#elias wilder

[emsartwork]

Half A Soul by Olivia Atwater is so so cute, had to quickly sketch how I imagine these guys looking

[mollykflood]

I read Olivia Atwater’s  REGENCY FAERIE TALES series over the weekend and enjoyed them so much I was compelled to doodle some fanart for them. If you enjoy books like HOWL’S MOVING CASTLE, STARDUST, or anything written by India Holden, I would recommend giving these a read! (Her website also has short stories from this universe)

[thereadingmoon]

abigail rlly looked at her mother loving her father and said “i, too, want a dense, temperamental, anti-elitist fae-touched magician who has never had an elocution class in their life to spend all my days with”

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Long-Tailed Feelings and Regency Fairy Tales

Olivia Atwater's Half a Soul was an absolutely fascinating combination of everything I loved about Regency romance and all the best bits of fairy tales. There are no "candy floss fairies" here; the fae are threatening, dangerous, and genuinely terrifying if you land on the wrong side of them. Let's talk Dora and Elias.

Unquestionably, the best part of this book is the unconventional protagonists. For everyone who thought "Mr. Darcy was cool, but make him GRUMPIER," I give you Elias Wilder, the Lord Sorcier. Elias is rude, curt, and utterly fails to suffer fools for longer than 0.0001 milliseconds. Balance that against actual brilliance, a very deeply buried squishy center, and an infallible moral compass, and he is one of the more interesting, prickly, and weirdly endearing love interests I've seen in a while.

Opposite Elias is Theodora "Dora" Ettings, who had half her soul stolen by a fairy when she was a child. He'd have gotten her whole soul, except that her cousin stabbed the fairy with a pair of iron bird scissors that Dora subsequently wears around her neck. The very cool thing about Dora is that after half her soul is stolen away, she only feels, as she describes them, "long-tailed feelings." This causes her all sorts of grief socially, and her mother and aunt never truly accept Dora as she is. The incredible thing is that Dora herself DOES. She is given the opportunity to reunite the two halves of her soul in adulthood, and doesn't do it. So I am here for and love a protagonist who owns how awesome she is.

Elias and Dora are what I would call an unconventional pair, but that quote simply makes them more interesting to watch. I highly recommend this regency fantasy fairy tale romance, and I cannot wait to read the next two in this trilogy!

[matchesarelit]

Go on then babes,

*ERBOH voice*

Who plays who YOU DECIDE

[taxinealkaloids]

my take on the agnes/gertrude/elias situationship is that gertrude seems like the most normal one to outsiders (she's less prone to arson/creepy mind reading at inopportune moments), but she is still the archivist and therefore kind of eldritch. everyone in the institute has just sort of accepted that yes, the archivist does sleep with her eyes open/is muttering incantations, and it's the least weird thing she's done this week

ok the funny thing is, technically, if by "most normal" we're going off of who is the most human, Gertrude is the normal one. but I don't believe for a second that that's how she's perceived among the rest of the archive staff lmao. like...all her assistants wind up dead, she actively works to make sure her filing system is the least effective one possible, she takes random mysterious vacations and comes back looking like she's just gone ten rounds with a tornado...I absolutely think that Gertrude has the reputation of being the eccentric on staff. I've prepared this diagram to illustrate my point:

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Wrangell–St. Elias National Park & Preserve is a vast example of arctic wilderness.

Photo by High Fliers/Shutterstock

[wanderguidehub]

Unveiling the Majesty: Wrangell-St. Elias National Park Adventure Itinerary

Introduction: Embark on a transformative journey through the untamed wilderness of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. This comprehensive adventure itinerary presents a detailed day-by-day plan for solo adventurers, families, or groups yearning for an unforgettable experience in one of the world’s most breathtaking national parks. Best Time to Visit: For optimal weather and activity availability,…

[viscardiac]

The pretty girl genes

My personal headcanon/fav wack theory is that the families with magic in their blood, like the Targaryen or the Stark, often have two phenotypes. The bulky phenotype and the pretty girl phenotype. I don't say this in a gendered sense, just as a general aesthetic. The pretty girl parts of the family are usually softer in aspect, and have those fairytale airs about them. The bulky parts on the other hand are the people that will scare you off based on appearance alone. It's not the sneer in their face or the wildness of their demeanor, it's just that they look like they could really fuck you up.

For the Targaryen, the pretty girl genes are dominant. You rarely ever get some dude like Maegor who was just massive all around. I mean. Aegon The Conqueror was just some anime twink. Look at this guy.

This isn't some dude you'd wanna cross the street to avoid. He's really just some twink. And most of the Targaryens are Like That. Maegor is one of the few exceptions, and I'm going to put in Maelys Blackfyre in that category too, but take at some of the most feared ones for having their heads up their asses like Aerion the Bright, or crazy Aerys.

Aerion is pretty even being punched in the face.

Aerys always looks like he's constipated anyways but he's still built like a pretty girl. You get exceptions that pop up once in a lifetime when the stars and planets align and someone manages to get the bulky genes from both sides.

Now, for the Stark, and i'm probably guessing the north in general, considering they come from a different lineage/ethnicity altogether, have some different shit going on. The Targaryen got, from outsiders to the house, andal blood (Arryn, Martell [rhoynar too, in this case]). In theory, the Dayne were of the first men, but with the andal invasion, there's likely been a lot of mix up, and the same is to be said of the Blackwood and the Hightower. The only arguably more direct line (though i doubt they haven't really married with other andal houses too) are the Baratheon. ...The Velaryon hadn't as much self imposed restrictions for marriage as the Targaryen did, so there's probably one shit ton of outside marriages for them too. I can be very wrong about all this bc it's pretty hard to track when we don't have all that much info on family trees, but honestly i don't care, this is my wack theory and you'll bear with me. The Targaryen are fairly easier to track because of the, yknow, whole incest business.

The north doesn't really get on with outsiders, though. They pretty much stay there, doing their thing, trying very hard not to stick themselves in all this court bullshit. For the Stark line, mostly only the daughters married people from the outside, meaning they don't partake in the main line, and are instead accounted for in other family trees. The women who weren't northeners are Blackwoods, who have, though likely joined with andals on the long run, a first men origin, and one Catelyn Tully, who has this same claim to her bloodline. I don't count the Manderly as outsiders, seeing as they, as the Stark and most if not all of the north, a claim to the first men origin.

Now, the Starks often seem to be the imposing, bulky type that we don't really see all that often with the Targaryen. They all mostly seem tall and imposing from the accounts we have. We'll say for this purpose, the pretty girl genes are actually recessive for them. The only two described Stark women that aren't Catelyn's Arya or Sansa are Alarra Stark, who was described by her father as "as sweet to look upon as any southron lady", and Lyanna, The Lyanna. Lyanna wasn't described to be beautiful in the same way that Elia was, being wild and slim where Elia was delicate. I am a firm believer of pretty girl Lyanna -- though, yes, i don't think she was pretty in the same manner as ladies from other ethnicities were, all pretty girls, but different brand of pretty girl. North pretty girl is wilder and all that.

