. The exchange of heavy, scorching kisses in the elevator… Your spine pressed flat against the wall with his head between your thighs the second the front door was shut close… A bottle of red wine tasted directly from each other’s tongue… And…

You glance down at your hands, feeling heat flaring in your cheeks as your eyes land on the thin, but quite noticeable, purple bruises that circle your wrists like dark bracelets.

Last night was… wild.

“God, we’re not young anymore,” you mumble to yourself, shamefaced, as you head toward the kitchen. There are empty plates and half-filled glasses left abandoned on the aisle, and a pizza box that you ordered at two in the morning for an emergency snack (Satoru always gets hungry after sex), but it will only take you a few minutes to clean everything up, so everything’s fine.

Today’s start isn’t so bad.

The condo that you and Satoru bought together felt too spacious and grand at first. The neat white walls somehow screamed lonely, desperate for human touch. But after living here for three years, three whole years of a happy marriage with occasional fights that never lasted a night, it felt truly like home—the kind that you’ve never had the joy to experience before.

Silly Polaroid photos of the two of you are plastered all over the fridge. A collection of your favorite novels sits on the bookcase among healthy pileas that tumble elegantly over the shelves. Satoru’s favorite Hatsune Miku figures are there too, despite your constant begging to just throw them away, but that’s marriage, isn’t it? You just have to compromise on every single thing. Even when the color of Hatsune’s stupid hair—why does it have to be turquoise of all shades?—ruins your aesthetic.

A huge, beautiful mural showcasing the map of the world can be found painted on one side of the wall. In some countries, there are words written by colorful markers, telling a story of the memorable journeys you’ve had together. Satoru’s messy handwriting used to be there but you scrapped them all because drawing a bunch of arrows pointing at different cities and writing down the words “We did it here” or “We also did it here” and “We toooootally did it here” with wink faces on the sidedon’t exactly seem appropriate, especially since Megumi’s son often comes by to visit his favorite uncle. (The word ‘favorite’ here is self-proclaimed. Megumi never said that. His son also never said that. Satoru is just delusional.)

You catch a whiff of your husband’s perfume, still somewhat lingering close, a sweet reminder of your chaotic days in high school and the moment your romance bloomed during your college days. Oh, also, coffee. You’re gonna need a lot of that if you want to get through all of your work meetings today. The smell of freshly brewed coffee is one of your favorite scents in the world and you smile to yourself as you pour it into your mug.

“Someone looks happy,” Satoru sniffles as he places his chin on your shoulder, long arms winding themselves around the dip of your waist. And cuddly, he adds in his head. Though he always finds himself swooning seeing you in your cocktail dress or work attire, he adores this look the most. Messy bun, bare face with acne patches on your chin and nose, his hoodie covering your body to the middle of your thighs. You're precious.

He won’t say this to you though, not today.

“Someone sounds a bit grumpy.” You tilt your head just enough to peck him on the cheek. “Took you long enough to finish.”

“Well, it would’ve only taken me ten minutes if somebody was kind enough to lend me a hand.”

“What, your two hands aren’t enough?”

“They don’t feel as good as yours.” He’s pouting. Even if you can’t see it, you can tell he is. “I didn’t finish, by the way. Thank you for asking.”

A chuckle escapes you. “Honey, you finished, like, four times last night.”

“You’re missing the point,” he sighs. “I don’t think I’ve told you this but…” He turns your body around, making you face him with your cup between your hands and your back leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s still in his boxer shorts, you notice, but he’s made the effort of throwing on a green pastel shirt, hanging loose on his body and unbuttoned to his chest. Satoru rests his palms on the surface, trapping you between his arms. “I think I’m getting so dependent on you now that I can’t even cum on my own.”

“You can’t do anything without me these days, actually,” you comment, running your mouth without realizing that he’s desperate for your sympathy. He gives you a look, staring flatly at you. “And I can’t do anything without you, my love,” you add with a smile, tapping his cheek. “There. Happy now?”

“Wouldn’t kill you to say it once in a while,” he answers, and you roll your eyes. “I’m just saying, I used to do it so easily, you know? I didn’t even need to look at actual porn to jerk off. I was so in control of my body. Just had to picture you naked on your knees with my di—”

“Careful.”

He cuts himself short. “—and I’d be done in, like, two minutes.”

“I see. And here I thought today was going to be boring,” you reply, sarcasm running thick in each word.

“But these days…” His eyes droop. “It hasn’t been that easy. Sometimes I couldn’t even, umm… get it hard,” he admits, blushing. It’s a bit of a confession that he’s been trying to keep to himself for a while.

“What, really? Like, at all?”

He sheepishly nods. “There’s this one time when you were away on a business trip and it had been so long since we had sex so I wanna… You know…”

“Play with your carrot?” You suggest, taking a sip of your coffee. “Rub the eggplant? Stroke the banana?”

There’s a momentary silence where he just looks at you, unamused.

You, also, stay hushed.

Then, “Caress the fresh zucchini—”

“I think that’s enough, babe.”

“Oh, so when I say it, you don’t like it. But when you say it—”

“You’re not saying it at the right time—You know what? Forget it.” Satoru pushes himself away from the counter, fuming and you laugh.

Catching him by the wrist, you whirl him back to you. “I’m sorry. You’re just so cute. I think this is the first time I’ve seen you act like this.”

“Can you be serious, please? This is actually very important to me.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” You stand on your toes, kissing his pout away. “I’ll pay attention, I promise. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I’m a bit scared,” he says, his shoulders sagging. He looks like a sad puppy. A giant, 193cm tall sad puppy. Even your puppy didn’t look as depressed as him now when she was on the verge of death. “What am I going to do when you’re away for two weeks and I can’t even jerk off once?”

You know you don’t have to jerk off, right? Your mouth is itching to say the words. “Two weeks aren’t even that long.”

“Of course, they are!”

“Okay, so you can’t jerk off for two weeks. What is the big deal—”

“What’s the big deal?!” He gasps, as dramatically as ever, one hand slapped against his chest. “You’re asking me what’s the big deal?! What if this is a sign of early erectile dysfunction?!”

Hereeee we go. “From someone who came four times last night, what are you saying?!”

“Excuse me, are you a doctor?” His voice drops, his face solemn. “Are you an urologist?”

You sigh. “No.”

“Do you have a penis?”

“Satoru—”

“Do you?”

You’re rubbing your head, headaches incoming. “You wouldn’t have married me if I had one now, would you?”

“Not true but okay. Anyway—”

“Wait, hold up, what does that mean—”

“The point is,” he puts pressure on his words, pinching your nose so you’ll stop talking. “No penis, no opinion. Also, multiple studies by Chinese researchers have shown that in order to avoid getting prostate cancer, men should release their sperm around two to four times a week. And—” He holds up a finger in the air, shutting you down before you even begin to open your mouth. “When you orgasm, your brain releases a surge of dopamine, right? I need that, especially when you’re not around to help me manage my stress.”

You press your lips together, as tightly as you can, afraid that you’ll break into another bout of laughter if you don’t. “I see.” It’s so hard to keep your voice away from shaking. He’s so serious, it’s almost out of character for him to be this serious. “So you’re, uhh… You’re stressed, huh?”

“Oh, I am, baby. I’m so stressed out.” He swats his bangs out of his eyes, pushing back his hair. “Look at me. I just woke up and I look like this. You think it’s not stressful to look this handsome every day? I have to work twice as hard as anyone else in my building just to be taken seriously. Especially by the CEO.”

“You mean your daddy.”

“My CEO.”

“Who’s your daddy.” Right after you hear yourself saying the line, you snort, failing to contain your laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I just had a flashback of the time when you said those words to me in bed and—” You wipe a tear away, your body shaking from your titters. “God, that was cringe.”

Satoru narrows his eyes. “So you are laughing at me.”

“Yeah, but not because of the things you’re saying right now.” The more you try to explain, the more he seems insulted. “Sorry. Continue.”

His nose flares. He would’ve been vexed if you didn’t look so adorable holding back your giggles. “All the other workers think I’m not fit to be next in line—to lead the company. They think I get everything I want just because I have a pretty face and I’m his only son.”

Well, I mean, they’re not wrong, you ponder to yourself, though you know if you mention it out loud, he’s going to cry. “They’re jealous of you.”

“And then of course there’s that guy, Kenjaku, who clearly wants to take my place so he’s been trying to get close to my dad,” Satoru clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Can you believe they went golfing together? Gol. Fing. My dad never even let me touch his golf club!”

Oh, he’s ranting. He’s so upset, he’s ranting like a tired housewife and it’s hilarious. “I’m sorry, sweetie.” You spread your arms, offering him a smile. “Do you want a hug?”

“Okay,” he mumbles cutely, moving toward your embrace with his lower lip jutted out. He goes down to his knees, tangles his arms around your waist, and nuzzles his face against your belly.

“I think they just feel intimidated by you.” You land a hand on his head. For some reason, his hair is always extra fluffy in the morning. “Smart, charismatic, and sexy? They don’t stand a chance against my husband.”

Usually, you would have him go back to his feet (figuratively and literally) right away after hearing such words, but Satoru only lets out a small hum—responding but not quite agreeing—as he buries his nose deeper in your fabric. Seems like this one is serious. “Toru, you’ll be okay.”

“I can’t do it without you, babe,” he says, his voice muffled by your hoodie.

“What, getting that promotion without people judging?”

“No. Cumming.”

“Oh, we’re going back to that.” You chortle lightly, stroking his strands. “Okay, listen.” Cupping his cheek, you lift his face to meet your gaze. “You don’t have erectile dysfunction.” You return the small space between you, your lips curving up beautifully as you bend down and give him a light kiss on his forehead. “And next time, I’ll take care of your needs. Promise.” Noticing how his eyes take a quick look at the kitchen counter, you add, “Not right now, Satoru.”

“Meanie.” Your husband groans, playfully biting your hand. “And how are you planning to take care of me the next time we’re separated from each other?”

“I’ll do something to help you, uhh… do whatever it is you need to do.”

His eyes light up. “Will you FaceTime me and give me a strip dance with Closer by Nine Inch Nails playing in the background?”

That’s… oddly specific… “And why does it have to be that song, if I may ask?”

“No reason, really…” He averts his gaze. “Just… You know, it makes me think about you…” He seems a bit shy.

Wait. Shy? Satoru is?

How does the song go again?

You tear down my reason It's your sex I can smell You make me perfect Become somebody else I wanna fuck you like an animal

You send your husband a blank stare. Look at him. This pervert is asking you this while acting like an embarrassed schoolgirl standing in front of her crush. “If it’s not too much to ask,” he says, so cutely as if he was asking you to make him his favorite dish for dinner.

Of course, it’s too much to ask, are you insane? “Or,” you suggest calmly with a forced smile. “We can do slightly more romantic stuff like calling each other on the phone and—”

“DO PHONE SEX?” Stars in his eyes. There are stars in his eyes.

“Uhh…”

“Please say yes, please say yes!”

That isn’t exactly what you have in mind, but can you even decline when he’s like this? Telling him no right now would feel just as awful as when you (because of Satoru, of course) accidentally revealed the truth about Santa to your nephew, giving Megumi a hard time feeding his son who started a hunger strike as he went into depression mode for three days. (This is a horrible comparison, by the way. One child was asking about Santa while this one is asking for the opportunity to whisper “I wanna fuck you like an animal” in your ear when you’re a hundred miles away from home. Two totally different cases, but you know Satoru will behave the same way as your nephew if you reject his wish. Probably even worse.)

With your head throbbing, you murmur, “Maybe just a little…”

“Promise?” He holds up his pinky, grinning from ear to ear.

All that positive energy you had this morning? Drained. “Promise…”

“Yaay~”

As you break into a cold sweat thinking about the unfortunate event that will soon befall you (aka the phone sex), Satoru, is already back to his giddy and frisky self. Well, as long as he’s happy, I guess.

“What are you having?” He asks, jumping back to his feet. “Coffee?”

“Mm. You want some?”

“Nah. I’m craving hot chocolate.” He reaches a hand toward the high drawer to get hold of his favorite mug, looming above you and intentionally knocking his chest against your face as he traps you in between. He giggles when you glare. He’s childish that way.

“How very girly of you.”

“It’s to relieve my stress.” He pokes you in the stomach. “Also, liking hot chocolate doesn’t make me look girly.”

“Sure, but trying on my skirt does.”

“Babe, come on,” Satoru whines, his earlobes turning scarlet. “How many times are you going to hold me on this? I was just messing around!”

“Honey, you were alone in our bedroom, wearing my maxi skirt and checking yourself in the mirror.”

“It was a dare from Suguru.”

“And taking selfies.”

“So I can send some proof to Suguru.”

“Not the point, Satoru.”

“That is the point! Babe, can’t you see? Saying no to the stupid dare would’ve made me seem less manly than he is.”

“So you’d rather put yourself in a skirt?”

“Well, duh!”

You can’t find the logic in his excuse, you really can’t. “In my defense, though,” he adds. “I thought you were gonna be out for a little longer.”

“What would’ve happened if I were? Gonna put on my thong next?”

“No,” he scoffs, trying to regain whatever amount of dignity he has left. “Also, it’s not like you’ve never done something embarrassing before. Remember that time when we went to Megumi’s birthday dinner and you ended up telling his nana a dick joke?”

“That was also you.”

“No, no. I meant, that one with the salaryman meeting a guy in a horse costume—” His realization falls upon him. “Oh my God, it was me.”

You shake your head, amused. “It’s okay.” You turn to face the counter once again, placing your mug on the surface before you reach forward to grab a bit more cream. “After being married to you for three years, the only thing that will surprise me is if you grow another head. Anything else, I can manage.”

“Why does this sound comforting and insulting at the same time?”

“Because it’s both.”

With his lower lip protruding, Satoru hugs you again from behind, his chin settled on the top of your head this time. This is why he claims to be all stressed out whenever you’re away. He’s so keen on physical touch that he can’t bear even a few inches of distance between you when you’re around. He reaches up to open the counter, grabbing a jar filled with cocoa powder. His chest is pressing against your spine, his other arm never leaving your waist. “I think we run out of sugar,” he says. “Wanna drop by the mart after work? I’m gonna have meetings all day today, but I can ditch the dinner party.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Hell no. Suguru’s hosting. He makes the worst parties.”

“Isn’t he the guy who’s rumored to be in love with you? I heard about it from Shoko.”

“Yeah,” Satoru snickers, very childishly. “I was the one who started the rumor by putting a note on his desk that said ‘I wish one day you’ll look at me the way you look at your wife. Your silver hair and pretty blue eyes have captivated me from the moment I laid my eyes on you. I dream of tasting your soft lips every night.’ It was so easy to copy his handwriting, I just couldn’t help it. Yuki found out about it and she started gossiping and by the end of the day, everyone knew. I took the note away before he noticed. Suguru never found out I did that, didn’t even know what was going on. He was so confused when people tried to cheer him up. I saw Choso giving him a pat on his shoulder, saying ‘We all love you for who you are, never change.’ And Suguru was like, ‘Uuuh, thanks, but I don’t want to be a salesman forever.’ And so both of them were confused.”

Your mouth twists into a grimace. “You are evil.”

“I prefer the term genius,” he corrects you, seemingly proud of his deed.

“Also, soft lips?”

“Aren’t they?” He seductively raises an eyebrow. To be fair, yes, they are. Even on the coldest night, they’re still as soft as a butterfly’s wing. He has claimed many times that he only used a lip balm if necessary but you don’t buy it. There must be witchcraft involved. He puckers his lips, ready to kiss you and make you experience the thick jealousy you have of his pretty mouth—because, really, all these lip balms you have and your lips are still chapped during winter. You dodge, pushing your palm against his face instead. The big puppy that he is, he licks it.