And then we get to what for me is the funny part. I know, I know, not all of us like or are into the R+L=J theory, but I do, and since this is my post only my opinion matters. Whatever was the nature of the relationship between them, we get lil pretty Jon. Jon always gets described as pretty. He's prettier than daughters, he gets confused for a girl a time or two if i remember it right, and in comparison to what Robb looks like, Tully features aside, he looks way softer. This doesn't seem to have been a problem Ned Stark had, from what was told so far, to have been to pretty it became annoying.

Rhaegar, however, was never really different from what a Targaryen man was expected to look like. People already expected them to look pretty and soft and graceful and stare into the distance after something no one else could understand.

What I'm saying is that Jon managed to snag TWO DIFFERENT TYPES OF PRETTY GIRL. That's why he's Like That.

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

[prolix-yuy]

The Plan (and All its Iterations)

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader Editor "Murch"

Summary: Capturing the attention of infamous actor, drug addict, man slut, hot mess Dieter Bravo was not on your bingo card. But when he invites you to a house party you have to come to grips with the fact that he’s offering you much more than a few free drinks. 

Word Count: 12.2k (I KNOW it was meant to be a oneshot and it became a whole meal)

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, descriptions of male and female bodies, soft drug use (weed), implied hard drug use, alcohol, oral sex (f-receiving, implied m-receiving), fingering (f-receiving), rimming, safe PiV sec (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool), Bi Dieter, use of sex toys (pretty tame tbh), dirty talk like whoa, unexpected feelings, lil bit of angst.

Notes: This was meant to be a sloppy little Dieter smutfest and whoops, I spilled some feelings on it. But it’s mostly filth. Take this as all of the slutty Dieter I didn’t get to show in Below the Line, but desperately wanted to share. Not Bubble compliant but does anyone really care? Settle in for the show, my lovelies, Dieter does like to perform. 

Cross-posted on AO3

Best Laid Plans Masterlist

It doesn’t matter where you stand, sit, or turn at this party, you can feel Dieter watching you. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t get conned into one of these, but he finally hit you where it hurt; your treacherous heart.

“C’mon Murch, just come for a little while. You know you’ll have fun. I’ve got all the best snacks, treats, a pool…” Dieter’s smile is just short of lecherous, hands splayed across your workstation as you click through another set of takes. You quirk a smile at his moniker for you - Walter Murch, king of editing, and the least attractive nickname you’ve ever received - and keep working. He’s distracting as always, but today it’s just that little bit more annoying.

“I’ve got a deadline, Di, leave me alone.”

The casual “acquaintanceship” you’d struck up with Dieter Bravo had started over a bagel. You’d snuck into craft services on your trip to pick up hard drives, and he’d caught you dipping a blueberry bagel into peanut butter. After being mortified that anyone, not to mention a leading actor, had caught you indulging in a snack between long stretches at your editing bay, he struck up some conversation. Mostly about how you always choose the take where he’s flaring his nostrils too much.

“That’s not me, I think it looks dumb. Elias thinks it makes you look wilder, more unhinged.” His charming laugh had been the precursor to all of your ensuing meetings.

Being around Dieter was surprisingly easy, falling into a rhythm quickly. Not that you see him often, just when you’re sent on set for pickups or drop offs. Low on the totem pole means doing the runner jobs and sifting through takes most nights. Mind-numbing work when the best years of your life are being chewed up by the Hollywood machine in favor of making enough money to afford your four-way split apartment.

But when you do see Dieter, he’s always polite, chatty if he’s not practicing for a scene. He asks you about your day, your weekend, if you listened to the new podcast he recommended. Sometimes he flirts, which you try not to take personally even if it makes you smile after he leaves. Among all of your scattered interactions, he always ends the conversation asking you the same thing.

“Want to come to my place after, Murch?” He follows it up with an excuse, a new one most times. He’s having all the production designers over to redecorate. He’s got an early release of the film where Jessica Biel bends over bare-assed. His dealer likes a pretty face. You’ve heard too many iterations to understand there’s more behind the request. Up until a week ago you’d refused, and for a man like Dieter Bravo a simple no actually was enough. He was respectful, never wheedled or whined, but you could see the glimmer of “next time” in his eyes before he hid them behind his sunglasses.

Today, however, you were at a new low when he asked you to come to his house party. Your ex-boyfriend, who followed you to LA just to break up with you when he discovered you were more like a seven in a city full of elevens, just proposed to his new girl. It's premature, a recipe for disaster, but it doesn’t ease the sting of seeing him on Instagram looking like it’s the happiest day of his life.

You should have blocked him months ago.

So now Dieter is hovering over you, large hands glinting with rings splayed over your work surface, notes crinkling softly beneath them. He’s pushed his sweater sleeves up his elbows, exposing thickly corded forearms with dark slashes of black. You didn’t even think he worked out, but the muscles rippling below the skin tell you a vainer story.

When you dare to look up at him, you know you’re a goner. He’s all fluff and seduction, hair an endearing curly mess and sunglasses slipping down his gorgeously prominent nose. He raises an eyebrow, sensing the change in your mood. He even backs off a fraction, letting you breathe instead of crowding. Popping out a hip and tilting his head at you, his anticipation wafts on the air like the tartness of a green apple. You sigh, reclining back in your office chair. Would it be so bad to let go for a night? Enjoy some free drinks and conversation and possibly a handsome eye turned your way? Dieter leans against the table edge.

“You look like you could use a break. Have looked like that for weeks. And I have it on good authority that your boss will be so hungover tomorrow that he’ll call out. Mostly because I’ll make sure of it.” He flashes a toothier grin, lopsided as hell. “C’mon, one party. If you hate it, I’ll never ask again. But I promise I’ll take care of you, Murch. You’ll have a good time.” You almost detect a promise in his voice but dash it away. Fingers digging into your temples, you blow out a particularly exhaustive breath, letting the tension crawling through your spine release.

“Fine, Di, one party. But I have work in the morning, Elias or no, so I can’t stay out forever,” you concede. Dieter is already six steps ahead of you, gathering up your purse and jacket and coming close to unplugging your machine. Thankfully he lets you save and shut down before he ushers you out the door.

“Murch, prepare to have your standards for parties set way too high.”

He’s kind of right. Dieter does throw an excellent party. The house he’s renting during the shoot is huge, a modern monstrosity you gawked at as your Uber dropped you off. Dieter offered to drive but you wanted to stop by your apartment and change. Wearing a flirtier top and a cute skirt that makes you feel like you can belong, you entered Dieter’s temporary home.

The party is in full swing when you arrive, and you can’t make a half turn without finding someone serving you something. Cocktail waitresses with hot and cold canapes, bartenders shaking drinks that must cost more than your fare here. There are various bowls of pills around, joints scattered on a glass table along with pre-cut lines of coke. The martini the bartender fixes you with forty-dollar olives is excellent, taking the edge off your day and giving you a distraction as you clock Dieter around the house.

He manages to be in every conversation yet none of them at the same time, always taking leave of one small cluster to move to another. You stumble upon your boss, who does indeed look several drinks further along than you do. When Dieter throws an arm around his shoulder, refilling Elias’ glass with straight whiskey, the look he shoots you is nothing short of an “I told you so.” Seems like you’ll have a quiet day tomorrow.