“I think I’ll be out of the office around seven today,” he informs as you scrunch up your nose in disgust, wiping his saliva away.

“Okay. Pick me up first?”

“Like you need to ask,” Satoru smiles, granting a cute kiss on your forehead. He dabs his thumb on the corner of your lips, rubbing off a little bit of sugar from the leftover doughnut that you enjoyed with your coffee. He cleans it off his digit with his tongue, randomly ruffling your hair as he makes his way to the living room.

“Oh, wait, almost forgot,” he says, retracing his steps.

“Hmm?”

Satoru snatches a jar from the counter—the one that you just used, filled with cream—and puts it in the highest drawer, the closest one to the ceiling. “Just a little payback,” he sniggers. “For giving me blue balls this morning.”

With him being 193 cm tall, he simply needs to stand on his toes for a little bit to reach it, but you? “I think you’re gonna need a ladder.” His teeth flash in an irritating grin. “Enjoy your creamless coffee for the next few weeks, Sweetcheeks—OUCH—BABY, THAT’S MY KNEE!”

“Grab the jar.”

“Fine.” He retrieves it with a grumble, handing it back to you. “But I’m reporting you for domestic abuse.”

You raise your wrist, showing the actual bruises he left on your skin. “I’ll see you at court then.”

“Babeeeeeee~”

***

07.21 AM

“Satoru.”

Your dear husband has been lying down on the couch for the past ten minutes, a head of velvety hair—which somehow still smells pleasantly like your favorite shampoo—resting on your lap. With a pair of round glasses perched on his nose, he turns deaf ears to everything that’s going on, focusing on nothing but moving his thumbs to win the next round of Momotetsu. As his eyebrows wrinkle in deep concentration, Satoru punches the buttons on his Nintendo Switch, glaring at the screen and swearing under his breath.

“Satoru.”

“Wait, babe, I just need to choose this card and—NOOOOOOOO!” He launches himself forward, sitting up with his mouth gaping, his eyes shaking in horror. “Did I just—yep, lost a million yen. Fuck this game. A Martha card?! A fucking Martha card?! Oh, I’m gonna—” He slams his console against the cushion. Repeatedly. He’s 29, and he throws a bigger tantrum than Megumi’s three-year-old son.

“Watch your blood pressure, Honey.”

“Who even invented this game?! Stupid as shit. Babe, do me a favor and don’t ever let me play—” His phone rings before he can finish. Throwing one glance at his screen, Satoru mutters, “Oh, great. Here we go.”

The name Dumbass Monk is written on his phone. You wonder who it is.

Satoru answers through gritted teeth. “Fuck you, Suguru.”

Ah, yes, of course.

“No, how the fuck should I know that the card was gonna choose me?!” he barks, his voice bouncing off the walls. “I wanted it to choose you—oh fuck off, asshole, you’re broke as hell, you smell like wet socks, and your wife hates you. Wait, what was that?” He suddenly switches his voice, doing his best impersonation of a nosy old lady talking about the latest gossip. “You don’t have a wife? Not even a girlfriend?” He maniacally cackles. “I don’t know, man, I don’t think I’m the loser here. Unlike you, I’ve got a super hot wife who loves me unconditionally.”

You flip a page of the book you have sitting on your lap. “Only ‘cause you’re rich.”

“And—” Satoru continues yapping on his phone but he makes sure to poke you on your side for your unnecessary comment. “She’s not just hot. She’s a complete package. She smells like daffodils, she makes me breakfast every morning and she looks so fucking gorgeous when she fucks—”

You slap a pillow against his head.

“—feeds me cookies,” Satoru finishes lamely, wincing, one hand raised in the air as a form of surrender before he takes another hit. “No, I’m not gonna pay you, idiot, you won purely by luck!” He then gasps, his jaw dropping low. “Did you just call me a monkey? Oh, that’s it—”

Satoru is on his feet, shouting, growling, fingers jabbing and clenching as his mouth runs wild. You can somewhat hear the other man’s voice, giving you enough idea of what they’re arguing about although you can’t make out every word. Suguru’s tone is always soft and melodious when he speaks, but his insults are truly on another level. Chuckling to yourself at the strings of expletives that tumble out of their mouths, you watch your husband yell until blood pools on his face, “Fine! Don’t come crying to me when you have erectile dysfunction, which, based on all the non-existent sex you’ve been having, I know you will! Good day!” Suguru is still calling him names when Satoru ends the call with, “I SAID GOOD DAY!”

You flip another page of the novel you've been trying—and failing due to someone’s endless shouting—to immerse yourself in. “Seems like you two are close.”

“Oh, he can die, I don’t care.” Angrily, he tosses his device away, landing his head back on your lap with the loudest groan he can muster. “Whatever. I’m still a better player than he is.”

“Of course, you are, honey,” you respond, your hand naturally falls back to his hair, caressing it like you’re stroking a cat’s fur.

It only takes a few seconds before your husband stops shaking in vexation, even looking a bit sleepy from your comforting touches. “Were you talking to me before?”

“Mm. There’s something I wanted to ask you.” Placing a bookmark in between the pages, you close your book and set it down on the coffee table next to you. “About before, when you told me about your co-workers. How did you know that they’ve been thinking about you that way?”

He blinks, not expecting you to return to your previous conversation. “Aaaw, honey, are you worried about me?” From wishing someone to suffer crucially from impotence to wiggling in joy like a thirteen-year-old girl at the slightest sign of affection, your husband really does have an emotional range of a teaspoon.

“Of course, I do. You’re my husband.”

His mouth curves upside-down, his eyes glimmering, “Babeee, that’s so sweeeet.”

Though you're not so sure why he’s so happy when you just stated a fact, you let him be. “So what happened?”

“I heard them chatting when I passed by the smoking room one afternoon. I don’t smoke—you know I quit a long time ago—so I didn’t know they were ganging up on me and talking shit about me behind my back. Isn’t it gross for a bunch of thirty-year-old men to gossip?” His face scrunches up in disgust. He, the same man who spent two hours on the phone talking to the Dumbass Monk about the recently hired secretary, Maki Zenin (who’s apparently so strict and vicious that, in Satoru’s words, “Almost made me cry in fear when I arrived late at my lunch meeting last week.”), actually had the audacity to ask that question.

"What did they say?” You ask him.

“They said if it wasn’t because of my family name, I would’ve never gotten promoted to C-level.”

“But that’s not true!”You catch him off guard with your sudden fervor after spending the last conversation acting so dull. “I’ve seen how much you worked for this! Satoru, you earned that position fair and square!” Your husband might act frivolous almost every hour of the day, but there were times that he missed his sleep trying to come up with a new marketing strategy to promote their upcoming products. There were hours spent with him taking one conference call after another with his clients, even at two in the morning from the comfort of your living room due to the difference in their time zones. He’s the CEO’s son, true, but he worked just as hard, if not more, as everyone else in the company.

The more it sinks into your brain, the more irked you become. “Who said this?” You snap. “Huh? Who talked shit about you behind your back? I want names.”

Satoru lets out a chuckle, his eyes thinning into a line. It’s been a while since he last saw you being this protective of him. It reminds him of the old days in high school when you, despite acknowledging yourself as being his archenemy, were always quick to defend him when someone threw shade at him. “Honey, relax—”

“Was it Naoya? Or was it Toji? It was Toji, wasn’t it? Oh, that bitch—”

“It wasn’t Toji,” Satoru says, holding you by the hand in a futile attempt to calm you down. “Though you could still punch him if you want.”

“Why, did he do something to you?”

“I just hate his face.”

That’s very Satoru behavior of him that you don’t even bother to comment. “Nobody talks shit about my husband. If they think you get things done easy for you, it’s because you’re so smart, you make things look easy.”

He sits up, turning around to face you with warm, round eyes. “You think I’m smart?”

“Are you kidding me? You’re the smartest man I know.” You give him a light punch on his chest. “If I were your dad, I would’ve still given you that promotion, regardless of our relationship. You’re just that good at your job.”

“That’s…” He swallows. “This is the first time you’ve complimented me like this.” It’s a surprise to him, a very pleasant one, causing contentment to fill his heart.

You feel awful once you notice that even though you constantly thought of him this way, you never spoke your appreciation out loud. “Satoru, I’ve always admired you.” You rest your fingers on his knuckles, apologizing. “I know you complain about having to wake up early to go to work every morning, but despite your flippant attitude, you bear a deep sense of responsibility. You always manage to surpass people’s expectations—surpass mine and I already thought highly of you.” You give him a squeeze, smiling more with your eyes than your lips. “You make me proud. Every day you make me proud.”

Satoru mirrors your expression, a soft blush painting his cheeks as his joy engulfs him whole. He wraps his arms around you, sinking his nose in your hair as he pulls you close. “You’re not throwing compliments at me just to cheer me up, are you?” He whispers and it’s only during times like this that he lets his vulnerability show. Satoru always shines like the brightest star, his eyes brimming with confidence, but there’s still a part of him—part that he conceals from everyone else except you—that needs to be consoled. He’s still a little boy who wishes for a gentle pat on the head and you always give the warmest one.

“I’m not complimenting you, I’m telling the truth. But yes, I am trying to cheer you up.” You return his embrace, your hand sliding up and down his back. “I wouldn’t have said this if you were okay ‘cause I know it’s gonna boost up your ego even more. You’re already annoying the way you are, so…”

He titters. “Can we stick to you being nice to me?”

You echo the noises he made, returning the space between you just wide enough to kiss his cheek. You cup his face with your fingers, your thumb caressing his cheekbone. “I’m sorry people said mean stuff about you… Are you okay?”

“I am now.” His smile is softer than the clouds. He leans close, cutely nuzzles the tip of his nose against yours. “This is why I need you in my life. You act aloof around me but you always think about me more than you think about yourself. You pretend to be ignorant, but you never fail to notice all these efforts I made. You care about me more than anyone else.”

Watching him put your feelings into words makes you feel flustered but you don't deny it. Not when he speaks only the truth. “I can also kick everyone’s butt for you.”

“As someone who has witnessed your heroic tales in high school, yes, you can, one hundred percent.” You feel his smile forming on your skin as he kisses your temple. “But just having you around me right now is enough. And it’s fine. I don’t care what anyone else thinks about me, at least not anymore. As long as you’re proud of me.”

“I am,” you say without missing a beat. “I’m proud of you, Toru.”

He takes away your hand that’s been warming his face, kissing your wrist while he maintains eye contact with you. “That’s all that matters to me.”

Your stomach swirls at the intensity of his gaze, his voice—just above a whisper—bears the same kind of tenderness and affection he portrayed on the day he asked you to marry him. His lips rub against your veins, the softest kiss against the softest skin. Your hand seems tiny in his grip but it’s a perfect fit. Every part of you is when it comes to him.

“So, uhh…” You clear your throat. “What are you going to do now?”

“I guess I’ll just have to keep doing my best so I can prove them wrong.” His grin returns. “I’ll make my wife feel even prouder of me.”

He replies to your little chuckles with a kiss, light but sweet. Despite your heart wanting more of his touch, of the heat of his lips against your own, you focus on the matter. “Why have you never told me about this before?”

“Because I never cared about it too much,” he replies with a shrug. “Work only feels overwhelming when you’re not around. When you’re with me, no matter how stressful my workplace is, I’ll feel at ease instantly.” He lays his forehead on your shoulder, rubbing his face against the fabric. “So, don’t leave me, okay? If I have to go out of town, I’ll have you hide inside my suitcase so I can carry you around.”

You chortle lightly. “And if I have to go?”

“Well…” He pulls away, his eyes fixated on the shape of your lips as he caresses them with his thumb. He looks back at you, his fingertips resting on your nape, holding you still. You find your breathing stalled as his own fanned your lips. “I guess I’ll just have to convince you to stay.”

And when he kisses you again, you know that he doesn’t mean with his words.

***

07.34 AM

“Bunny!” Satoru calls from the bathroom, his voice reverberating loudly through the hall. “Baby, come over here!”

Standing in your apron with your hands moving to fetch your chopped onions from your kitchen aisle, you try your best to focus on your cooking while answering him at the same time. “For the last time, Satoru, I’m not interested in taking a shower together with you!” You sprinkle some pepper into the dish, wiping your sweat away from your temple with the back of your hand. You take a glance at the digital clock nearby. “Not when we have to leave in an hour!”

“But I’ll let you shape my hair!”

“Not interested!”

“I’ll even let you give me a mohawk!”

“Not intere—oh shit—” It’s a given, really, that you’d accidentally pour too much salt into your cream soup from all this diversion. Taking a deep breath, you start to glare at your ceiling as you chant don’t get angry, don’t get angry inside your head. This is the reason why you try to keep him off the kitchen floor as far away as possible whenever you’re making food but even when he’s meters away from you, he still manages to annoy you somehow.

“Babe, I couldn’t hear you. Was that a yes?”

“NO!”

***

07.41 AM

“Oooh~ Something smells good~” Satoru chirps, popping back into the living room with a toothy grin and a white towel wrapped around his hips. It’s hanging low on his body, showcasing very distracting V-lines that you (secretly) adore. You look away. No good can come from staring at your husband’s lean, perfectly shaped stomach at this time of the day.

But then you catch a glimpse of the scratch marks you left on his back from last night, your face aflame since you can barely remember how hard you dug your nails into his skin. Satoru always likes it when you’re not careful with him—just like how you love it when he’s rough with you—but were you really that… desperate to keep him close, clutching onto him like that?

You shake your thoughts away. “Dry your hair properly,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the plates you’re currently setting on the dining table. “I just mopped the floor.”

“Okay, Mom.” Dabbing a smaller towel against his hair, Satoru walks closer to your spot and pulls back a chair.

You eye him cautiously. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a seat, what do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re not gonna wear your clothes first?”

“Do I have to?” He takes a sip of your half-finished coffee, smacking his lips before he throws a naughty grin. “I mean, I fucked you right here last night. Surely you won’t mind eating breakfast with me only in my towel?” Before you can say a word—and you have lots to say—Satoru adds, “I’m just giving you a chance to ogle at my body as much as you want as you enjoy your food. I know you’re too embarrassed to ask, so you’re welcome. And if you’re willing to take a day off, I can be your dessert too.”

You make a face. “Gross.”

“And yet, you don’t deny the fact that you’re planning to stare.” Peering into your eyes, he places his chin on his hand, resting his elbow on the table. The haughty look he displays on his face is supposed to irritate you, but what it does is make your heart pound harder. “You’ve seen and touched these babies for years, and you still can’t get enough? Babe, come on.”

“You seriously calling your abs your babies?”

“Yep.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “But if you play nice, I’ll let you call them—”

“Just eat your breakfast.”

***

07.46 AM

“Babe?”

“What?”

“I have something to say but promise me you won’t kill me after I said it.”

“Okay…” You look up from your plate, feeling a bit concerned. “What is it?”

Satoru has never looked this serious in his entire life (because face it, Satoru and the word serious don’t really belong together now, do they?).

Taking hold of your hand, he gently squeezes it, providing the comfort that you might need.

“This soup is salty as hell.”

***

07.58 AM

With the taste of salt still lingering thickly on his tongue (and a bump on his head, a masterpiece done by your fist), Satoru steps inside the bedroom with a yawn, his fingers scratching his undercut. He unwraps the towel from his waist, tossing it onto the sheets without care.

Your husband smiles the second he notices the way you’ve prepared his clothes so neatly on the desk, all the way from his tie, his belt even down to his socks. His dress pants are ironed to a crisp seam, and his phone is fully charged (after being married to him for three years, you’ve learned all of his little habits). You’ve selected a matching dark tie to go with his suit, one that he recalled was given to him as a gift during last year’s anniversary. He loves it. He loves how you always buy the things he needs instead of what he wants, even when he, himself, didn’t realize how essential they were. But what makes him the happiest is when he sees the way it makes you smile so warmly every time he wears it, like a painter landing a final stroke on her masterpiece. For someone who doesn’t speak romantic words so often, your little gesture never fails to portray what’s on your mind. You love him and it shows.

“I’m being spoiled, huh?” Satoru mumbles to himself, nothing but elation in his chest. He spots the little notes you left him on the same table, your handwriting scribbled on a piece of paper. “Ooooh~ A love note?”

Dear husband, If you leave your wet towel on the bed again I’ll kill you.

“Not a love note.” Wincing, he immediately retrieves the towel from the bed, his mind playing a traumatic flashback of you scolding him about it for two hours straight (because suddenly it wasn’t just about the wet towel, was it? The forgotten toilet seat. The countless jackets hanging on the coat rack because he kept grabbing a new one. The pile of hentai doujinshi piling up on the coffee table. All of them.)

With the thought of skipping today’s work lingering in his head, Satoru forces himself to dress. As he turns around to face the mirror, he captures a brief look at the kiss marks blooming on his neck, ones that you painted on him last night. They’re faint because, unlike someone in this condo, you make sure to always be considerate of his appearance (though Satoru wishes you weren’t), but even the lightest shade of red seems vibrant on his fair skin.

Although he acts nonchalant most of the time, your husband is quite the possessive type, so it’s a given that he likes the idea of having his marks on you. He gets a kick out of watching you struggle to hide the love bites he left on your neck, even more so when someone notices it. But, of course, nothing beats the feeling of having your marks on him. If you allowed him to, he would’ve worn every bite and bruise like a medal. Proudly. Contentedly. The same way he exhibited every present you’ve given him. Satoru just loves the idea of having a wife—of having you as his wife—and he would showcase that to the world in every second of his life if he could.

He traces the bruises with his fingertips, drowning himself in the thoughts of you gasping against his ear, your teeth grinding against his neck as he pushed your knees further against your stomach with every thrust of his hips. He wasn’t lying when he said you looked absolutely gorgeous during sex. The way you parted your lips. The way your eyebrows stitched together in pleasure. The little noises you made when you breathed out his name as you bounced on his lap—

Satoru looks down. There it is again, the ache between his legs. Funny how you’re already so distracting even without doing anything—or being in the same room for that matter. Sighing, he grouses, “Guess she’s right. No signs of erectile dysfunction.” Willing his indecent thoughts to go away, he tucks his hands into the sleeves, buttoning up his shirt before he circles his tie around his neck.

“Satoru!” He hears your voice resonating from the bathroom. “Toru, can you come here for a sec? I need your help!”

“Oh, now she’s calling me to have sex with her.” He rolls his eyes. “After I finish taking a shower. So much for playing hard to get,” he scoffs. It’s ironic that he says this because right now he’s the one who’sacting that way. With giddy hands, he unfastens his tie, rushing to take off his pants again and almost tripping on his way out. He dashes toward the bathroom, opening the door while he strives to keep his excitement in check.

“WHOA!” You yelp in surprise, your body nude and drenched, hiding behind the door with only your head peeking out. “Why are you naked?!”

He frowns, confused. “Cause we’re about to have sex?”

Now you’re confused. “Uhh, no?”

“Why did you call me then?”

“I forgot my towel.”

“You’re asking me to get you your towel?” He sounds so appalled as if that thought never occurred to him when it’s supposed to be the first thing that should pop out in his head. Before you can respond, however, his mind, delusional as always, answers the question for him. “Oh, I see,” he smirks. “You’re using codes.”

“What?”

“‘I forgot my towel’—isn’t that, like, our code for ‘let’s have sex in the shower?’”

“Satoru.” You hold yourself back from ripping the silver strands out of his head. He’s testing your patience. Again. “We don't have any secret code.”

“We don’t?”

“Nope.”

“Oh…” It almost feels a bit cartoonish the way his shoulders sag upon hearing your words. There he is, a 29-year-old male standing in front of you in all his naked glory, saddened to his core over the fact of not having a cipher for sex. Well, for three seconds anyway. “So… You wanna make this our secret code, effective immediately, or—”

“Get the damn towel.”

With a stomp, Satoru leaves the bathroom only to return with your towel in one hand and his eyes squinting in a glare. Being the brat that he is, instead of handing it directly to you, he lets the thick cloth fall to the floor just a few inches away from where you’re standing.

“Oh, you’re so annoying.”

“Isn’t that your secret code for saying you love me?”

You throw a jab to his stomach.

***

08.24 AM

Pushing your hair out of your coat, you call out your husband’s name. You examine your appearance one more time in the mirror, tidying your strands until they frame your face perfectly. The condo is fairly clean. Your stomach is full though you can’t seem to wash away the saltiness of your soup just yet. You’re only seven minutes late from your original plan, which isn’t bad. You’re all set.

“Toru, you’re ready to go?”

Your husband is still yawning when he meets you in the foyer, carrying his handbag with his shoulders sagging forward. He’s dressed sharply in a white button-up shirt, combined with a black suit that accentuates the broadness of his shoulders. He looks handsome. He always does.

“Well, well, well, hello, Mr. CMO,” you snicker, pulling him by the tie while seductively batting your eyelashes at him. “Do you have time to spare? I would like to have a private meeting with you.”

He’s so tired, he doesn’t have the strength to keep up with your flirting, which says something since it’s usually the other way around. He spreads his arms wide open, his pout turning more prominent by the second. “Come here.”

“What?”

“I need my twenty-second hug.”

So, apparently, Satoru believes in this theory he found recently on the internet that said when you hug someone for, at least, twenty seconds, your body begins secreting the hormone oxytocin which is known to boost the immune system and reduce stress. He said that but you know that he’s just doing it so he can squeeze your ass, and that’s a fact, not a theory.

“Fine, but don’t grope my ass.”

“As long as you don’t grope mine.”

“I literally never did that.” You bury your face in his chest, tangling your arm around his waist. Satoru’s warmth is really one of a kind, or maybe he’s just as warm as a normal human being and you’re just too intoxicated by his scent that you stop making sense. No matter what the reason is, it’s comforting to be in his arms and if he doesn’t make a big deal out of it every time (acting like you’re the one who desperately wants to embrace him), you’d probably spend hours of your day just hugging him like this.

He buries his nose in your strands. “Your hair smells different.”

“I used your shampoo.”

“Yeah? That’s hot.”

You close your eyes, basking in his warmth and enjoying the smell of his perfume. He’s wearing a different brand today, just for a change, and although it’s not as sweet as his other one, this somehow feels much more comforting. Soft and fresh, reminding you less of summer and more of spring this time. “You smell different.”

“I used your perfume. And your bra.”

You’re not sure if you’re laughing over his terrible joke or his deadpan delivery, maybe a bit of both. Nuzzling your face against his chest, you titter, “Yeah? That’s hot.”

And he’s not sure if he’s smiling over your reply or the way you just sounded so cute giggling like that—no, definitely both. He tightens his arms around your shoulders, squeezing your body against him until you start pounding your fist against his chest, begging for a time-out before he steals all the air in your lungs. “I think we should just skip work today,” he mutters as he releases you. “We can watch a wildlife documentary and count on how many times Benedict Cumberbatch mispronounced the word “Penguin” as ‘Pengwings.’”

“That sounds productive. If you want Maki to kill you.”

He shudders in fear, pulling you back to him. “Just for that, I’m gonna need another twenty.”

Though you feel the urge the roll your eyes, you let him tug you back into his arms and rest his chin on your head. After all, he’s your personal teddy bear. You can spend your eternity just sinking into his embrace like this.

“Satoru?”

“Hmm?”

“Your hands are on my ass.”

“Yeah, but I’m not groping them.”

“You are now.”

“Well now that you mentioned it, I just have to, don’t I?”

You break away, giving a playful slap on the chest. “Enough, we’re running late.”

“Where do you find the energy to go to work every morning?” He asks with weariness in his eyes. “I am this close to throwing myself back to the bed.”

Funny how literally an hour ago, he promised you that he’d work harder to make you feel even prouder of him. “Well, I guess, it all started when I turned into a fully grown woman.” You smiled at him, fixing his tie before you dealt with his collar. He might be the youngest person to enter C-level in his company, but he still dresses as clumsily as a five-year-old if it wasn’t for you to keep his appearance in check all the time.

“I’m a fully grown man too and I still wish I could lay around all day,” he sulks.

“You’re a man-child.” Tugging on his tie, you pull him down until your lips meet his in a chaste kiss. “But I love you. Body, mind, and soul.” You beam at him with your widest grin. “How’s that for your energy booster, Gojo-san?”

To your surprise, Satoru answers you by tossing his handbag to the side and dipping his head down once more to re-attach your lips together. He kisses you with the same fervor he had last night, tongue sneaking inside to taste the minty scent of your toothpaste. You gasp against his mouth, fingers fisting the fabric of his suit as you struggle to maintain your balance. Can’t help but take a couple of steps back from how hard he’s kissing you, you stop only when your spine meets the wall. “Satoru—” You attempt to push him away by placing your hand on his chest but he clamps his fingers around your wrist, bringing it over your head.

With his body pressed against yours, you wonder if he can feel your palpitating heartbeat beating against his own. There’s no stopping him when he gets this aggressive with his kiss and it’s not like you can find any willpower within you to stop him. Fortunately for you, he breaks away, wetting his bottom lip once as his eyes still glaze over your bruised ones.

“Spirits lifted,” he smiles against your lips, sending blood to pool in your cheeks. “Thanks, babe.”

When he lets you go, you find it almost impossible to stay composed. Three years… Three damn years you’ve been married to him and he still knows how to make your knees buckle with a single kiss.

“Babe?”

You push yourself away from the wall, your fingers tangled in your hair when you try to fix it. “W-what?”

Putting on his sunglasses, he casts a smirk, “You might want to fix your lipstick.”

“Oh, I hate you.”

He pecks your cheek. “I love you too, baby girl.”

***

08.32 AM

Despite you being the better driver—better as in I’m not gonna try and bribe an officer with a brand new iPhone whenever I get pulled over or threaten him with my family name when things don’t work out my way—Satoru always insists on having his hands on the steering wheel every time you’re with him. “A gentleman wouldn’t let his lady drive, especially when she looks this pretty in that skirt,” he always says, and yes, maybe this is his gentleman sidetalking—even when the said gentleman had put on the same skirt and caressed his own butt in front of the mirror a few days back. But honestly? You know this is just a part of his master plan to control the music playlist for the next ten to fifteen minutes.

“We’re not listening to Hatsune Miku again,” you say, putting on your seatbelt.

“Oh, we totally are,” Satoru cackles, his fingers sliding up and down the touchscreen. He has seventeen different playlists consisting of more than a hundred songs in total, all taken from his favorite albums. Which is not much, really, considering Hatsune Miku is featured in around two thousand songs by now (a fact that you, honest to God, don’t care but he keeps reminding you of).

“Satoru, if you play one more Hatsune Miku song, I swear I won't put out tonight.”

“Well, if I have to listen to cookbook again—”

“Jungkook.”

“If I have to listen to cookbook one more time then I won’t put out tonight.”

“That's fine with me,” you shrug.

“Fuck,” he clicks his tongue, desperately jumping to the next option. “Okay, uhh… Oh, I know! You’re not getting my credit card ever again.”

You have one finger hovering above the screen. “So which Hatsune album are we listening to today?”

He sends you a dead stare. “Do you only love me for my money?”

“Oh, honey…” You rest your palm gently on his face, cupping and stroking his cheek. “Of course, I do.” You give him a tap that goes a little too hard than you intended but then again, he kind of deserves it. “Now, drive.”

Satoru doesn’t even have the energy to come up with a retort. Exhaling in defeat, he kicks in the gear while you, with your face crumpled in repulsion, try to pick the least insufferable Hatsune Miku song. Unfortunately for you, Satoru catches a title that steals his attention.

“OOOH go back, go back! I want to listen to that one!”

You sigh, selecting his song choice. “It’s too early to listen to—” Beaming with joy and oblivious to the hatred you have for that one song, Satoru sweeps in and cranks up the volume until you feel your ears ringing from the inside.

“Oh my God—” You flinch. If his loud nagging didn’t bust your eardrum, this definitely will. “Does it have to be this loud?!”

“Of course, my goddess is singing!” He shouts, grinning from ear to ear. He starts singing along, just as loudly, if not more. At this point, you swear there are people jogging on the sidetracks looking at your car with their faces contorting into frowns.

“I’m the number one princess in the world, so that's how you'll treat me,” he sings, slamming his hands against the wheel, head bobbing to the beat. “Oh my God, this is the soundtrack of my life!”

Still scowling, you have no choice but to listen further to the lyrics.

It's not like I'm acting selfish, I'm not asking for much I just want you to think from the bottom of your heart that I'm adorable I'm the number one princess in the world Notice me! Hey! Heeey! Keeping me waiting is out of the question Just who do you think I am? Whatever, I think I could go for some dessert! Yes, right now!

You grimace. “It really is.”

***

10.54 AM

11.45 AM

01.10 PM

01.29 PM

02.05 PM

02.29 PM

03.22 PM

04.02 PM

05.28 PM

06.11 PM

07.06 PM

***

AN: Thank you so much for reading! I'm so sorry for the amount of cringe that you had to suffer through while you were reading this 😭

#gojo fluff #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #satoru smut #satoru fluff #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk smut #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen fluff #fics.24hourswithyou

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lovverletters · 11 months

Note

Ok so I did send a request idea but im also still thinking about the serial killer guy and im just.

Im so love him so so much and just

Sobbing crying and holding his face gently.

Im so gay. Im such a gay lil man for big scary dude

And I just wanna.... dote on him.

Like ok I mean yes he HAS killed people and all and is kinda super scary

But god my dumb ass with a big heart just seeing him covered in blood and maybe hurt somehow and going like "hey... hey uh... let's get you cleaned up and patched up ok?"

And just being so gentle with him, wiping the blood off and maybe even learning to stitch wounds closed just for him.

Ok so what if maybe he has kidnapped me. He means well I think! Hasn't done anything to hurt me so I mean come on maybe he is lonely and needs some kindness ya know? (Totally not delusional ♡♡♡)

I mean sure it was scary at first and all but like he's a person too right? He's got a heart. He needs some gentle care and love.

Making him a flower crown, putting stickers on his mask and arms, holding his hand gently and just feeling his big palms with my smaller lil hands and treating him with such gentle care.

I am so sappy and gay im sorry

I just love him-

♡Bunny (whos a gay lil idiot♡♡♡)

Yandere! Serial Killer part 2

A/N : this was supposed to come out on Halloween but um things happens💟 hope you like it! Sorry for the ending heh🐰

T/W : blood, mentioned of murder, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome(?), the reader lowkey kinda insane too, yandere themes.

«────── « ⋅ʚ💌ɞ⋅ » ──────»

[Name] stared at the screen of the television showcasing a random horror movie absentmindedly, not paying much attention to it as their thoughts were occupied.

It was well past midnight and they were still wide awake.

They were unable to sleep due to the loud thundering sounds of the storm outside and decided to watch a movie instead and hopefully fall asleep to it.

It didn't work obviously as they were currently staring blankly at the scene of a man being brutally murdered by an axe-wielding killer in the movie. It was concerning how they barely reacted to the grotesque scene.

They've seen real horrors before.

[Name] has essentially been desensitised of seeing blood and gore. The sight being far too common nowadays after they met him.