As the evening curls later, the outdoor pool lit up and the enormous glass patio doors ushering in the breeze, you start catching Dieter looking at you. Not the way he was earlier in the night, keeping an eye out as you passed from room to room. No, this is much heavier, a literal weight pressing between your shoulders, making you look to see where he is. You’re admiring a painting and he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, hips jutting out and arms folded as he pulls on the joint between his lips. Or sitting on one of the shockingly white couches, a blonde extra dripping in sequins trying to hold his attention but he’s got you in the corner of his eye.

You’re lost as to why.

Dieter is well known around Hollywood as being a bit of a playboy. You’d avoided most of the publicity around it, not wanting your mind to conjure up those tabloids when you had to look him in the eye. Or watch his face for hours in your darkened editing bay. It was unavoidable on a few occasions though.

The parties, including the one you’re currently at, are his most infamous. When the story broke about the blowjob contest he held, challenging every girl at the party to blow a guy better than he can, you almost choked on your coffee. The cover story was accompanied by a “before” photo of him looking up through his eyelashes at a chiseled torso with those sinfully thick fingers dug into the jean waistband. The more salacious photo, a mere Google search away, shows Dieter with the man’s cock down his throat, tongue peeking from behind his wet lips and a satisfied gleam in his eyes. You had to practice not bringing that image to mind several times, which became all the harder when you were picking the best take of him sucking strawberry juice off his fingers.

You refused to think of him when you masturbated later that night. That was a slippery parasocial slope to slide down.

Then there was the rumor that he could make a woman cum with his tongue better than with a vibrator. Though he was supposedly just as good at doing that too. No photos, but many corroborating accounts did add credulity. You’d snorted derisively; he might be a good lover, but no one’s that good. At least no one you’d had.

This is all to say that you are lost as to why Dieter seems to have his eye on you. You’d assumed he’d be a ghost, fucking his way through whatever he fancied and chasing it with whichever vice pleased him. But instead he’s manspreading on the couch, a redhead this time trying to palm his dick over his pajama pants as he sips on whiskey. Even then, with this girl licking his earlobe and straddling his thigh, his sharp gaze is locked on you.

Arousal clutches in your cunt, and you weakly bat it away. No way. Just fixating because you’d said no to him so many times. You’re nothing more than a conquest he’s gloating over.

Or a conquest in process.

You feel your mouth twist as your drink sours on your tongue. Why did you entertain that thought? Dieter can literally lift his hips and be fucking someone gorgeous instantly, yet you somehow believe he’s interested in you? Never mind that his jokes make you ugly laugh, or that he’s offered you rides and sandwiches and an ear to complain into. You catch him again in the corner of your eye, his sly look softening to something like concern.

You're reading too much into it. Putting your drink down a little harder than you mean, you start heading to the bathroom by the entrance. You don’t want to be here, to be reminded that you’re playing dress-up with people who would never learn your name. That you were not the standard of beauty that would catch someone’s eye in this room of supernaturally pretty people. Why did you let Dieter talk you into this? He was the only one watching you tonight.

From behind you, Dieter’s voice echoes through the house. “Pool’s open, bitches!” he shouts, and the mass movement outside and to the water eases your anxiety. At least no one will notice you leave.

The restroom by the entrance is locked, so you venture for another one up the stairs. After a moment of echoey wandering, the party noise now concentrated outside, you find another. It’s huge, larger than your bedroom and decked out with a double vanity, shower, enclosed toilet, and a freestanding tub underneath a window. It’s the bathroom of your dreams, so you’ll be sure to enjoy it while you can.

Washing your hands with the most pleasant-smelling soap you’ve used outside a hotel, you hear a knock at the door.

“One second,” you call, hand on the knob and ready to exit. You turn it, step forward, and are immediately ushered back by large hot hands and a heavy wet mouth close to your ear.

“Fuck, Murch, did you think you’d be able to sneak away that easily?” Dieter rasps in your ear, slamming the door behind him and locking it. One arm winds around your waist and guides you backwards until he’s pressing you up against the vanity.

“Dieter, what the fuck…” you try to protest, but he’s overwhelming your space. His breath, laced with whiskey and some fruity weed strain, warms the underside of your chin as he mouths at your neck, using his strong nose to tilt your head back. His hand is braced against your lower back, the other planted on the vanity top that’s cutting into the meat of your ass, and your heart is racing at this sudden onslaught.

“Don’t pretend you don’t want this,” he growls, the slick slide of his teeth now against your jugular. He soothes the cool press with a wide lap of his tongue, leaving your skin wet for his waiting lips. You try to come up with a retort, a reaction, anything, but his thigh pushes yours apart and presses against your core with a subtle grind. “Don’t pretend you came to this party and didn’t think you’d end up here. With me.”

“Di…” you try again, but his hands clasp the backs of your thighs as he sets you on the vanity. You’re barely perched there, pressed open by those same hot hands as his thumbs circle your most sensitive flesh. The roll of his shoulders is all you can see with his face still pressed into your throat, back bowed as he fists your skirt up around your waist. You did change, did put on something pretty that he could easily slip those thick fingers under. Did you subtly wish for this?

Speaking of, his thumb trails over your dampening underwear, tracing the outline of your folds over the thin fabric. A needy, keening noise slips through your lips, surprising you as much as Dieter.

“Fuck, Murch, keep making those noises and I’ll make you scream next,” he mumbles into the top of your breast, loose lips dragging against your skin as he pulls the neckline of your top down. That damn nickname gives you just enough clarity to retort.

“Holy shit, Di, you cannot call me that with your hand up my skirt,” you chuckle out breathlessly. Finally Dieter lifts his mouth from you, leaning back enough to take in the loopy smile on your face and letting his own breathy giggle join yours.

“Sorry, Murch, I’ll find a better one for you. Something about…” Dieter’s eyes trail down your body to where his hand is still stroking you with teasing lightness. “Sweetness. Honey. Sugar. Sweetheart.” He hums at the last one. “Yeah, I like that. Can I make you cum for me, sweetheart?” he practically purrs as he slides both hands up tease at the waistband of your panties. The spread of them on your feverish skin threatens to drive you back to the brink of sanity, but you have to answer him. Dieter always asks, will respect your wishes if you say no.

“Fuck, yes Di.”

The wicked grin that graces Dieter’s face is the moment of stillness before he begins frantically pawing at you again. He makes quick work of your skirt and underwear, urging you to lean back and lift your hips so he can slide them down your legs. His fingers catch deftly on your shoes and discard them as well. The marble under your ass, slightly warmed, makes a shiver of excitement skitter up to your hairline.

“Fuck,” Dieter sighs, staring at your spread sex with parted lips and a glisten of his tongue swiping out. He’s mesmerized for a moment, hands gripping the vanity top as he drinks you in long enough to make you squirm.

“Is everything…okay?” you ask, and the quiet question sounds so weak coming from your tight throat. It brings Dieter back to himself, his eyes snapping up to your concerned ones. The daze is replaced with hunger, and he fists your top in his hands.

“Of fucking course it is,” Dieter snaps out, tugging fabric over your head and deftly unclasping your bra with one hand. In seconds you’re bare before him, perched on the edge of his vanity while his eyes smolder into you. “If anyone’s ever told you your pussy was anything less than perfect, I’ll blacklist him for as long as I have any clout.” The threat rips a nervous giggle from your throat and a shake from your head, but Dieter plants both hands on the counter and comes nose to nose with you. The sudden closeness has you licking your lips, half holding your breath.

“You are the most beautiful person in this whole damn house, present company included,” Dieter teases, a little smile at the edge of his lips but sincerity laced throughout. “And the fact that you’re letting a fuckup like me touch you tells me you don’t believe it. But it’s true, and I’m going to prove it to you about…three to four times, as long as my jaw holds out.” Your brow furrows at the cryptic end to his sentence until Dieter reaches under the vanity and pulls out a stool. Settling it between your open legs, he flops down and absentmindedly pulls his worn t-shirt over his head. When his eyes flick up to you from their vantage point level with your cunt, he gives a little shrug.

“I like feeling your bare legs on my back as I eat you out,” he states, and you’re stunned just long enough for him to scoot close to the vanity and press his face to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

“Oh fuck,” you squeak, making Dieter’s smile stretch his lips against your skin.

“Sweetheart, I’ve barely gotten started and you’re already this keyed up? Sure you didn’t take anything?” His smirk travels up to mischievous eyes as he locks them with yours, darting from your parted lips to your trembling hands holding you up. “Don’t worry, I’ve had enough for the both of us, and you’re getting the benefit of all of it.” He turns his head to blow a light breath of air against your folds, the wetness of your arousal causing your back to arch at the sensation.

“Do you want to cum in my mouth, sweetheart?” he asks innocently, shifting one leg to drape over his smooth shoulder and pressing your other knee open. Your words catch in your throat for a moment before nodding vigorously.

“I haven’t gotten by in Hollywood this long on implied consent,” he tuts, finally urging a “yes,” from your parched lips. He grins salaciously before opening his jaw wide and feasting on your waiting cunt.

“Fuck!” you grit out as Dieter’s hot mouth engulfs you, tongue sliding messily through your folds as he hums in contentment. He sucks at your intimate flesh, lips popping off obscenely as he fills his mouth with your arousal.

“God, sweetheart, you taste fucking amazing. Like honey-dipped mango,” he groans, dragging his tongue down, down, down to tease at your entrance. Dieter always got mouthier, more poetic when he smoked, and if that little aside was anything to go by he was only going to get louder with time. Compared to…pretty much any other man who’d ever pleasured you, it was pure erotica dripping from his lips.

“So fucking wet and delicious, been hiding this from me for too long. I could eat this pussy for every meal and ask for seconds, God yes,” Dieter moans between slick dips and thrusts into your quivering cunt. The hand wrapped around your thigh slides closer as Dieter lifts his head just long enough to suck two fingers into his mouth, wetting them liberally before circling your clit.

“Oh my God, Di, that’s…shit, that’s gonna make me cum,” you gasp out, and his chuckle as he drives his long talented tongue inside you only spurs you on. His jaw works as he thrusts deeper and deeper, curling it sinfully to brush against that earth-shattering soft spot inside. Your eyes roll back into your head - if he gives you a g-spot orgasm with only his tongue, all the rumors might be true - just in time for your arms to give out, making you slip backward on the vanity. The back of your head thumps against the mirror, making Dieter look up with concern.

“Sorry, m’okay, just…hah, just got a little weak in the…arms,” you finished lamely, but the scrunched up smile and snort you get from Dieter is well worth it.

“Glad to know I’m affecting you as much as you’re affecting me,” he rasps, licking softly at the crease of your knee as you feel him shift and rock under you. His cock must be aching something fierce. When is he going to fuck you?

“I’ve got my fill of teasing your pussy, now let’s get your cum down my throat,” he says, and yet again that filthy mouth of his goes back to work on your throbbing cunt. He drags his tongue over your clit again and again, fast hard strokes with a swirl that make your thighs shake around his shoulders. Your heavy breathing has devolved into throaty whines that make Dieter moan into your cunt just as loudly.

“Sweetheart, you want something to cum around? Want my fingers in this tight pussy?” he asks.

“Yes, fuck Di, I’m so close, give them to me,” you beg, and the dark growl you hear from between your legs is the precursor to two thick fingers pressing into your slick cunt. He’s achingly slow but steady, pulling the most wretched moan from deep in your chest as he seats himself inside you.

“Yes, you gorgeous thing, look at how good you look all stretched out on my fingers. Cum for me, sweetheart, I gave you my fingers, now give me your cum. Now.” With that rumbled order Dieter closes his mouth around your clit and works his tongue over it fast and fluttering, pressing deep inside you to curl against your g-spot as you crest into bombastic pleasure.

Your orgasm rocks your hips against Dieter, and he presses one thick tattooed forearm against your stomach to keep his mouth plastered against you. Chest heaving, tears beading in the corners of your eyes, you moan raggedly as waves of ecstasy drench your mind. He stays with you through it all, lifting his mouth from your sensitive clit when you start to whine.

“Such a good one right there, so perfect for me. Gonna lick everything up once you’re done, sweetheart, then make you a mess all over again.” His dark murmurings barely register as the white noise recedes and you sit up weakly.

Dieter’s mouth is slick with you, hair sticking up in all directions as he stares at his fingers with rapt attention, engulfed by your cunt. The cool press of his pinky ring against your inner thigh soothes your overheated skin. When he realizes you’re watching him, he turns his gaze back up to you.

“What happens if I want to make you cum again?” There’s no tease this time, only something like the first taste of addiction licking across his features. You huff out a breath, pushing yourself back up on your hands.

“I’d say that would be a lot of effort, but thanks for the offer,” you smirk, but Dieter is still buried knuckle-deep in you. He quirks an eyebrow, then still holding your gaze he curls his fingers deeper inside you, pulling out a choked gasp.

“Doesn’t sound like it. Sounds like you want to cum on my fingers again, sweetheart.” Dieter stands to tower over you, the wide span of his chest level with your dropped jaw. He uses his other hand to tilt your chin up to regard his smug smile.

“Have you ever had someone make you cum twice?” he asks, the cockiness and surety behind his voice making your heart thrum. You’d barely cum once with other men, half the time needing to do it for yourself. A tiny shake of your head makes that salacious smile crawl across Dieter’s lips.

“Aren’t you the most delicious little thing? I get to pop a cherry of yours, and I fucking love cherries,” he purrs down at you. You tilt your head back and toss him your own challenging smile, trying to regain some of the upper hand in this exchange but your breath is shallow and his thumb ghosting over your clit is making your words fuzzy around the edges.

“Might not be that easy,” you try to retort, but as you speak Dieter leans back and lets a string of spit drip onto your clit, lubricating his thumb’s new path. “Fuck,” is all you can say as he licks his lips and winks at you.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t hear that over how wet your pussy sounds.” God, you could hate him in this moment for being so cocky but he’s slowly pumping his fingers in you and teasing your clit with perfect pressure. Instead you push yourself up to press your face against his chest, the heat and light sheen of sweat sticking you together. He’s soft-skinned and smells like sunscreen and some expensive cologne that’s barely clinging to him.