Their ears perked up at the sound of a jingling keys and the doorknob twisting open. He's home. [Name] turned their gaze from the movie to the man who's currently standing at their front door.

"You're back and.. bloodied as usual" They greeted him, eyes trailing over his current state.

Lorn was covered in blood from head to toe, both his and his victim's they presumed. Cuts and scratches littered his muscled arms, some look fairly deep ones as it bled. The killer stood still as a statue all the while [Name] inspected him, he knew [Name] will be angry at him for walking around bathed in blood so he remained glued to his spot.

"Found a tough one. Scratched and sliced me once with a knife. That's why m'so bloodied, had to cut their limbs off f'touching me" He explained, staring at [Name] who were grabbing the items they had kept in the supply closet.

If they had not known better, they would've thought he was innocent, incapable of harm as he stared at them through his red horned mask with those adoring eyes. Who would've thought that the infamous Lovelorn killer was a small puppy towards his object of affection.

"Come here, let's get you cleaned and patched up. Wouldn't want you to bleed everywhere, blood is hard to get out of carpet okay?" They motioned him to strip his clothes off and dump it in the basin of clothes to be washed separately.

As they wiped the blood off of Lorn, stitched and wrapped him up in bandages they were overcome by a realisation. Something feels off about themselves. A normal person would've screamed bloody murder and ran to the police but here they are pampering a serial killer who they are living with.

'I might be insane myself' they thought to themselves, chuckling humourlessly.

It had been months since they were locked inside this house with only Lorn as a company. They were protesting at first, demanding to be freed but even then deep down they didn't really care. [Name] only did it because it's what they thought a sane person would do.

Maybe they and Lorn aren't that different.

[Name] snapped out of their thoughts when a rough hand were placed on their jaw, the touch so gentle they barely feel it.

"What's wrong?" Lorn was looking at them with those eyes again.

They shook their head and smiled, continuing their work of stitching up closed a cut on his arm. After they were done, Lorn stood up and englufed them in a hug, their sizes difference were apparent as he towers over them with his muscular built.

"Thank you. I love you so much, [Name]" He said, burying his face on their hair.

They pat his back and suddenly a thought crept up in their mind. They bit their lip as they contemplate on wether to ask him or not.

Fuck it.

"Hey, Lorn?" He hummed in reply, too busy mooching off their warmth.

"Why don't I join you the next time you went out for a kill?"

«────── « ⋅ʚ💌ɞ⋅ » ──────»

#yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere oc #tw: yandere #yandere #gender neutral reader #yandere male #yandere headcanons

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onlyswan · 2 years

Text

summary: in which jungkook comes home drunk but bam can’t speak.

> fluff / wc: 2.6k

> warnings: jungkook almost throws up once 😭

note: hello school has been so hectic so i just wrote this to relieve my stress for a bit </3

—

jungkook releases a sigh, scooting closer as if he hasn’t already crossed every inch of distance between the two of you. just by the smell of it, you can tell that he had soju and beer.

“close your eyes, baby.”

he complies with a hum, eyelids softly fluttering shut. as gentle as you can, you wipe off his eye makeup with the makeup remover.

“cold.” he mumbles, sinking deeper into his pillow to avoid the uncomfortable feeling.

you take a hold of his face with your free hand to keep him steady, moving on to his other eye. “stop. don’t want your face to feel all itchy later, do you?”

he frowns in response, opening his eyes again when he feels the wet wipes running over his cheek next. he lazily watches you concentrate on the task at hand. loving hands with the most tender of touches. blurry eyesight tracing over his skin to allow his pores to breathe after an exhausting day.

you squint under the warm glow of the lampshade, and his hand instinctively lands on top of your head, holding back the hair falling over your vision. you press an appreciative kiss on his temple as you pull out a fresh wipe. you clean the remaining thin layer of makeup on the right side of his face before sliding down to his neck, making sure to clean his skin thoroughly.

he feels so much better with his face bare, cleaner and comfier. almost like he can finally breathe after taking off a mask that covered his entire face while he was running a marathon. don’t get him wrong— he loves makeup, and he loves experimenting with different looks to showcase various sides of himself. he considers makeup products to be artistic tools that help him express the entirety of his being, just like paint on a canvas does. but the clock says it’s 1am on the dot, and right now, he’s drained. he just wants to be the human, jeon jungkook.

his eyes glitter with fondness as he watches you take care of him as if he is your most treasured cluster of atoms in the universe. his hand falls on your nape to pull you in for a soft kiss, staying still for a second before puckering up his lips for another. he allows you to assist him to the bathroom after, leaning his weight on another person for the first time in a while.

—

you practically brushed jungkook’s teeth and did the rest of his night routine for him because he claimed that his hands weren’t working, demonstrating it by dropping his facial wash on the tiled floor. you leave him on the bed after helping him into his pajamas to freshen yourself up next. however, upon exiting the bathroom, you’re rudely greeted by an empty bed, the blanket messily pushed over to your side.

“jungkook!”

you heave a sigh, padding out of the bedroom. you flick the main light switch of the living room, and the first part of jungkook you see are his feet, which are propped on the couch. you walk closer and find the rest of him sprawled out on the carpeted floor. you click your tongue and put a hand over the curve of your waist, staring down at him with a questioning look.

he looks back at you with a wide grin, extending his arms to raise the puppy he’s holding. “say hi, bamie!”

oh, so now he has the arm strength to carry a dog? when he couldn’t even raise one to hold his toothbrush earlier?

you meet bam’s drooping round eyes, slowly blinking at you as he is suspended in the air. poor thing.

“you know it takes me like two hours to make him tired and sleepy, right?”

you’d think spending an hour outdoors would tire a puppy out, but no. somehow it makes him more energetic, and you have to play with him for another hour at home before he walks away from you to curl up in his bed and rest.

jungkook pouts stubbornly, his slurred words the same plea he’s been uttering for the past two days. “but i want to teach him how to speak.”

“baby, he’s too sleepy for that right now. look.” you gesture to the puppy slowly falling asleep on his hands, his relaxed limbs hanging out and swaying lightly. “we can train him again in the morning.”

he whines as he kicks his feet on the couch, abruptly waking up bam because of the sudden harsh movements rocking his body. your boyfriend stills, and he lowers down his hands above his face to make eye-to-eye contact with his beloved son.

he faces bam to your side. “he’s awake now.”

“oh my god,” you cry out with your face buried in your hands, knees suddenly feeling weak because you’re so sleepy and he can’t be fucking serious right now.

he should’ve drank more. that way, all three of you would be peacefully asleep by now. bam would be chasing a butterfly in his dream, and you would be getting chased by a dinosaur or a shark with legs. but no, if one is awake, everyone is awake. apparently, that’s just how it goes in this household.

and so, you drop down on your knees and make yourself comfortable on the floor, pulling out the bag of plain popcorn sitting on the lower compartment of the center table.

“just five minutes, okay?”

he only giggles in response, setting down bam on the floor before lying down on his stomach beside the puppy, his hands cupping his smiling face. a young and radiant flower in the midst of spring, and you as the bright and yellow sun.

“so cute,” you pat his head tenderly, his smooth hair pleasing to the touch.

he shyly scrunches his nose. “hurry, before he falls asleep again.”

you both revert your attention to bam, who has now zeroed in on the opened bag of popcorn on your lap with an alert posture, head tilted to the side as he watches your every movement.

you bring out a piece of popcorn, holding it up between jungkook and bam. “okay- bamie, speak!”

you and your boyfriend wait for a few seconds, before you turn to him next. “jungkookie, speak.”

he snorts, pressing his lips into a thin line to swallow down his laughter. compared to yesterday, he handles it better now.

“woof!”

“good boy!” you beam at him with a dramatically enthusiastic tone, feeding him the little treat and patting his head again. bam watches him chew and swallow with satisfaction, and he turns to you again to inch closer— the tip of his paws poking your shin.

“your turn, baby.” you say to him sweetly, petting his head before grabbing another treat. “bamie, speak.”

he blinks at you, his stance and expression unchanging.

“jungkookie, speak.”

jungkook uses his elbows to drag himself as close to you as bam is. “woof!” his lips stay in a big pout with his bunny teeth showing, and you playfully slot the piece of popcorn in the space between.

he grunts when he fails to catch it with his mouth, covering the popcorn with his hand when bam makes a move to steal it away. “yah, i earned this! go get your own!”

he hides the dirty popcorn under his stomach, and you feed him a fresh one. bam barks in protest, standing up on his four paws.

“bamie, i said speak, not yell.”

jungkook laughs while clapping his hands, head falling on your lap in self-orchestrated slow motion. he rolls on his back to lie down properly and to watch bam try to earn his first popcorn. but then his vision goes black, and the world blurs and spins in brain shattering motions. he covers his mouth when he starts to feel the nausea creeping up, keeping his eyes closed until his stomach calms down.

meanwhile, for the sixth time . . .

“bamie, speak.”

bam’s tail wags, and he barks loudly. again.

“not like that, baby. quieter, and calmer. okay?” you mellowly attempt to help him understand, making lowering gestures with your hand. “just a little woof! like this, bamie.”

your voice seems to ease him down as he sits back down politely. jungkook, on the other hand, is straightening out your legs. he took a pillow from the couch and lied down beside you while you were preoccupied with teaching bam. his ink-free arm tugs you closer by your thighs, keeping it there as he nuzzles his face against your side.

he sighs in relief, basking in the comfort of having his lover as close as humanly possible. drowning, even. with the way his body is currently floating. he proves his theory right time and time again: cuddling you is the cure for any type of discomfort or pain that he feels. works like a charm. never failed him. not even once.

you grimace. “are you sleeping now?”

he hums raspily, tightening his embrace.

“but you’re the one who asked for this. i’m not even sleepy anymore.” you complain.

and let jungkook’s response be loud snores as he falls asleep as an exhausted heap on the floor, his limbs holding your body prisoner to his.

your sour expression turns into an endeared one when you feel bam’s little paw tapping your forearm to gain your attention. your heart grows three times its size as he looks at you with his dark and round eyes beseechingly.

you jut out your bottom lip, scratching his chin. “aww, my bamie. daddy bothered your sleep then left us all alone, huh? sorry. he’s a bit drunk. but i’ll give you treats to make it up to you.”

you return the bag of popcorn to its previous spot, grabbing an unopened pack of dog treats you hide in the small box beside it. you rip it open, and bam’s tail wags excitedly, more than ready to be fed.

you return his smile as you wave around the dog-bone-shaped treat.

okay, one last try and you will give up for the night.

“bamie, baby, speak.”

silence.

one more. the last time, you swear.

“bamie, speak. woof. like this, remember?”

still nothing.

“speak, bamie.”

“woof!”

it’s almost like he just said goodnight to you. calm. quiet. casual. and scarily identical to the tone of jungkook’s woof.

you gasp in surprise, eyes as big as saucers as you feed him the treat with your trembling hand. for context, jungkook has been tirelessly trying to teach bam the command speak for the past month after watching a bunch of tiktoks of adorable dogs doing it. his fiery determination deserves to be acknowleged and recognized, especially when he resorted to acting like a dog as a teaching method.

jungkook fought a dog his size at three years old and twenty years later had another fight with a random dog in the countryside when he and his hyungs went strawberry picking. and somehow everything boiled down to this. from barking contests to an anticlimactic woof. it has been entertaining and . . . painful to watch.

and then it dawns on you.

jungkook missed his son’s first word.

his drunk ass just had to deflate and fall asleep five minutes before it happened. you sigh in frustration, watching your child lick and chew on the treat before swallowing.

“can you do it again?”

he sits infront of you in his good boy pose once again, licking his lips, obviously asking for more.

“stay, bamie. i just need to get something, okay?” you say to him as you carefully free yourself from your boyfriend’s heavy arms and thighs.

you quickly grab jungkook’s newest camcorder in the bedroom (still carrying the pack of treats because you’re not as dumb as you were two weeks ago) before coming back to find bam licking jungkook’s cheek. he quickly approaches you again when you sit back down.

focusing the camera on bam, you start filming with jungkook’s snoring in the background.

“bamie, speak.”

“woof!”

the innocent puppy gazes past the camera expectantly, and you break out into a smile.

“ohh? that’s my good boy! good boy, bamie! you finally got it! i’m so proud of you. here, baby. here.”

you extend your arm to give him the treat, and he jumps to feast on it to his heart’s content.

oh, to marvel at a ball of fur made of curious senses and perplexing stamina for simply existing. to form a sacred bond using only single words and hushed caresses. to have such a creature love you unconditionally and co-exist with its guard down despite having sharp teeth that can make you bleed, does it not make you want to become a kinder human?

—

“are you crying?”

“no. why would i cry?” jungkook’s voice cracks, tear-stained eyes trained on the video he’s been watching on loop for the past ten minutes. he’s still in his pajamas, bare-faced and hair disheveled from sleep. he most probably doesn’t even remember that you woke him up and practically dragged him back to the bedroom after getting bam settled back in his bed.

the hangover soup you prepared is half-eaten and neglected, and you’re positive teardrops have fallen into the bowl so you move it over to the side.

any chance that he’s still drunk?

“he really learned it! and we sound the same, don’t we? that’s cool. it really worked.” he rambles on as the video restarts for the nth time, the hand not holding the camcorder tugging at his hair in an attempt to dull his throbbing headache.

you stand behind his chair, hugging him from behind as you watch the screen together.

“you tried to make it sound like it was the first time, didn’t you?”

you sheepishly hide your face on his neck. “bad acting?”

“if my hangover was a bit worse than this, i would’ve believed it.” he chuckles, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “i love you, baby.”

“i love you more.” you say quietly, kissing his cheek before breaking away. “now go give him his breakfast so you can experience it yourself.”

he springs up on his feet almost immediately, speeding towards bam’s food bowl. you shake your head with an amused smile, letting him have his quality time with bam as you finish your breakfast.

“baby!” jungkook yells from the living room as you put away your empty plate in the sink.

“whaaaat?”

“come here!”

“wait!” you yell back, washing your hands before heading to where he is.

you find him sitting on the floor with his legs crossed while holding up bam’s bowl. bam is standing infront of him, patiently waiting for his breakfast.

“what’s wrong?”

“look at this!” your boyfriend pouts at you. “bamie, speak.”

silence.

and then he- “woof!”

and bam responds, “woof!”

you look at them back and forth in confusion, before trying it out yourself. “bamie, speak.”

“woof!” he follows your command without missing a beat.

jungkook’s mouth hangs open, feeling utterly shocked and betrayed. you cover your mouth to stifle your laughter.

they can invent their own language if this carries on.

“this is so wrong. help me do it too! i’ve been working so hard!” he wails in agony and disappointment.

you sit beside him, breathing deeply to compose yourself because you feel too guilty to make fun of him further.

damn it, he was already happy earlier. guess you still have more work to do.

you rub his hunched back soothingly, kissing away the defeated look etched on his face. “aw, my love, i’m sorry. he’s a fast learner, so don’t be sad! he’ll respond to you in no time. but first-”

you gently pry away the bowl from his tight grip, warily side-eyeing the starving puppy drooling at the sight of its first meal of the day.

“let’s give him his reward before he yells at you.”

—

taglist! @alanniys @jjkeverlast @queenofdragonsandcats @yvesismywife @enhypenslay @cramseys @witchfqllen @virgogentlejk @rkie @jeonwiixard @monilyv @bermudaisy @ameliejeannelaurent @takochelle @the1921-monsters @investedreader @seagulljk @yeow6n @yoonqkiss @hopeworldjimin @lllucere @unnatae @zqynmlk @bxbyyyjocelyn @zkdlllin @koostarcandy @tswisal1 @fragmentof-indifference + send an ask / dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

#jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook scenario #jungkook one shot #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut

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siremasterlawrence · 8 months

Text

My Personal Virtual Transition

I won a weird competition to use a Spiralistix virtual reality A+ glasses at the laboratory I am assigned to go to and I pack my bags to head to London when I am greeted by a the limo driver.

The limo is rather bare all that I see is a less then twin like bed I lay down in when a pair of the goggles pop down and I place them on my head instantly a light flashes in my eyes.

I fall deep a sleep as my mind transfers over to the mainframe of the device leaving me in a pitch black room and I am left in darkness until a ball of light appears filing up the whole space.

The ball projects a image of a blank virtual male leaving me at a loss except I saw Tom Hardy in the ball showcasing him at some major celebrity event in a dashing suit I can only imagine.

Next thing I know suddenly I am falling in to a deep sleep body, mind and soul are soon transferring in to the ball all of sudden I am hit with a shock appearing at the event and I see it.

Crowds screaming as they are surrounding me, more hands reaching out to grabbing me too and pulling left, right, up, down and center until my eyes land on the glass door and window.

I am now literally in control of actors super sexy and hot ass mother fuckers body in the midst of the spectacle and I decide to play along with it taking his finger licking it and messing his hair up.

I flash a bright smoke showcasing my teeth then make my way down the red carpet my hands are in air and waving it to the sea of massive amounts crowds who are lusting after me.

I slap my ass hard while making a hot sizzle sounds, then make gun signal in my hand and shoot upward and make a weird facial expression as I ditch my wife to have some old fun.

Taking a second I sneak off to the private bathroom of the hotel locking the door a bit and start to undress my self slowly as I lay my cell on to the counter as it records my every movement.

Doing a sexy dance routine just live stream for everyone to see declaring that I am hot ass mess and I need to give myself to some one and he has no idea I am about to make him mine.

I grab my cock starting to pump it creating a heavy undulating movements as I I scream, howl, and shout in pain and pleasure before I cum and I feel the horror of Tom from inside of my body.

“Time to clean up this mess!”

“God! Look at this face “

“I am about to hit some pussy and ass”

“Yeah! I am talking about you bitch”

“Oh Stop! You are embracing this “

“I can feel your heart racing “

“Do not ignore me”

“Or deny my”

“This is my body now “

“Anyone let’s go “

“Hello everyone!”

“Let’s fucking party “

“Hey babe”

“Let’s dance “

“Are you ok Tom?”

“Yeah? By the way”

“Huh?”

“I want a divorce! Sorry babe! Bye”

I call for my limo, calls hotel to set up a room for me and we are off as they park and I am heading in to my hotel room disrobing me of my clothes stripping till my underpants as it all leaves me naked.

I stand in the mirror soon enough I see his reflection looking back at me with anger is ranging on and waving his fist at me so he is getting closer to me as close as the mirror gets closer to me.

He stood stronger in a super height equal to mine, his arms are wide across from me now padding his arms to his body and I love it I can feel the panic in his throat and the pure surge of energy.

“This is impossible! You cannot do this.”

“I am allowed to do anything I want.”

“I chose you “

“I am in control “

“This is my will”

“I will you to obey “

“FUCK You!”

“You will be fucking “

“Some ass”

“You evil creep”

“Evil? Creep? No! No!”

“Oh Tommy! Tom…Tom”

“I am Tom Hardy”

“I am Eddie Brock”

“Asswipe”

“On a deeper level “

“I understand you “

“I am suffering with mental health too”

“I am not as confident as I should be”

“We have to exude it”

“That’s a life”

“Stop falling it “

“Enough fueling it”

“I am your Master now”

“I consume you “

“There is no freedom”

“No free will”

“I love you Tom”

The end

#tom hardy #virtual reality #vr goggles #body possession #the possessed #take over #Master Lawrence Universe

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vmpiires · 6 months

Text

﹆₊ 画家‧₊˚ THE BLOOD PAINTER, KAMO CHOSO

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ﹆₊ 概要 ‧₊˚ art; it comes in many forms. even clothing. wc, 4.39K. dark mode recommended.

␥ note. i’m backkk. i got so caught up in writing one-shots that i almost forgot to do the series. so i’m here. hope ya enjoyyy. reblog to support meeee.

␥ tags. artist!choso, college AU, possible nsfw, female anatomy, smoking, reader has a motorcycle, etc. lmk if i missed anything

␥ misc. masterlist AO3 PART FIVE

finally, the much-anticipated friday had arrived, as the clock struck 12:15, choso let out a heavy sigh and pushed away from his cluttered desk. the familiar sound of the bell signaling the end of class echoed through the room, soon followed by the lively chatter of students as they filed out into the hallway. as he stepped out, the distinct smell of freshly cleaned carpets mixed with the mouth-watering aroma of takoyaki and ramen wafted towards him. his stomach grumbled in response, and he rolled his eyes at his hunger pangs.

as the male strolled gracefully down the hall, his footsteps echoing against the tiled floor, kashimo slung his arm over choso's broad shoulders. his face was lit up with a beaming grin that seemed to radiate energy. choso couldn't help but suppress a groan at the touch.

"what's with the frown?" kashimo asked, his voice laced with playful curiosity. "aren't you excited for tonight?" he continued; excitement evident in his tone as they made their way towards the bustling cafeteria.

"what day is it again?" choso rubbed his bleary eyes, his tiredness evident in the way he slumped in his chair. he had spent all night tending to his digital artwork and finishing up homework. kashimo nearly choked on his drink when he heard choso's question. the bags under his friend's eyes were deep and dark, a clear sign of exhaustion.

kashimo leaned in close, speaking in hushed tones. "you know it's friday, right?" he reminded choso with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. "your date with you-know-who is tonight." he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, causing choso's eyes to widen with shock and surprise. suddenly, all traces of exhaustion seemed to vanish from choso's expression.

choso let out a frustrated sigh, his hand pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "damn it, i almost forgot," he muttered to himself. "i need to find something nice to wear and freshen myself up. i probably look like death right now." his thoughts drifted to his upcoming date and he suddenly felt self-conscious about his appearance. kashimo waved a dismissive hand, trying to calm choso’s nerves.

"relax, you have plenty of time. your date isn't until seven and its only noon now. take a nap, get dressed, and do whatever else you gotta to do. maybe even pick up some flowers for the lovely lady." choso only rolled his eyes at kashimo's teasing words but was grateful for his reassurance.

after a satisfying lunch, the two boys retreated to choso's dorm room, where they spent their time sifting through an impressive collection of clothing. like pages in a newspaper, choso pulled each hanger from the rack and tossed the garments onto his bed.

"wow, you must come from money," remarked kashimo, studying the designer labels and high-end fabrics of the clothing strewn across the bed. the beige sweater with a brown collar and sleeves underneath that caught his eye looked like it belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. it was clear that choso had an eye for style and a wallet to match.

"i wouldn't say i'm wealthy in the traditional sense," choso replied with a hint of modesty, as he effortlessly pulled out a few pairs of designer boots. kashimo's expression shifted to one of disbelief as his eyes took in the luxurious footwear. he couldn't tell if choso was being humble or simply showcasing his affluent lifestyle.

"what’re you talking about? you have the largest room on campus, your wardrobe is filled with high-end fashion that could pay for my textbooks ten times over, you're top of the class, and you have an incredible talent for painting," kashimo exclaimed.

"you have everything. you don’t have to want for anything." the words tumbled out with a mix of admiration and envy, as kashimo couldn't help but feel a tinge of jealousy towards the male beside him.

choso chuckled humbly as he moved the pairs of boots closer to the bed, each one a work of art in its own right. they were made by the most prestigious fashion house in the world, a symbol of his wealth and status.

"the biggest room in the school? that's just because i got lucky with housing arrangements," choso replied nonchalantly, brushing off kashimo's words. "and these clothes and shoes? it's all just material possessions. it’s not like they define who i am." but even as he said this, a part of him couldn't help but feel proud of what he had achieved and acquired through hard work and determination.

a thoughtful look crossed kashimo's face as he sized up his friend. "you've got it all, man, i’m telling you. looks, brains, talent…what don't you have?" he couldn't help but feel envious of choso's seemingly perfect life. little did he know, beneath the surface, there were struggles and insecurities that even wealth and success couldn't erase.

choso simply shrugged, a slight smile playing on his lips. "my wealth is of no concern to me, and it shouldn't be to you either. you are just as worthy as i am, if not more so. i refuse to be lumped in with those spoiled assholes who strut around this place as if they own it." he gestured towards the crowd of students milling about the school grounds outside his window.

“i’d rather not be labeled as an entitled individual that kicks another down because of their casual way of life." choso's eyes glinted with determination and a hint of defiance. he refused to let his family's fortune define him or dictate how he treated others.

kashimo let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. but then, as if on cue, a smile lit up his face. "let's forget all that," he chirped. "we have more important things to focus on, like finding the perfect outfit for you." his gaze fell upon a rack of clothes. he strode towards it with purpose.

"i think i already have an idea," he added, gesturing towards a sleek and stylish collared shirt on display. it caught the light just right, highlighting its delicate details and flattering cut. kashimo's keen sense of fashion was always reliable, and he knew this would be the ideal choice for his new friend.

choso inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling with each breath. "you have an idea?" he repeated dryly, his dark eyes following kashimo's outstretched finger as it pointed towards the shirt.

with a flick of his wrist and a wide, toothy grin that always made choso roll his eyes and groan, kashimo declared confidently, "yeah, yeah, we'll have you looking like a vogue model by the time we're done." his hands moved deftly, as if conducting an orchestra, as he waved them around in front of choso's face.

the sunlight glinted off the sharp planes of his cheekbones and highlighted the smattering of his blood mark across his nose. choso couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance mixed with fondness for his friend's over-the-top antics. but he knew deep down that kashimo was just trying to help him look his best for his upcoming date.

after a few moments, choso found himself meticulously adjusting the crisp collar and sleeves of his tailored top, the fabric hugging his figure perfectly. he paired it with formal pants in a deep coffee shade, complementing the beige sweater he wore underneath. the overall effect created a polished and put-together appearance.

kashimo's lips curled into a mischievous smirk as he lightly nudged choso. "well, you could pass for a model," he teased, his eyes flickering over choso's outfit. the male blushed, not expecting to be dressed in such a fashion so soon. "you're quite the handsome devil, choso." his words were laced with admiration and playfulness. choso's cheeks flushed deeply at the compliment.

"please don't say things like that," he murmured, trying to hide his bashful smile. "but thank you…i think." the soft breeze flowing through the window tousled his hair, adding an extra touch of dishevelment to his already dashing appearance.

placing his hands behind his head, kashimo's snicker broke through the quiet of the bedroom. choso shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest as he felt the tips of his ears grow warm with embarrassment. fidgeting with his fingers, he tried to push away the teasing.

"aw come on, choso. your lady friend would definitely approve," kashimo taunted, his laughter now booming in the open space around them.

choso's cheeks grew even redder as he found himself growing more uncomfortable. "can we please stop talking about this?" he pleaded, desperately wishing he could escape this conversation and the teasing that came with it. "and shouldn’t you be saving these comments for hakari, not me?"

kashimo's smirk faltered slightly at choso's words, hints of embarrassment creeping into his expression. "hey, it’s not like he's not my boyfriend or anything," he muttered, trying to brush off the earlier comment.

choso couldn't help but roll his eyes at kashimo's attempt to downplay their relationship. as much as kashimo denied it, everyone knew there was something more between them than just friends. but for now, choso was content with keeping their dynamic as it was - friends who teased each other mercilessly.

"right," choso muttered, his dark eyes flickering with curiosity. "so, what happened the other night with you and hakari, if i may ask? did you two have fun?"

kashimo exhaled slowly, his cheeks flushing as he thought back to that unforgettable evening. "i mean…yes, we did have fun, but a couple things happened that i didn't expect."

choso could see the telltale sign of embarrassment in kashimo's blush. He could only imagine what had transpired between the two of them, causing such a reaction in kashimo. a small smile curled at the corners of his lips, wondering just how wild their night together must have been.

kashimo shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the words to explain his feelings about that night. but they eluded him, leaving him with a tangle of emotions that he couldn't quite put into words. nevertheless, one thing was for sure - it was a night he would never forget.

choso raised a skeptical brow at kashimo's wistful expression. "well, aren't you gonna tell me what happened?" he prodded with curiosity. "you seem like you're reminiscing about it."

kashimo was abruptly pulled from his reverie, caught off guard by choso's inquisitive tone. his lips pursed as he carefully considered how to explain the night's events. "i guess i could tell you," he began slowly. "it was a pretty nice night all around. we ate and drank a little, but then out of the blue, he asked me to give him my hand." a faint smile tugged at the corners of kashimo's mouth at the memory.

"i was confused as to why he wanted my hand, but i gave in anyway. we held hands for a while, just enjoying each other's company. and he had this silly grin on his face…" kashimo trailed off with a fond chuckle.

choso couldn't help but tease, "you didn't kiss, did you?" though his words were nonchalant, there was a hint of playful curiosity in his tone.

"stop," kashimo protested, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "it's not like that. we just held hands and…okay, we almost did but i got nervous." his words tumbled out in a rush, his eyes darting away from his teasing gaze. "but we're going to hang out again tonight," he continued, determined to prove that there was nothing more than friendship between them. "and i was thinking of having a double date soon since our situations are pretty similar."

choso chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "damn, you're really soiling my plans," he joked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"well excuse me, mr. kamo," kashimo chuckled jovially, his eyes glinting mischievously. "i should've considered that you might've wanted some alone time with the pretty lady… hey, let's head out and get some flowers. that'd be a nice touch, right?"

"i suppose," choso exhaled, rubbing his temples wearily. "would you mind passing me my wallet? it's on the desk." he pointed over to the umber wood desk that held his notebooks and other school supplies. kashimo retrieved the wallet and couldn't resist taking a quick peek inside. among choso's id, dorm room keycard, and a small polaroid of him and his brothers, was a thick wad of cash.

"holy shit, man," kashimo exclaimed before choso could snatch the wallet from his hands. "you could literally buy the whole planet with this amount of money."

"i said give me the wallet, not snoop around," choso narrowed his eyes, an edge of annoyance in his tone. the stack of bills represented years of hard work and sacrifice for him and his siblings. he didn't want anyone else getting their hands on it, let alone stare at it.

as the clock struck seven, you carefully chose your outfit - a sleek black leather jacket and fitted jeans paired with a simple yet elegant blouse. your trusted harley davidson roared as you rode into the parking lot of the upscale restaurant that choso had chosen for your meeting. you removed your helmet and placed it on the bike seat before walking confidently into the building.

inside, the restaurant was bathed in a warm, dim light that enhanced the romantic atmosphere. the scent of scented candles and sizzling food filled the air as you made your way to the table that had been reserved for you and choso. when you spotted him, your heart skipped a beat at his appearance.

instead of his usual intimidating demeanor, choso looked more like a regular academia student with metal adorning his face. he wore a cozy-looking sweater and a purple scarf wrapped around his neck, giving off a sense of vulnerability. a bandage on the corner of his lip suggested that he may have been injured recently. an expensive-looking watch around his wrist. and instead of his signature ponytails, his hair fell freely around his face, some strands neatly tied into a ponytail.

you sat down on the opposite side of the table, unable to contain the soft smile that spread across your face. "hey, choso," you greeted him warmly. the sound of your voice made him look up at you, seemingly surprised that you had actually shown up regardless of whether it was planned or not.

choso's voice was gentle and hesitant as he spoke, a slight blush rising to his cheeks. "um…hi," he said, returning your smile with one of his own. he held something behind his back, and as he brought it forward, you saw that it was a bouquet of flowers. your heart skipped a beat at the sight of them.