“Oh, is pretty girl getting a little overwhelmed with all this attention?” Dieter coos, curling his fingers around the back of your head. You retaliate with a nip to his nipple, making him gasp and tighten his fingers in your hair. “Fuck, sweetheart, I love a girl who bites.” The rush of arousal to your core makes his fingers even slicker sliding in and out of you. You wrap your arms around Dieter’s soft waist, and his fingers slow as he buries his nose against the crown of your head. It’s surprisingly sweet, even though he’s still trying to pull another orgasm out of you.

“Like feeling you against my skin, gorgeous. So soft and sweet,” he murmurs in your hair. Your orgasm is ebbing gently, arousal still simmering in the cradle of your hips but you don’t think you’ll be able to cum again. You blow out a puff of air against Dieter’s chest and lean back, letting your fingers dance on the smooth freckled expanse of his back.

“I think that’s all I got in me for tonight. Not for lack of trying,” you laugh, hand coming down to gently circle Dieter’s wrist. He hums, tilting his head up and squinting like he’s thinking hard, then captures your gaze again.

“A woman knows her own body, but may I offer an alternative?” he says, slipping his fingers out of your cunt and straight into the warmth of his mouth. He sucks indulgently, the pink slip of his tongue darting out from his lips as he licks his palm too. It sparks more arousal in your belly but you try to push it down now that he’s parted from you. With his other hand outstretched he helps you off the vanity and back to your feet. Bare before him, his messily patterned pajama pants barely hiding a strained erection, you wonder how the hell you got here.

Oh, right. You said yes.

“What if…” Dieter starts, letting his hands drop to your waist. The press of his fingers makes you turn to face the mirror, and your disheveled state is a shock to your system. So is Dieter, now standing behind you, looking at you just as hungrily as when he first barged in. You wait with barely concealed excitement for him to take the pleasure he wants, strip off his pants and seek out the clutch of your cunt. Instead he splays a hand over your stomach, another coming up to cup your chin as your eyes meet in the mirror.

“What if I bent you over this vanity so you could watch me eat you ass and finger fuck you to a second orgasm?” he whispers in your ear, and yeah, that wakes your cunt right back up. It’s almost painful how quickly your arousal mounts, heat spreading over your skin as Dieter chuckles at your open mouth and surprised eyes. “What, never had a man do that either?” Your silence widens his smile. “Two cherries then. My favorite.”

“You don’t…” you begin to say, but you have no idea what the other half of that sentence was supposed to be. Whatever it was, it was conjured up to be interrupted by Dieter’s bared teeth and heavy push against the cool marble, pressing you down until you’re on your elbows and bent under him. He continues to hold your gaze as his fingers interlace with yours, pressing his heavy erection into your ass as he grazes his teeth against your jaw.

“I fucking do, sweetheart. I want it, I fucking need it,” he growls dropping his mouth to litter little bites across the back of your shoulder. The sting of his teeth, quick and intoxicating, makes your hips push back against him. He groans in response.

“You can do whatever you want to me after I have my way with you, sweetheart. Spank me, strap me, edge me, I’ll take everything you give me if you let me taste all of you.” The shudder that wrecks your body precedes the verbal “yes”.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he breathes into your skin before lifting off you, heat now absent from your back. You almost ask for him to stay, but he’s back to sitting behind you and all you can do is gasp as his large hands grip your ass cheeks and spread them to his gaze.

“Fuck, how are you so fucking pretty everywhere?” he asks, a tender fingertip smoothing over the tight ring of muscle he’s ogling. You jump, the sensation foreign, but he hushes you with soft strokes over your ass and down your thighs.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he croons, and the familiar stroke of his fingers finding your clit again is paired with the unfamiliar swirl of a tongue against your back entrance. The choked noise you let out is undignified and louder than you intend, but so warranted as Dieter begins laving soft strokes while rolling your clit between his fingers.

You try to settle into the sensations but can’t get out of your own head. Not when Dieter’s whole face is pressed into you, hot puffs of air fanning across your lower back as he prods and slurps and mumbles into your ass. Hazarding a look into the mirror you catch his halo of messy curls falling across his closed eyes, his curved nose pressed hard against your flesh. One massive hand is grasping at your cheek, kneading his thumb into the pillowy curve, as the other keeps sliding through your drenched sex, dragging languid strokes over your clit.

As if he knows you’re looking (or is hoping for it), he opens his eyes and catches yours in the mirror. The blissed-out gaze is replaced by a smug smile as he lifts up enough for you to watch the tip of his tongue slide up your cleft and disappear back into his mouth. You empty out a sigh when his mouth leaves you, anxiety finally reducing to a simmer.

“Relax, sweetheart, you’re so tense,” he coos, dropping open-mouthed kisses across your lower back and stroking up your thighs. “Self-conscious?” he asks, oscillating between teasing and gentle reassurance.

“Yeah,” you admit with a breathy laugh, burying your face in your arms.

“That’s okay,” he reassures you, standing again. He urges you to lift up and press back against him, his roaming hands searing paths across your stomach, over your breasts, circling your neck. “I just want you to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good.” You lock eyes with him in the mirror, which makes him smile slow and sweet. He looks more like a boy with a crush than a man with your arousal on his lips.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” he murmurs into your jaw, pressing a line of kisses along it. You open your mouth but the words don’t come out. Embarrassment sticks them behind your tongue.

I want you to kiss me.

Dieter hums right next to your ear, the vibration pebbling your skin.

“It’s okay, you can ask for anything. I’ll give it to you. Won’t even tease you about it.” His hands are tracing hypnotic paths, his words making you clench around nothing. He notices.

“Ohhhhh I see what we have here. You like it when I talk to you like this?” he gravels against you, two fingers lewdly darting to your cunt to slide across your clit. “I can do that, sweetheart. My biggest asset is my mouth, after all. Wouldn’t you agree?” You nod and bite back a whimper as he palms one breast in his hand, holding you against him. The other expertly ramps up your arousal, his eyes in t e mirror burning into yours as he ladles filth into your ear.

“Do you know how fucking hot you look all draped over me like this? I’d wear you like this to the Met Gala, show everyone how lucky I am to have your scent on me. And this pussy is made for my fingers. Look at how wet you’re getting for them. I’m gonna have to lick you clean again, can’t let any of that go to waste. Fuck, sweetheart, give me one more, please. It’ll feel so good to cum again, you know it. I know it. And the second one is always better. I want to hear you say my name when you cum. I want the honor of being the first one to make you do it. Tell me what will make you cum, beautiful. Is this enough? What do you need? I’ll do anything, I’ve got toys, I’ve got porn, I’ve got all the time in the world. Let me make you see stars, sweetheart. Let me feel you clench around me again.”

It’s working, you’re ascending and shaking and Dieter’s smile is widening as he works you faster, gently bending you at the waist until your hands rest on the vanity.

“I’m here with you, relax sweetheart, you’re so close,” he purrs, sliding down to kneel behind you again, leaving a searing trail of kisses down your spine. He has your orgasm between his fingers, and waits just long enough to press his tongue hard against your fluttering ring of muscle before he pushes you over the edge.