"i brought you something," choso said, presenting the bouquet to you. each stem was carefully chosen and arranged, bursting with vibrant colors and delicate petals. you were not typically one to accept flowers as a gift, but these were too beautiful to resist.

you took the bouquet into your arms, feeling the softness of the petals against your skin. "wow," you chuckled in disbelief, admiring the intricate details of each flower. "these are really pretty…thank you." your eyes met choso's and you could see the sincerity and thoughtfulness in his expression. it made your heart swell with appreciation for this unexpected gesture of kindness.

choso nodded, a delicate pink hue blooming across his cheeks. "i'm…glad you like them," he stammered, his hand unconsciously smoothing out the creases in his scarf. "i was seriously struggling to decide which flowers would be best for you. i wasn't sure if i made the right choice."

you smiled warmly at him, taking the bouquet from his hands and inhaling the sweet scent of the blossoms. "no, it's okay," you reassured softly. "i love these flowers. no one has ever given me a bouquet before - let alone such beautiful ones like these. i can tell you put a lot of thought into this."

as always, your kind words had choso's heart fluttering and his chest feeling light as air. "well, i'm happy to be the first to give you such a gift," he replied, unable to contain the shy smile that spread across his face. "though now I'm starting to wonder if i should have just given you one of my paintings instead."

you shook your head gently. "whatever gift you came up with, i would’ve loved it," you assured him. "as long as it came from your heart and had some thought put into it, that's all that matters to me."

choso smiled softly, feeling a sense of confidence wash over him. after your simple conversation, the two of you finally sat down to order some delicious food and refreshing drinks. your conversations ranged from how your days had been to school-related topics like class projects and even delved into personal matters.

as the waiter placed your plates in front of you, choso couldn't resist taking a quick photo with his camera, capturing not only the mouth-watering food but also the charming interior of the restaurant.

"smile," choso said with a slight twitch at the corners of his lips. your eyebrows raised in surprise, but you quickly posed for the photo, revealing a flawless smile that made choso's heart skip a beat as he gazed at you through his camera lens.

the vibrant colors and warm atmosphere of the restaurant seemed to enhance your beauty, and choso couldn't help but feel grateful for this moment shared between the two of you.

with a contented smile on your face, you playfully plunged your fork into the steaming bowl of ramen, eagerly slurping up the tender noodles. across from you, choso calmly ate from his plate of shrimp tempura, occasionally watching you with an amused glint in his eyes.

"hey, let's do that thing they always do in the movies with the noodles," you suggested, holding up your fork and wiggling it playfully. a faint blush colored choso's cheeks as he caught on to what you were referring to, and he couldn't help but internally sigh at the thought. it wasn't that he didn't want to do anything romantic with you, but he was wary of how things might change between the two of you afterward.

"i suppose there's no harm in trying," choso said with a small smile, taking the other end of the noodle between his lips. you mirrored his actions, using the thin noodle as a playful tool to bring each other closer. as your lips were only a breath away from touching, you both paused for a moment, your hearts racing in anticipation.

finally, unable to resist any longer, you closed the distance between your lips and shared a brief but sweet kiss. the remaining noodle was quickly swallowed as your lips met, causing choso's eyes to widen in shock and surprise. his cheeks flushed a deep red, almost matching the crimson liquid slowly seeping out from his blood mark and onto the table.

feeling slightly embarrassed by his unusual reaction, choso hastily pulled away and chuckled nervously. "that's part of why i always keep it covered up," he admitted, trying to make light of the situation. but before he could apologize or explain further, he felt your gentle touch as you began wiping away the traces of blood on his cheeks with a napkin.

"it's okay," you reassured him softly, carefully folding the napkin to a cleaner side and continuing to clean his face. "does this happen often?" you asked, genuinely curious about choso's sudden bleeding.

choso nodded, his expression slightly sheepish. "usually when i'm….overstimulated," he admitted with a small smile. it wasn't a common occurrence, but it did happen from time to time, especially in moments like this when he was caught off guard by unexpected yet welcomed intimacy with someone he cared for deeply. "but i can also make it bleed at will."

the sound of your laughter filled the room as choso's cheeks flushed with embarrassment at your observation. "that explains why there isn't any red paint in your room. you use your own blood for art…i think that's so cool. but doesn't it hurt?" you asked, genuinely curious about his unique artistic process.

choso shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "no, not in the slightest." his mind seemed to go momentarily blank before he quickly changed the subject. "um…we should finish eating before the food gets cold."

you nodded, returning to your meal but unable to shake off your curiosity about choso's blood mark and how it worked. after dinner, the two of you left the restaurant and made your way back to your motorcycle. you eagerly held onto the bouquet of flowers as you mounted the vehicle and placed your helmet in your lap.

"well, i guess this is where we part ways for the night," choso said, his hand nervously fiddling with his scarf. you looked up at him and checked the time on his watch. despite the sun having set and the moon beginning to rise, the night was still young.

"come on, it's too early to call it a night. let's take a bike ride around shibuya for a bit," you pleaded, hoping to spend more time with choso. just as he was about to politely decline and suggest rescheduling for another day, he felt something stopping him from saying no.

"alright, but please don't drive too fast…i've never been on a motorcycle before," choso reluctantly agreed, surprising himself with his sudden change of heart.

you squealed in excitement and patted the padded seat before putting on your helmet. "you'll have to hold onto me unless you want to fly off," you advised quickly as choso settled himself onto the seat behind you.

"fly off?" choso repeated before you unexpectedly accelerated out of the parking lot, your harley roaring into the night. he inhaled sharply, feeling slightly scared as he instinctively wrapped his strong arms around your body and buried his face into your back. you couldn't help but smirk at your daring actions.

"please…slow down," choso's muffled and shaken voice pleaded from behind you, making you giggle mischievously.

·.⌇ bonus..

under the moonlit sky, you and choso sat on a wooden bench in front of a serene lake. the gentle breeze caused both of you to shiver, but the beauty of the setting made it worth it. as you watched the ripples of the water sway back and forth, you turned to look at choso beside you.

"i wanted to ask you something," you said softly. choso's head snapped over to face you, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.

"about?" he asked.

"you mentioned that you always keep your mark covered up. you said it was because of people's fear and judgment towards what you really are…but why does it worry you so much?" your question forced choso into a moment of silence as he pondered his response.

"i'm…" he let out a heavy sigh before continuing. "i'm not sure if you've noticed, but i'm not like other sorcerers or curses. i’m half curse, half human. my brother yuji is a sorcerer, while the other two are also curses. normally, humans can’t see curses, but because i am in this body, you can see me."

he glanced at you to confirm that you were still listening before revealing more. "i…um…i keep my blood mark covered because when i get overwhelmed or stressed, my face starts bleeding like i told you before. i'm just embarrassed about it. if people knew what i really was, they would probably be too scared to even look in my direction. people think curses are disgusting and unworthy of life; they are afraid of them. it's better that part of myself hidden and live as a human."

you placed a comforting hand on choso's thigh, gently rubbing it with your thumb. "but choso, i'm not scared of you at all. curse or not, i think you're one of the kindest and most genuine people i've ever met. i honestly thought your unique display of techniques was just your sorcery, but now i know the truth. my opinion of you will never change, i promise."

choso's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "really?" he asked incredulously. "i'm not disgusting or horrible to you?" you shook your head, a small smile quirking at the corners of your lips.

"not even close," you reassured him. "the most people will say about you is how annoyingly smart you are." you playfully teased him, making him chuckle.

"but in all seriousness, you're a genuinely good person, choso." with a tender gesture, you reached up and cupped his cheek, causing his cheeks to flush a light shade of red. as you leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his cheek, choso couldn't help but place his hand where your lips had just been.

"my face is going to start bleeding again," he muttered with a shy smile, clearly trying to hide his embarrassment.

with excitement bubbling in your chest, you quickly pulled choso's camera out of his bag and slung an arm over his shoulder, positioning the lens perfectly in front of you both. "smile, choso," you chimed with a grin, capturing the moment forever.

choso's eyebrows shot up in surprise at your quick movements, but he obliged and gave the camera his best smile as a bright flash illuminated the area and the sound of the photo printing echoed through the air.

as soon as the picture was fully developed, you eagerly removed it from the slot and examined it with satisfaction. "we look pretty damn good, don't we?" you commented, admiring how the lighting fell perfectly on both of you and the beautiful scenery around you.

"yeah, not bad at all," choso agreed as he gently took the photo from your hands and stowed it away with his camera in his bag. "that was actually the final picture i needed for my project."

"right, your scrapbook thing," you remembered with a smile as you rose from the bench. "shall we head back? i can help you put it together if you'd like."

choso's smile widened at your offer and he nodded eagerly. "i would love that."

⠀© vmpiires | like, reblog & follow.

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hometoursandotherstuff · 10 months

Text

1925 penthouse for sale in New York City is fully renovated, but the current owner is an art collector and it's full of pop art, that is not included in the sale. 4bds, 6.5ba, $26M + $38,440 monthly HOA fee. The buyer will have to be extremely wealthy just to afford the HOA fee! (It's one of those stock cooperatives where you own stock in the building.)

The unit has 2 elevator access points.

The stark white reno was done to showcase the large bold art. Love those coffee tables. Special gallery lighting is installed to properly illuminate the art.

The large paintings take up whole walls.

Almost every room, like the TV room, opens to the roof top deck.

There is a den off the TV room. Notice the carpet is the same pattern, but it's white & brown where the TV room's is black & brown.

The dining room has an amazing view of the New York City skyline.

And, it's even more amazing all lit up at night.

The eat-in kitchen also has a great view of the city and commercial stainless steel appliances.

This appears to be a bar and even has a dishwasher.

The primary bedroom also has a wonderful view and door to the roof, and it's a very large room with space for a sitting area. I can't tell if that's a carpet or a hard floor, but either way, how in the world do you keep clean it?

The primary bedroom has a closet that's as large as a clothing store.

The library is a lovely cozy space, but the red sofa and ottoman really make it pop.

This bath is very spa-like.

Large home office.

One of the secondary bedrooms is very attractive and has a door to a the roof. There are also 4 staff rooms in the home.

#penthouse nyc #stock cooperatives #houses #house tours #home tour

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stressedemoblackbratz · 1 year

Text

pretend

pairing: shuri x singer!black reader

warnings: swearing and fading relationship between reader and her boyfriend

a/n: as you can tell, i was definitely inspired by Zay’s own writing (the title has magically excused itself from my brain (i’m thinking lemonade, but i don’t wanna fuck up) my apologies, but i’m gonna blame that on finals). i loved the chapters and it inspired me to write something after a year. those euphoria requests wore me out lol. also, i don’t mention the death of anyone in this story. it didn’t happen…okay? okay! i might do a backstory to this? I’m not really sure, but we’ll see. i hope you enjoy babes!

words: 1.4k + not proofread

let's pretend we never met. a good excuse to play forget. let's pretend you never lied, so i can give it up all night, swallow my pride, and learn to forgive. when i'm looking for love i pretend it's you. a love that never ends.

the bed was cold, your lace band was on snug, and the food you cooked for your boyfriend of 2 years was cold.

and after all that damn cooking?

he could throw away the food and clean the dish he didn’t get to eat.

2 years and this was life. you used to bask in each others presence, go on dates, write poems together, make appearances, but now?

now you barely saw him because he was rehearsing lines with his new costar and you were trying to finish your album.

he didn’t look at you the same anymore, the house was cold, and those i love you’s we’re definitely empty.

you were perfect and just like that it was gone.

pretending like you were fine was the only thing you two had in common.

you remember one morning darius got a call stating he nailed his audition and filming would start soon. that night you two attended a movie premiere then at the after party you met t’challa and he introduced you to his sister, shuri.

now it was forced smiles on the red carpets, powdering your face after cry sessions, lying for him, and him avoiding questions about you slyly.

real enough.

now shuri, your producer for your upcoming 3rd studio album, she knew better.

she watched you write the songs, cry mid recording, consoled you when you came in with puffy eyes and swollen lips, fed you when you realized it had been some time between your last meal due to the fast paced life…she picked up the pieces.

and she hated it because she’s in love with you.

“okay! okay! but sza? ctrl literally raised me…sos is gonna eat.” you proclaimed to shuri one night after recording one song and touching up two others. it was crunch time and your label and fans wanted the album soon.

laughing at your seriousness she put the pho she had ordered down. the light you got in your eyes while speaking on the popular album was so cute to her.

you loved this shit as much as she did.

you were raw. letting each emotion out in each song and showcasing your life to shuri before showing it to those who supported you and your craft. you didn’t put on a facade in front of her even after you had been pretending for awhile.

“for me uh…” shuri paused to think after her giggles died down. she licked her bottom lip before flicking her eyes to yours. “definitely ego death by the internet. they raised me and i hope that their next album isn’t their last. i’d scream out to bast.” she started giggling again with you joining in.

two beautiful women discussing a mutual love.

“hey y/n. listen baby, i’m gonna be late, but i promise i didn’t forget.” you could hear aeva, darius’s costar, giggling in the back. “see you soon, love you.” he quickly said before the recording clicked in an ending.

according to him he wasn’t with her intimately, but you knew him. he was drawing away for awhile, way before this role. you wanted the peace of not caring or wondering what he was doing. wondering if what he once felt for you was what he felt for her just times ten.

in that moment, with tears in your bottom lash line and legs criss crossed sitting in the large black satin bed, you knew him coming home in a few hours, waking you up with sex and sorry’s you’ve learned not to believe wouldn’t cut it this time.

it hurt so bad to know that you were done.

it hurt more to know you gave up, not that the love died. you had already grieved on that. you tried so hard, but it takes two.

but you were so happy because you’d be able to address those growing feelings you had for a certain wakandan producer.

those feelings you suppressed to honor what was left of your expiring relationship.

all of that was over. you decided it.

climbing out of the king sized bed, you made your way to the bathroom. after cleaning up your face and sighing at the water clumped lash extensions, you decided you needed to shower to sooth the ache you felt simmer in your heart.

while rinsing the soap off of you, you realized your bedroom would make you feel suffocated. you needed to leave.

the only place close by though? shuri’s studio.

quickly drying off, moisturizing, putting on deodorant, and changing into a light pink crochet top, panties, black shorts, and the most beat up pair of crocs you owned, it was almost time to go.

a purse and jacket on one arm with your phone and keys in the other hand led you downtown.

shuri was up playing with beats. you needed one more song on the album before your label would review it and decide on the next steps.

she didn’t want the hard work you had done to not be cleared. this final beat would put you and her in the spotlight. this album was your baby and in a way, hers too.

she hadn’t heard griot announce your presence as she nodded her head to the beat, but she acknowledged your existence when she smelt your signature scent overwhelm her nostrils.

you definitely noticed her. she smelt so good and looked even better. her curls hung in front of her face, different vibranium rings across all 10 fingers, wearing low hanging sweats, and a tight beater that helped show off her lean, but muscular frame.

“y/n?” she called turning around. by the look of your eyes her heart dropped, but she could notice a different kind of look on your face compared to what she usually saw associated with that feature.

“what’s wrong, entle? kukho into ayenzileyo?” she asked stopping the beat, queuing a different track, and grasping your hands.

you smiled at her urgency. she was always so sweet to you.

“shuri you know i’m still learning. i only caught you calling me beautiful.” you teased with a smile. her heart didn’t feel as heavy anymore with that look. it wasn’t forced, just playful.