The pressure on your clit, the insistent press of his tongue in your ass, the hot brand of his hand gripping the back of your thigh plummets you into a wracking orgasm, harder and longer than your first. Your arms shake, Dieter’s hands coming up to steady your hips as you lose your balance. He holds you firm, heavy pants skating up your back as he rides out your aftershocks in the cleft of your ass. Once your breathing levels out, coming down to your elbows and dropping your head between your shoulders, he lifts his mouth from you. Leaving a chaste kiss on one ass cheek he sits back on the stool, stroking his hands along the outside of your thighs.

“Hey, c’mere,” he urges, pulling you backwards to flop down on his lap, wrapping his arms around your middle. You rest your hands over his, sliding your fingertips through the dips of his knuckles and tracing the length of his fingers. Pressing his mouth on the back of your shoulder, he drags his nose against you slowly. The scene in the mirror is softer than you expected; Dieter’s brow is smooth, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes that betray a hidden smile. The fluff of his hair tickles your cheek, your fingers catching on his rings or tracing his bracelets. He takes in a deep breath behind you, his chest arching your back, before letting it free.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” he says, tapping your thigh to get you to stand. Your expression falters for a moment. Not that you want to argue with him about giving you two fantastic orgasms, but he’s still in those pajama bottoms with a rock hard cock against your ass. You stand, eyes flitting over him but trying to keep the dreamy smile on your face. He gives your ass a light little slap with a lopsided smile before moving to the shower and turning it on. One hand under the stream to temp it, he motions you over.

“I’ll be back in a few, take as long as you want,” he says, and you nod and smile. He’s got an equally fond one on, thumbing your chin before shutting the glass door behind you.

Steam fogs up the shower surround as you step under the spray, glorious heat and pressure soothing any aches out of your bones. You watch Dieter scurry around the bathroom, picking up clothing and replacing the vanity stool. He leaves, shutting the door behind him, and giving you plenty of time with your thoughts.

You don’t know what to do now. As much fun as you’d had with Dieter’s devotions, you assumed he’d want some reciprocation. You’d have happily taken him into your mouth, your cunt, your hand even, but all he did was grind his thick length against you a few times. Did he not find you attractive enough to fuck? Or maybe he was waiting for something from you, something you hadn’t given him. What had you done to make him think you didn’t want him now? Your rushing mind began tainting the pleasurable evening, making you scrutinize for mistakes you’d made, or missteps you’d taken. Maybe you just weren’t up to par with what he wanted. Maybe you were too cold, too boring, too little too late to keep his attention.

The smallest, ugliest voice inside your head whispered that he didn’t even kiss you. That revelation hurt the most, made you stop sudsing your skin and breathe through the gut-wrench. He’d put his mouth on most of your body except against your lips. If he didn’t even want to kiss you, of course he didn’t want to fuck you. You don’t know what he gets out of rocking your world - maybe just an ego boost, debauching the girl he could never convince to come out - but it’s making you tight-chested and warbly as you spiral.

You shut off the shower and reach for the plushest towel you’ve ever felt, drying yourself off quickly. You’ll get dressed and slip out while Dieter rejoins the party. Don’t think about him bragging to the other socialites and Hollywood elites about what he was just doing. Be faceless and invisible and get out. You steel yourself to this choice before realizing that your clothing is nowhere to be found.

Fuck.

Just then Dieter creaks the door open a crack, sliding in when he sees you wrapped in a towel. He’s got a handful of fabric in his hands, a cocky smile on his face as he looks you up and down. It reminds you of that hungry look he had when he first burst in, before the sourness of your inner monologue turned your stomach.

“Sorry, took me a few minutes to find Maria, I meant to get in with you,” he says, placing the fabric in your hands. The quick admission sparks hope in your chest. “She’s laundering your clothes, they’ll be ready in the morning. In the meantime, you can wear this.” It’s a well-worn tan T-shirt, large and loose enough that it looks like it might be closer to a night dress. It doesn’t even look like it once fit Dieter. The thought closes your throat up.

He has a designated shirt for casual fucks.

You smile and thank him, swallowing down the words you want to ask. He’s strangely perceptive though, more so than you thought.

“Hey, you okay? I thought you might be uncomfortable bare-assing it around the place, if you don’t like it I can find something else.” You shake your head, images of offered clothing from other flings swimming past your eyes.

“It’s fine, it’ll work just fine,” you wave him off, trying to force a smile on your face but it’s more effort than you expected. Dieter regards you with caution, his hands splayed on the vanity he just ate you out on as he leans back against it. He lets the silence linger, but his concerned eyes speak volumes.

“I didn’t think…” you finally huff out, surprised that you were actually going to voice this. Dieter smirks, his patience rewarded.

“Didn’t think I’d have a bed for you after? There’s a guest room, I would never throw a girl out after all that,” he smirks. His banter isn’t helping, and the fact that you’re being relegated to a guest room sinks a pit in your stomach. So that’s it. A nicety after everything.

“Thanks, Di,” you say quietly, dropping the towel to slip the shirt over your head. It covers enough that you can get to the privacy of the room. “Actually…” you start, the words tumbling from your mouth. “Sorry, I just didn’t think that you’d…want me to stay.”

Silence hangs between you and Dieter, you worrying at your lower lip, him shaking his head with a smug little smile.

“Why’s that?” he says, and at the same time you speak your truths.

“- Because I didn’t fuck you?”

“- Because you didn’t kiss me.”

You wait for a retort, or for Dieter to chuckle like you’re some naive little extra who sucked his dick thinking she’d get her big break. Instead you’re met with silence and dare to peek up at him.

Dieter’s smarmy smile and raised brow slowly soften, the purposefully casual lean replaced by a more aimless stance, hands rubbing along his outer thighs and feet shifting. His eyes dart around the bathroom as though looking for some sort of trick, a hidden camera, a paparazzi. The silence wrenches your gut even sharper.

“Sorry, that was…that was silly, I shouldn’t have said…shit, I think I’m just…gonna go…” you stammer, moving to walk past Dieter and out to your designated quick fuck bed, but his hands shoot out and wrap around your upper arms.

“Wait, wait, Murch,” he says, that ridiculous nickname back on his lips before he shakes his head and says your actual name. You still and wait, arms crossed over your chest as Dieter’s fingers rub unconsciously against the borrowed shirt.

“Wow, I just…wasn’t expecting that. Um. Yeah. Fuck. I didn’t think…you wanted that. To kiss me.” His voice drops lower, raspier as he drags his hands down to your elbows. His eyes are fixed on your lips now, swallowing hard as his teeth peek out to pinch at the plushness of his own.

“Don’t the people you sleep with want to kiss you?” Your gentle ask is met with a grimace and a halfhearted shrug, his gaze sliding over to your shoulder. It makes you want to hold him, so you do, cupping his scruffy face with your hands.

Because you now see Dieter Bravo, for all his playboy bravado, does not believe he’s worthy of affection.

He takes pride in how good he satisfies his partners, but doesn’t expect them to reciprocate. He’s a page in a tabloid, a rumor circling the internet, a persona based on how many partners he’s blown through and how many times he can debauch them. But they get their fuck and their story and leave, and they don’t even kiss him. How could they not want to the moment they see him?

“I wanted to kiss you,” you say, softly, thumb stroking a little bald patch in his beard. He huffs, discomfort radiating, but you keep your grounding hands on him. “When you held me in front of the mirror, and asked me what I wanted, I wanted to kiss you.”