“kukho into ayenzileyo, i asked did he do something?” shuri said with a light smile and knowing eyes. yours darkened a bit before you looked away and contemplated on the best way to tell her.

“he promised he wouldn’t miss dinner again, he did and it’s because he wants to be with her.” shuri frowned at his actions.

“i can’t take this anymore so i’ve decided when he comes home i’ll let him know we’re done. i’m going to make sure he gets a good mover for his items and i find a good locksmith so he can’t come back.” you revealed. saying it out loud made you feel lighter.

“i’m giving it all up. i choose me and my happiness.” you whispered as she brought you into her chest. the slight jolt she endured as a result of you slamming into her made her bump the play button and start the last song you recorded together.

let’s pretend that we bout to break up…to catch the feelings so we can make up…

“i’m…i’m proud of you! this whole album was you baring it all and finding yourself…this might be the end of a chapter. you’re stepping into a new book.” shuri spoke to you. she was tired of picking up the pieces he broke. she was tired of seeing you try to fix them.

let’s pretend i ain’t your friend so we can get it on again.

“ndiyakuthandana.” she whispered her love to you.

so we can get it on again. let’s pretend we never met, a good excuse to play forget.

“nam ndiyakuthanda” you whispered right back.

i pretend it’s you…that i’m in love with…

a tattooed hand gripped the side of your face before shuri questioned you.

“you mean that shit?” she lowly whispered.

you looked into her dark eyes and thought about everything. the first session, your recent session, the parties, the conversations, the outings, the meals you ate together, the secrets you told, the feelings you shared, everything you’ve experienced with her or because of her you wouldn’t trade.

you did mean it.

a thousand times you’d say yes.

with a nod from you shuri lifted your head from her chest and kissed you.

she’s been waiting for it.

that kiss was one of many that night. clothes left on the soundboard, seven mixed calls and a few texts left from darius ignored, the sun started to come up, and a new life was brewing on the horizon.

pretending led you to what you really wanted.

shuri.

#shuri imagine #shuri x reader #shuri udaku #letitia wright shuri #shuri black panther #princess shuri #shuri fanfiction #shuri x you #shuri of wakanda #shuriri #shuri fluff #shuriri x reader #wlw

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theostrophywife · 2 years

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Hi! Can I request an Az x reader where its just like a bunch of fluff during Christmas time? Like decorating and baking, etc?

winter solstice.

author's note: to all my azriel girlies out there, i got you. here's a purely fluffy holiday piece for our favorite bat boyfriend.

There was nothing quite as magical as Winter Solstice in Velaris.

You spent the majority of the year in quiet anticipation, awaiting the crisp winter air, the fresh powdered snow, and most importantly, the annual Winter Solstice fair. The festivity was a week-long celebration held in the city and showcased vendors, artists, and food from the four palaces. Amongst your favorite activities were drinking spiked hot chocolate, building snow castles, and watching the faelight show that you’ve adored since you were a child, but by far the best part of this season was getting to spend it with Azriel.

Your mate knew how much you loved Winter Solstice and made it a point to accompany you to all your favorite activities even if it involved getting drunk on warm cider and causing a tinsel explosion in your shared flat. Azriel would do anything to put a smile on his mate's face, including cleaning up your mess and tucking you into bed clad in your favorite cozy pajamas. The twin of which you insisted he wear as well.

You considered yourself incredibly lucky to have a mate that put up with your antics. Azriel spoiled you beyond belief and you loved every second of it, but not nearly as much as you loved Azriel himself.

It was only the first day of the festivities and so far you’ve baked, decorated, and drank your fill of spiked hot chocolate. According to the shadowsinger, this was just a glimpse of what he had planned.

“Can you at least give me a hint?”

You balanced on your tiptoes, dangling a crystal star in front of your mate’s face as he loops a string of faelights around the pine tree that you picked out together the night before. Azriel shakes his head, chuckling as you pout in return. You’ve been dying to know what this mysterious plan of his was since the minute he’d woken you up this morning, but so far he hasn’t given you any hints besides telling you to dress for the cold. The male was a steel trap of secrecy. Damn him and his spymaster skills.

Still, you couldn’t even pretend to be mad at Azriel. Not after the amazing morning you’ve had baking holiday cookies and decorating your entire flat with faelights, tinsel, and glitter. The latter of which was currently covering Azriel’s knit sweater. The sight made you grin. You were so used to seeing him in his Illyrian leathers that the cream, cable knit sweater combined with his blue flannel pajamas made him seem like a whole new male. If only the rest of Prythian could see the feared shadowsinger donning fuzzy bunny slippers. You giggled as you flicked the front of his sweater, causing flecks of glitter to rain down onto the carpeted floor.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you declare with a huff.

The shadowsinger tickled your sides before sweeping you into his arms. He was surprisingly warm and smelled of his usual night chilled mist and cedar with a hint of pine and dark chocolate. You squeal in delight as he peppers you with kisses.

“I promise that the surprise will be worth the wait, my love.” Azriel declares as he scoops you up into his arms. “Now come on, I believe our tree needs its star.”

Perched on Azriel’s shoulder, you carefully positioned the crystal star on top of the tree. You tapped it once and the ornament sparkled, casting an iridescent glow upon your entire flat.

“It’s beautiful.”

Your mate sets you down and wraps his arms around your waist before spinning you to face him.

“So are you, my love.”

“No peeking.” Azriel warns as he fastens the blindfold behind your head.

After your busy and festive morning, you and your mate finally made it out of the flat and into the city. Azriel still wouldn’t budge when it came to revealing his plans, hence the blindfold. You braced yourself as he took off in flight, nestling into the warm cocoon of his shadows as Azriel careens through the skies.

You weren’t airborne for long and landed a few minutes later. Judging by the excited chatter and the faint carols echoing all around, Azriel had taken you somewhere near the four market squares. The crunch of the fresh powdered snow underneath your feet was a pleasant sound and you felt giddy with excitement as the scent of caramel candy apples hit you full force.

“You can look now.”

You eagerly tear off the blindfold only to be greeted with the sight of your friends grinning back at you. The Inner Circle gathered upon the banks of the Sidra River, its icy waters frozen solid underneath you. Fresh powdered snow coated the makeshift wooden barriers that encompassed the whole rink, which was decorated with trinkets and ornaments that rivaled the decorations you had at home. All around you, High Fae and faerie alike whizzed past in a blur of joyful cheer and laughter. It was an absolute dream.

"Surprise!"

“Oh. My. Gods.”

A high pitched squeal escapes your mouth as you encompass your friends into a group hug.

“I’m guessing this means she likes it?” Cassian asks with an amused tone.

“Loves it.” Azriel quips with a grin.

A few moments later, you were all laced up into a pair of ice skates and sliding gracefully into the ice rink. Beside you, Azriel struggled with his footing until you grabbed him by the hand and carefully led him further into the mouth of the Sidra. He grinned sheepishly and gods the sight of it felt like an ash arrow piercing through your heart. Your mate was so breathtakingly beautiful it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

The both of you took it slow, circling around the frozen river while the rest of your friends followed suit. Everyone seemed to be slowly acclimating to the icy terrain. The ever so graceful High Lord was currently desperately clinging onto Feyre while Mor and Amren stuck to the edges as they pieced together the momentum and velocity they needed without falling on top of one another. Even Cassian was bested by the ice. For all his muscle and strength, the Lord of Bloodshed was no match against the slippery floor. Nesta, on the other hand, was skating circles around everyone. You weren’t the least bit surprised. She was a graceful dancer. It only made sense that it translated to skating as well.

“I think I finally found the one thing that I’m better at than you, Az.”

Azriel squeezes your fingers, pulling you close to his side without a hint of shame. His wings playfully brush over your shoulders, providing him more balance.

“I’ll take any excuse to keep my mate close. Even if I make an absolute fool of myself.”

You chuckle as you spin in circles around him. “At least you’re doing better than Cas.”

“Hey! I heard that,” Cassian grumbles. The Illyrian warrior teetered on his skates, barely gaining an inch of movement as his wings wobbled behind him. You couldn't help but laugh. It was akin to watching a newborn learn how to walk.

Just to annoy him even further, you skate over to his side and trace a figure eight underneath you before executing a series of spins that made everyone around you gape in awe.

“Showoff.”

“Perhaps you can try this move next time you and Az decide to have another icy showdown with the Vanserras."

Cassian shoots you a vulgar gesture in response, which only makes you laugh.

Despite the cold, you thoroughly enjoyed yourself that afternoon. By the time the sunset finally rolled around, Azriel declared that he had one last surprise for you. After a round of warm cider and candy apples, you and the Inner Circle parted ways. The rest of your friends were off to explore the games, sculptures, and shows happening all around the market squares while Azriel flew you to the top of the highest building in the city.

Fresh powdered snow fell steadily from the sky as you and Azriel perched on the balcony. From this vantage point, you could see the crowd milling about in the streets, their faces bright and happy as they drank, ate, and joined in on the merriment of the holidays. It fills you with warmth to see the citizens of Velaris celebrating after all this city has been through.

Azriel hugs you from behind, resting his chin on the crook of your shoulder as he points to the horizon.

“One last surprise.”

One by one, the buildings flicker with different colored faelights, blanketing the city with the brilliance of the rainbow. Across the starry night, an assortment of jewel toned lights sparkled above the frozen Sidra, spelling a clear message: marry me?

You spun on your heel to find a sprig of mistletoe hanging between you and your mate. A velvet bow was fastened at the end of the branches and in its folds lay an enormous sapphire ring set in a stunning array of diamonds. Azriel carefully untangles the ring and kneels before you.

Your heart was beating so loudly that the sound was ringing in your ears.

“All my life, I have searched for a place to belong. In you, I have found a best friend, a lover, but most importantly, a home. You are my haven and you taught me that there is beauty in vulnerability. You have made me into a better male in every way possible and I’ve never felt safer than when you’re by my side. I love you more than the moon and stars. Being your mate is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, but I’d like to also have the privilege of calling you my wife. What do you say, my love?”

The tears were falling before you even realized that you were crying. Gods, this male. It would’ve been more plausible to number the stars in the sky than to measure the amount of love you had for your mate.

You look into those sincere hazel eyes, cupping your entire world in your hands as you smile up at your mate.

“You’re the love of my life, Azriel. The shooting star that lights up even the darkest of nights. You showed me how to love and be loved. Sometimes I think you were made just for me. I am yours till the end of my days and even beyond that. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Without hesitation, Azriel picks you up and presses his lips against yours. You smile into the kiss, tangling your fingers through his dark locks. The bond snaps between you, lighting your very souls as you send the overwhelming surge of love you felt for this male through the connection you shared.

Azriel was your best friend. Your mate. And now, your soon to be husband.

“I can’t wait to be your wife,” you say with a grin.

Azriel kisses the tip of your nose. “I can’t wait to be your husband.”

“My husband,” you say, testing the word. “Gods, that’s so fucking sexy.”

Your mate grins mischievously. “Why don’t I fly us back to the flat so I can show you just how sexy your future husband can be?”

“Your future wife would like that very much, Az.”

#i...hurt #soft boyfriend az is the best az #azriel #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel acotar #azriel fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel/reader #azriel smut #azriel fluff

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Psychomanteum / Chapter 11

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC (2nd POV)

Chapter 11: Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings

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

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 11.8k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The home’s décor is quintessential Dieter.

Eclectic. Moody. Maximalist.

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

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

And, if you’re being honest, daunting.

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

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

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

No.

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

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

Is he different when he’s here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

You look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomás?”

“Mhmm.”

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

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

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

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

“I mean, I’m sorry—It’s just so…”

“White?” he smirks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dee,” he answers, “I like Dee.”

“I can do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he snorts, “You think so?”

You nod, rubbing your thumb against his.

“I like you, too,” he murmurs.

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

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

“Who’re these people?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about all the people you party with?”

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

You look at him through the mirror.

His eyes are all dull and forlorn. Far away.

A sharp pain splits your sternum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you smile and wave at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing but the utmost praise,” Lincoln insists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fantastic. Well, the floor is yours.”

Dieter clears his throat and squeezes your shoulder.

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t?” David frowns.

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

“Is that when you started dating?”

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

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

“And yet, here we are. What changed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a baker.”

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

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

“Oh, you have a bakery?”

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

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

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

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

Dieter’s body tenses beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

Together.

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My name is Hannah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She picks up on the second ring.

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

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

“I only wanted them to know the truth—”

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

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

“How the FUCK would you know?!”

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

You clench your jaw and shake your head.

“I’m sorry for caring—”

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

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

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

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

Your entire field of vision floods with red.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

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

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

You end the call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

“Did I fuck it all up?”

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

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

You shrug and release a shattered breath.

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard,” he confesses.

“Oh,” you breathe.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

You fucking love it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another airy, depraved laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes—”

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

Fucking beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok,” you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face crumples up.

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

You kiss him.

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

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

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

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

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

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thedreamsmith · 2 years

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Aemond Targaryen NSFW Alphabet

I am a godless heathen and am currently procrastinating my WIP

Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

If they’re in their chambers, he will be the king of aftercare; cleaning his lover up and post-sex cuddles. If they’ve been teasing him and it’s after a quickie somewhere in the Red Keep, he’s more liable to tuck himself back together with a smirk and leave them wet and needy until later.

Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Aemond has trained both his body and mind into formidable weapons, but if he had to choose, he would say the physical strength in his arms – not only is he capable of besting almost everyone in the training yard, but also holding his lover against walls with minimal efforts and ensuring they can’t wriggle away from his clever tongue.

On his partner, he’d probably say their mouth, but not for the reasons you’d expect. It is so expressive, smirking when they’re being clever, tongue poking out when they’re concentrating on something. He adores it and how vivid their expressions are. It’s no surprise that the mere thought of their lips wrapped around his cock can get him hot and bothered.

Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Aemond isn’t hugely bothered about siring children anytime soon, but his favourite place to cum is still deep inside them; feeling them pulse around his cock as he brings them to the point of oblivion with pleasure.

Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

A consummate overachiever; rider of the largest dragon in the world, spending every moment training or studying, you’d assume Aemond felt the need to be in charge in every aspect of his life. For the most part he enjoys being the more dominant one in the bedroom, but every once in a while, he asks his lover to take the reins, and will gladly do anything they wish so long as they treat him nicely.

Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

After his less-than-stellar introduction into carnal pleasure on his thirteenth name-day, combined with his persistent insecurities about his eye, Aemond has very little practical experience with lovers of either gender. That being said, he is a very quick learner and has read more than a few books on the subject (not that he’d admit it, but he has been known to read torrid romance novels every once in a while)

Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

When he is feeling dominant, he enjoys having his lover perched on a desk or table, legs wrapped around his waist as he pounds into them. He enjoys having unrestricted access to their neck and breasts; marking them up in ways that are difficult to hide, showcasing to all who they belong to.

When he’s being submissive, Aemond prefers to have his lover on top, riding him as filthy praise spills from his lips. With hair like his, it’s no surprise that he enjoys his lover pulling his head back by the roots, exposing the column of his throat and leaving marks upon the pale skin.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

While Aemond is a generally serious man, he does have a sarcastic, dry sense of humour that often shows itself when he’s taking his time with his lover – teasing them and mocking their desperate noises as he denies them pleasure.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Definitely clean and tidy. The man spends far too much time on his hair to leave anything out of place.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Aemond isn’t one for casual sex. Even when things are fast and rough, he will still worship his lover’s body more devoutly than any shrine to the Seven. His first time with his lover is tender and emotional – it’s probably one of the first times they’ve seen him without his eyepatch, baring himself both physically and emotionally.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Aemond prides himself in his self-control, especially compared to his brother. So when thoughts of his lover consume him more and more often, he finds himself overcome with desire and needing to relieve himself far more often than he is normally accustomed.