Dieter’s face is warring with emotions as his hands fall to your waist, bunching the fabric there lightly.

“I’m not used to people wanting that,” he says, and one hand comes up to cup your neck, his broad palm wrapping you with heat.

“Can I kiss you, Dieter?” you coo as you move into his space, slipping your fingers into his wild locks and brushing his nose with yours in the barest of touches. He licks his lips and with a brief nod, he agrees.

Your lips touching gently, softly, raises the baby hairs on the back of your neck. God, fuck every person who made him feel like he wasn’t worthy of the simplest form of affection, his mouth is sublime. The short bristles of his mustache tickle your upper lip as you indulge, his plump lower one fitting perfectly against you. He barely moves, letting you guide him down and determine the pressure and length of time he gets to spend sealed to you. The tentative press of his mouth against yours lets you know he’s present, and when you part he keeps your foreheads pressed together with his hand on your neck.

His first breath is shaky, warm peppermint caressing your chest. His eyes are closed, a tiny furrow in his brow as he takes another slow breath. You slide your fingers through his thick curls, and the sigh that empties out of him quirks a corner of your mouth.

“Good?” you tease softly, and Dieter pulls back enough to look you in the eye. His pupils are blown wider than you’ve seen all night.

“Perfect,” he breathes, then, “sweetheart,” and his mouth is on yours again.

Where your first kiss was soft and hesitant, now Dieter’s mouth is slotting against yours, pulling you flush against him to wrap in his arms. He cradles the back of your head as he drinks you in, frantic movements and keens seeded into your mouth. You wind your arms around his neck, pulled up on your toes as he devours you. Your lips part on a tiny gasp and he dips his tongue inside, a barely-there swipe against yours asking permission. With a suck of that full lower lip into your mouth you give him everything, and he accepts.

Dieter’s possessive hands hold you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. He barely gives you time to breathe before licking into you with fervor, sliding your tongues together and exploring every corner of your hot mouth. When he parts from you he presses smaller, chaste kisses along your jaw, on the apples of your cheeks, a sweet one on the tip of your nose. He’s mapping your face with his lips but never strays far from your own.

Finally, after however many minutes of devotion he offers at your altar, Dieter pulls back and presses your foreheads together again, this time with both hands cradling your face.

“Jesus Christ, I'm an idiot,” is the first thing he says, a wave of giggles washing over you. He joins you with some hiccupy laughs, stroking his thumbs over your cheekbones.

“Okay, okay, let me try to…fucking explain myself because you gotta be confused,” he says, circling you in his arms and leaning back to look you in the face. His lips are pink and swollen, and you can’t help but steal another quick kiss at how delectable they look. His eyes drift closed before he shakes his head and takes a deep breath.

“Focus, Bravo,” he scolds, and the sterner face he puts on makes you giggle yet again.

“Okay so, I fucked up a little tonight. I meant to pace myself with my usual recreationals, but I was…nervous, or excited, or something, that you were coming. And I wasn’t paying enough attention to my dosing and I pushed myself over the line…more than I intended.” Your brow furrowed at his words, making him grimace with a sheepish smile. “I uh, can’t get hard for too long if I have too much blow, and that is…what I did tonight. And believe me, I am fucking disappointed in myself for not being more careful about that.” The threads start coming together now as you listen, arms loose around Dieter’s broad shoulders. “Because I had a plan, but I knocked my main guy out of the ring before the match even started!” At this you start full-body laughing, Dieter’s sparkling smile joining you as you snort against his chest. He laughs too, pressing a kiss against the top of your head. Once you get your fit under control he continues.

“So I had a plan B, but then it looked like you were going to leave, and sweetheart, I absolutely could not let you walk out that door. Not after you finally came here, looking so goddamn pretty. So this was, um, plan…C. Maybe D.”

“D for Dieter Bravo making me cum in a bathroom?” you quip back, eliciting another smile. You liked making him do that.

“Yeah, something like that. But not what you deserve.” He smooths a hand up your back, his eyes softening. “Let me make it up to you?” There is dark chocolatey promise in that phrase that sends a tingle up your spine. You tap a finger against your chin in contemplation.

“That depends. What was plan A?” you ask with curiosity. Dieter sighs and turns his head up to the ceiling.

“That when everyone went out to the pool I was going to ask if you wanted a tour of the house. There’s supposedly a Mondrian in the basement but I took a look and I think it’s a fake.” He tips his head back down and there’s mischief in his eyes now. “Then I was going to take you upstairs to the balcony and make you cum on my fingers as we watched the pool party. And do it again with my tongue as I draped you over my bed. And finally, on my cock and whatever ways you wanted as long as I could keep you there.” Heat creeps up your neck as the more coy and filthy Dieter comes to the surface, but with a tinge of vulnerability still left in his eyes.

“Plan B?” you choke out, his eyes narrowing and smile becoming more predatory as he noses along your jaw.

“Well once I realized I’d fucked it all up and my dick would be down for the count, I thought maybe I’d just tongue you in front of that fake Mondrian until you begged me to stop. Then I was going to offer you the guest bed so when I woke up in the morning I could fuck you properly. Because you deserve the best I have to offer.” Your breaths are coming in smaller pants as Dieter’s hands wander to your ass and squeeze, the tip of his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. You fist the back of his shirt and his thick curls again, and a delightful little moan pops out of his treacherous mouth.

“But then I couldn’t find you after I got all the assholes outside, so I panicked. Caught you coming out of the bathroom and you looked like you were gonna leave, and I lost my cool. I just wanted you here, to stay, wanted your body and your sweet pussy and those hot fucking moans in my ear and it didn’t matter where I got to have you as long as you let me.” He pulls away from your ear and searches your face for a moment, taking in your lidded eyes and parted lips. “And now…we’re here, and…fuck, I want to kiss you again,” he whispers.

You meet in the middle, all tongue and teeth and lips as the kiss becomes frantic, Dieter stumbling back against the vanity as you tug at the neck of his shirt. His hand slides down your spine, grip at your shoulders, your hips, the supple flesh of your ass before he breaks from your mouth, lips spit-slicked and reddened.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps, cupping your face and laying a chaste kiss on your lips. “I don’t fucking care if I can cum or keep it up or not, I need to fuck you. Do you want…do you want to have sex with me?” he asks, his chest rising and falling in measured intervals as he tries to steady himself. You chuckle and turn into his hand, eyes sparkling when they meet his lusty brown ones.

“Yes, Dieter, been wondering when you’d ask,” you reply, and the words are barely out before he’s sliding back against your mouth, like drinking from your lips is his only concern. He parts from you with a relieved sigh, his touches gentling on you.

“It’s been a weird night,” he says with an exaggerated eyebrow raise that makes you laugh. His hands slide down to take your wrists as he leads you backwards out of the bathroom. The fresh scent of the house without the lingering smell of sex perks your senses, and you realize you don’t hear partygoers anymore.

“Where’s…” you start to ask as Dieter continues leading you down a hall.

“Kicked them out when you were in the shower. Didn’t want them bothering us,” he explains quickly, pulling you into him again and spinning you around so now he’s leading you backwards. He finally stops in front of a closed door at the end of the hall.