Once he has become intimate with his lover, he much prefers to use them to sate his lust, rather than his own hand. He does enjoy it when his lover instructs him to touch himself, setting the pace and when he can cum using just their verbal commands.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Bondage, without a doubt. This goes both ways – both restraining his lover and being the one tied down. Also edging, when he’s in the mood to be cruel.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Aemond is, above all, the perfect gentleman. He much prefers to be intimate within the privacy of his own chambers, but if tormented enough, may give in to his desire in order to put his lover in their place.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

He is a consummate instigator and shit-stirrer. Getting his lover frustrated is a sure-fire way to get his dragon-blood burning.

Also, if his lover has any martial prowess, sparring with them and forcing each other into submission gets him going like nothing else.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Aemond does not share. Asking to bring another into their bed will be met with outright refusal. Also, he does not like to degrade his lover, or be degraded. A lifetime of torment has made some things too tender to be arousing.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

A God at giving head and he knows it. Will happily pin his lover down and eat them out for hours. Likes them to anchor their hands in his hair as he does so.

He cannot get enough of his lover’s mouth, and swallowing down his cock is a sure-fire way to remove every coherent thought from his mind. Would usually prefer to be inside their cunt instead, but seeing them on their knees before him gives him a rush like no other.

P = Pace (Are they fats and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Depends on his mood. If he’s come back from the training yard, high on adrenaline, or has had an argument with his nephews or brother; he is likely to be fast and rough, relieving his frustration with the sharp snap of his hips, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise.

In the mornings, or during particularly tender moments, he’s more likely to be slower and softer; savouring every inch of his lover’s body and the way they feel in his arms and around his cock.

If he’s in a teasing mood, he’ll combine the two; pulling out all the way, agonisingly slowly, before slamming back in just to hear his lover scream his name.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Much prefers to be able to peel his lover apart slowly, taking his time, but will occasionally indulge in a quick fuck or blowjob in a hidden corner of the Red Keep.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He’s game to try anything once, especially if his lover asks. He prefers not to get down and dirty anywhere they may get caught, however, as he is acutely aware of his brother’s reputation and has no desire to be spoken of in the same manner.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He is in peak physical condition, and the blood of the dragon besides; Aemond can go for hours. Even if he has already found his pleasure, he greatly enjoys wringing orgasm after orgasm from his lover until he’s ready to fuck them once more.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Frequently enjoys restraints and blindfolds. Other than this, he doesn’t use toys very often. Doesn’t really have any strong opinions on being pegged, but would likely try it if his partner asked, in one of his more submissive moods.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

The king of the shit-eating grin. Aemond’s temper is not explosive or violent, if his lover has displeased him, he will methodically spend hours either edging or overstimulating them, until they are begging for his mercy.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Quiet, at first, but once he becomes more comfortable with his lover, or when particularly turned on will be much more vocal. Tends to babble rather than moan – strings of praise and dirty talk falling from his lips as he comes increasingly undone.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Will absolutely bring daggers into the bedroom. Also has a fantasy of stealing his brother’s crown for a night and having his lover suck his cock while he wears it.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Big dick energy and the hardware to back it up. Thicker than expected for his slender frame, and at least 7-8 inches.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Until he fell for his lover, his sex drive was something he could easily push aside in favour of his studies or martial training. However once they’ve caught his eye, it’s hard for him to think of anything else.

Regular sex may calm him down, but he’s far more acutely aware of his lust once he has someone to stoke it.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Likes to hold his lover against him afterwards, also enjoys reading them stories until they’ve fallen asleep. Has a hidden protective streak that means he prefers to see his lover comfortable and asleep before he lets himself drift off.

#aemond targaryen #aemond #prince aemond #aemond smut #aemond one eye #aemond fic #aemond fanfic #hotd #house of the dragon #Aemond headcanon #aemond headcanons

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8iunie · 2 years

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Måneskin: “When you get famous, people just want to know who you’re f**king”

The global Italian rockers open up about discovering themselves, mastering fame and finding their genderless sound. (posted on 20.01.2023)

It’s late morning and Italian rock band Måneskin are comfortably seated in a swanky West London hotel room, already kitted out in signature Gucci, jet-black eyeliner, and clean-cut 70s-style statement suits. The quartet, an electric gleam of cool against a silver-spotted setting, are nonchalantly scrunched into a deep turquoise couch. Their suave image serves as a reminder of how far they’ve come since their early Italian X Factor days.

Over a year has passed since the group’s whirlwind takeover as glam rock stars conquering the Eurovision Song Contest 2021 and they’re showing no signs of slowing down. In fact, the band’s authentic image and relentless sound has earned them over six million followers on their band’s Instagram account — a figure greater than the population living in their fashion capital hometown, Rome, where the rock and rollers were born. Måneskin’s rise as next generation figureheads isn’t too unconventional, after all, plenty of breakthrough acts – ABBA, Celine Dion, One Direction – have cut their teeth on televised competitions. And as game-changing winners, the rock band are eager to start writing their own legacy.

Måneskin’s commitment to being more than a hazy Eurovision memory is not to be unexpected. The band have committedly popped where you would least expect them – the 2021 BRIT Awards, Gucci’s luxury Aria campaign, or Disney’s live-action adaptation of Cruella – reminding us that they’re not going anywhere. And, just yesterday, the Italian artists spontaneously flew to London for a glitzy one-off showcase to debut their emo ballad, The Loneliest, co-written by British producer MNEK. While they’ve marginally recovered, the band are still buzzing from last night’s sweaty reception at Camden’s The Underworld in front of 500 die-hard fans. (“Oh my god, it was like a sauna in there,” bassist Victoria De Angelis chimes in, her voice hoarse from the manic show). It doesn’t matter if they’re pulling off last-minute sold-out performances or rubbing elbows with Guns’N’Roses, the Eurovision victors are doing it in style: flamboyantly dressed and with a compelling sense of gratitude.

Now, whether they’re rocking fashion red carpets or main stages, Måneskin are ready to make their presence felt. “We’ve gained a lot of successful things in the last year and we’re really happy about all the paths we’re going through,” drummer Ethan Torchio says, gesturing to the wider band. “We never had a specific ambition to gain or to achieve anything. It’s all about how we approach it day by day.”

While the band may not have pinned their hopes on a specific accolade, Måneskin’s shared teenage experiences primed them for their rapid accession as one of Europe’s hottest rock exports. Forming at high school as a unified three-piece, Ethan Torchio joined the gang after responding to an online open call out for a drummer. This fateful pairing, alongside the band’s long-standing friendship has become the crux of Måneskin’s outlook. “We all have a very clear vision — we are very bitchy,” Victoria says confidently, smiling. “We have very specific ideas. Being only four [of us] and not having overproduction, we think that our individual sound really makes the difference”. Ethan, who’s taken to perching on the couch armrest, echoes his bandmate: “We’re perfectionists.”

As Måneskin’s latest album, RUSH!, dawns, the artists have been busy splitting their legacy between Italy and the rest of the world – from showcasing support for Ukraine at Coachella in California to bringing their rock and roll swagger to The Green Fashion Awards alongside style icons Karolina Kurkova and Elisa Sednaoui. “These two ways of expression (rock and roll) are ways in which we have always liked to measure ourselves,” youngest member Thomas Raggi says in accented English. “We like to alternate them because they represent the different musical souls of which the band is composed.”

Måneskin’s rock and roll philosophy is more than a reliable shoehorned statement. Much like their striking clothing, it fits like a well-worn mantra. (“In a younger age, it really helped us define our personality and stand out in some way,” Victoria says.) Growing up in a “very conservative country”, the artists found the music scene as an opportunity to experiment with their image as teenagers. Labelled as “weird” or receiving “a lot of judgements” wasn’t going to hold Måneskin back. Instead, the alternative act learned to lean on each other for support, she says, and strengthened their bond. “It really helped to have a purpose and have this project together. It made us feel reassured that we’re doing something cool and we were allowed to be ourselves.”

As the band found themselves migrating from headline to headline, they became accustomed to facing off gossip together. Ask them about the cocaine-meets- Eurovision moment and they all laugh, sharing familiar smiles with each other. “We were already so successful in Italy so we got kind of used to hearing speculation about us,” Ethan shrugs. “The huge Eurovision blowout was a good moment of our lives because we were all at a point of growing and personality building.”

But the speculation didn’t just stop there. The questions of drugs subsided and talk about sexuality quickly rose to the fore. At the time, a quick internet search of Måneskin’s name would lead to autofills poking questions at everything to boyfriends, girlfriends, and identity labels. “We’re not very touched by these kinds of comments. We all are very sure of what we are and how we want to show it,” Ethan responds. Although the band were quickly dismissive of the online talk, a bigger lesson loomed, frontman Damiano David reveals. “In Italy, we did not discover that there’s more than one sexuality until we got to use social media. Just like everybody else, I was [use terms] ‘straight’ or ‘gay’,” he candidly shares. Since then, the vocalist admits he’s taking on “more knowledge” to better himself as an ally — “I’m fully straight but this doesn’t stop me from being an ally. I’m on the side that has to learn new things.”

The band’s public discussion of identity has been one they’ve decidedly kept close to their chest, until now. “We understand people can get very affected by [speculation] because they’re making themselves sure of what they are and how to express [themselves] to their parents or to their friends,” Ethan empathises. As a member who has faced the brunt of opinion, the drummer pauses, choosing his words carefully: “[Trying] to guess people’s sexualities is one of the worst things to do — it’s very bad.”

A time that was particularly testing for the band was when Måneskin’s provocative Want To Be Your Slave music video hit the internet. A visual centred on sexual liberation and self-expression, the band quickly faced questions on their aesthetic and affiliation to queerness. “People are curious about it because it’s been quite a taboo topic for many years, it’s something now that other people are so interested in, not only with celebrities, but just generally with everyone,” Victoria says. She recalls times in high school where similar-aged teenagers would guess whether an effeminate boy is gay or not. “Like, who the fuck cares?!” she huffs. “People are really interested in the private lives of the artists. They look it up because it makes them feel like they know you better or it’s just to gossip or break a scandal.”

A brief pause falls over the band and Damiano shakes his head, prepping an answer: “I think it’s easier. It’s just not that complicated. When you get famous, people just want to know who you’re fucking. It’s just sick curiosity.” The inner-band debate strikes up again as Ethan proposes the media curiosity is fuelled by a misdirected want for knowledge and understanding.

While this is one the few times the band disagree, they respectfully onboard one another’s opinions as they take stock of the bigger conversation. The root of animated discussion breaks open as the members begin to turn the question inward. “I don’t really know how to identify. In the past years, I’ve been identifying as bi, but, lately, I’m having no interest in boys. I’m discovering [my identity is] developing,” Victoria says, her striped brown tie falling forwards. “I like some girls and then it changes to ‘okay, I almost don’t like any boys at all’. It is something constantly… It’s lesbian but also Harry Styles.” Damiano cracks up with laughter and Ethan quips that the former One Direction star is christened “the chosen one”. Circling back to her line of thought, the bassist proves she’s hardcore with her closing line — “It’s just who you are and you can really express yourself and I think this is like what matters the most and what we think is real rock and roll and freedom.”

Måneskin are no strangers to taking a stand. If you ask us, it looks like they love causing a bit of a stir. Mid-last year, the band, once again, caught headlines after Damiano and Thomas shared an unplanned kiss on stage at the Polsat SuperHit Festival. The band vividly recalls fans sharing the impact their music had on them. “When you get there and see how you can help thousands of people, it really makes you understand the difference you can have in that moment,” Victoria reflects. The group’s commitment to ensuring freedom of expression is larger than a few lyrics in a song – it feeds into their interviews and on-stage actions too.

“Being part of this generation it’s hard. It’s useful to take some strong positions on topics, because we need some strong actions. We’re just trying to do our part,” Thomas elaborates, explaining Måneskin’s move to be controversial every now and then. “We also try to improve ourselves every day. But at least you can try to find and to look for the right thing to do.” Lead singer Damiano backs up the decision to use their platform to back political causes. “If you have the courage to speak up about things, I think it’s very, very helpful,” he says earnestly. “We have to be able to understand when it’s better for us to take a step back and let those really affected people talk about it, because we are just allies and we’re not getting discriminated against, but we can try to be empathetic and use our voice and our power to help everybody.”

The four-piece have chalked up a reputation for being unpredictable and stylishly outrageous, but this consensus doesn’t sway the young band. If anything, their years in the on-screen media pipeline has taught them how to utilise the spotlight. It doesn’t matter whether they’re discussing music, tours or politics, the band inevitably comes back to the value of being authentic for their fans (“We just feel very close to them,” Victoria says protectively.) At the centre of their overlapping comments on friendship and frenzied life changes, Måneskin are humbly aware of how their fanbase supports them. The bassist continues, saying it’s important to create a place where everyone can be who they want. Pausing, she periodically slips into Italian, asking her bandmates to translate a term.

“It’s obvious everyone wants to be free for who they really are. In my experience, at first, I was so concerned and worried ‘who am I if I do this’ or that I’m something else or that I’m changing, but it’s [best] to not be worried about these things,” she says passionately. “We want to create with our fans and to put everyone in this healthy environment. And doing this really gives strength to young people or people who are in more oppressed situations to have courage to see that it’s okay.”

There’s no doubt Måneskin have distilled their lived lessons into this new record to create a rock and roll oasis. From beat-thumping inductions to media gossip to tongue-in-cheek comments on becoming the “kool kids”, the monstrous, hardcore noise of RUSH! has it all. “For me, it is a very personal record. It tells the story of how I came to discover myself and what I want to be as a person and as an artist,” Damiano explains. “All this frenzy led me to look inside myself, somehow I felt free to express a part of me that I had kept more hidden.”

The album is a chaotic amalgamation of crushing guitar riffs, full-throttle lyrics, and sonorous vocals sways through lines of Italian and English. Måneskin’s charge forward with spluttering drums, cranked up instrumentation, with songs pouring their original larger-than-life stamp into their broad rock productions. At their height, the band’s best tracks (La Fine, Gossip ft Tom Morello, Kool Kids) ignite like a blazing stage sign giving direction to Måneskin’s inevitable rise as one of today’s spirited rock acts.

An evolution from their gutsy sophomore studio release, Teatro d’ira: Vol. I, new album RUSH! captures the spark of each member. “Each of us had the freedom to follow our own personal direction. This time we didn’t look for the synthesis, the lowest common denominator between our different personalities, but we kind of added them up, exalted them all to the same level, and despite everything I think we still retained our identity,” Victoria shares.

With that, the band did not shy away from splurging on animated guitar hooks or fret over going too heavy with the familiar political zing of their rock tunes. Victoria adds: “We live in the concern of a progressive loss of people’s rights and we are afraid that this common thought is growing. In the track La Fine we refer precisely to this thought. Our music wants to be free and genderless. The goal is that people can identify with our message without having any definition of gender or category.”

After months of mania and unrelenting bouts of success, Måneskin are eagerly positioned to take on what’s next. And with a sold out arena in London already on the cards, it won’t be long before they’re greeting roaring fans once more. But, for now, as they savour the release of RUSH!, the band have found renewed strength in their amped up sound. “We have found our synthesis in diversity. This record is a point of pride and artistic growth for us,” Damiano reaffirms. And in a lesson learned by all, Victoria shares a final note of uplifting advice: “Never be afraid to express yourself. Always be free!”

WORDS BY ZOYA RAZA-SHEIKH

PHOTOGRAPHY BY FABIO GERMINARIO

#måneskin #maneskin #article #interview #january 2023 #my posts 💫#gay times magazine

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