“Last chance, sweetheart. Once I get you in my bed, you’re never gonna want to leave.” It’s a brag, but the slight downturn in his eyebrows makes you think Dieter might be enjoying your company as much as you were enjoying his.

“Take me to bed, Bravo,” you purr, and he backs you into his room and locks the door.

The room is reminiscent of a fancy hotel, a sitting room adjacent to a bedroom with modern but lifeless furniture. However, it’s the most Dieter room in the whole house. Stacks of spiral-bound art pads litter the desk by the window, charcoals messily spread across the glass top. A pile of dirty clothes occupies half the couch, and pill bottles and small boxes litter the coffee table. All of the art has been taken off the walls and replaced with taped-up squares of portraits and landscapes. More than a few are lewd in nature, but that artistic kind you can kind of get away with. Through the double doors, a king sized bed takes up most of the bedroom, lit by gleaming moonlight streaming in through a sliding glass door.

Dieter takes your hand, lacing your fingers together with an intimacy you return, and leads you to the crisply-made bed. Without a shred of modesty, Dieter peels the shirt off you and sits you down naked in front of him. The sheets feel heavenly against your skin, cool and soft. You can’t help flopping back and enjoying their texture.

“I think we’ll call this plan F, sweetheart,” he husks, and with a slide of his thumbs under his waistband he shucks off his sweatpants and lazily palms his half-hard cock.

Your thighs squeeze, begging for friction where you yearn for him the most, as he strokes his hand up from the base to the tip. His head tips back, eyes hooded as he watches your reaction. In the half darkness he’s pure sex, the softer curves of his stomach and thighs clenching as he drags his gaze over your body.

“F for finally fucking you,” he says, fingertips teasing the head as he thickens to rock hardness. His cock is perfection, pleasantly girthy and sinfully curved, darkening as he grips the base and hisses out a quiet breath.

“Better come here, then, we don’t have all night,” you tease back, scooting up to lounge on the mountain of pillows and widening your legs. His eyes flash darker, leaning over to plant his hands on the bed by your feet. You try to put on a coy act but your heart is pounding, driving every desire to pay hard to get from your mind as Dieter drinks you in. You think he growls for a moment seeing your glistening cunt spread for him as you preen under his gaze.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me, sweetheart,” he groans, and in a moment his hands wrap around your ankles and drag you back down the bed, a surprised squeak dissolving into an even more shocked, “Dieter, fuck!” as he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his tongue right on your clit. Your throaty moans fill the bedroom as Dieter messily eats your pussy, splayed and arching in his bed. One hand leaves your waist and he’s pushing two sinfully thick fingers into your dripping entrance, finding the exact pressure and flick that pulls your orgasm to the forefront blindingly fast.

“That’s it, sweetheart, cum on my face so I can slide in this tight pussy,” he hums into your cunt and with a crook of his fingers and a sensual stroke of his tongue you’re cumming hard and loudly against Dieter’s mischievous smile. He gathers your slick in his mouth and drips it back onto your cunt, the slide of his fingers embarrassingly loud as he removes them.

“That is gonna stroke my ego for weeks, sweetheart. You cumming on my face that fast? After just giving you two? Fuck, I’m so hard right now, I might actually be able to cum myself.” You gasp out a laugh as you come back to reality, Dieter’s broad bare chest framed by your weak legs as he takes himself in hand, smearing your wetness along his length. “Let me put a condom on and then I’ll be back to wreck this pretty pussy.”

Dieter rounds the bed and opens his nightstand drawer, fishing out a condom and rolling it on with practiced efficiency. Looking back at you, he leans over and takes your nipple in his mouth, rolling the bud to aching hardness. His fingers drift to the neglected one and draw soft circles.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” he croons against the softness of your breast, clamoring onto the bed and scooting you back up so he can slot himself between your thighs. His eyes roam your naked body before settling back on your face. “What do you want, sweetheart? I’ll give you anything you want. I’ve got vibes, dildos, plugs, restraints, toys for you, toys for me. Anything you could ever want to make you cum on my cock.” Your hands come up to stroke across his smooth chest, tweaking his nipple to elicit your own delicious gasp.

“Is this the only time?” you ask, and suddenly the air turns heavy. You bite your lip, not intending to ruin the mood. “Just…was wondering if there’s time for those things…later.” You hold your breath but Dieter comes down on his elbows by your head and captures your mouth in a heady kiss.

“I hope to dear God this isn’t the only time,” he whispers, “because I want to have you in so many more ways than this, sweetheart.” The admission makes you pull him to back your mouth, crashing your lips together as he drops his hips and begins sliding his cock through your folds.

“Shit. Shit shit shit shit,” Dieter curses as the wet slip of his cock against you sparks the beginnings of another orgasm.

“If you do have a vibe, that’s the quickest way to make me cum on you,” you offer, and his expression vacillates between a pained ecstasy and smug competency.

“Who said anything about this being quick?” he retorts, laying a searing kiss on your mouth and a toothy one on your shoulder before sliding up the bed to dig in his bedside drawer again. You lay a breathy kiss on his stomach, earning a twitch and a huff from Dieter. He returns with a small bullet vibe between his fingers, pressing it into your hand. “You let me know when you want me to use this.” You nod as he slides back and repositions his knees, posting up on his arms as he watches the head of his cock notch at your entrance. You roll your hips at the insistent press and with a choked gasp slide onto him in a smooth motion.

“Fuck, you…oh shit, you feel so good, sweetheart, oh God, Jesus Christ,” Dieter moans out as you hook your heels behind his thighs and pull yourself down on him, his diatribe getting louder and more needy as you savor the thick ridge of his head pushing through your slick channel. You palm your breasts and Dieter practically shouts as you seat him flush inside you.

“Holy shit, that was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, sweetheart. Holy fuck, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, can I move? Please can I move, holy mother of God I need to fuck you.” His hands are gripping the sheets next to you so tight you almost hear threads rip. Taking advantage of the heady power you have over him right now, you roll your hips and drag him out of you before taking him back up to the hilt. His stuttering moan is a symphony of pleasure.

“Fucking little tease, do you like fucking yourself on me like this? Using me for my hard cock? Shit, I’m barely inside and I know this is going to be the best fucking pussy I’ve ever had,” Dieter moans, the bulge of muscles in his neck and biceps betraying how worked up he truly is.

“If you wanted me to use you,” you counter, sliding along his length with lazy ease, “then you should have had me get on top. Let me bounce on this thick cock until you begged me to make you cum.” You pause just long enough for the glint of Dieter’s eyes in the dim light to find you. A devious smile of your own curls across your lips. “Then I’d still make you wait.”

Hot possessive hands circle your waist as Dieter rolls you both, his head thumping back on the bed as you come to a straddle.

“Then do it, sweetheart. Bounce on me like the fucktoy I am,” he pants, and where he was dripping with authority and smug assuredness before, his voice is wracked with neediness now. It swells pride in your chest - the unflappable Dieter Bravo falling apart under you - as you begin to roll your hips along his cock. His hands remain on your waist, but he’s holding on for dear life more than guiding you.

The night fills with the wet sound of your cunt filling with Dieter’s hard cock, harmonizing with his groans and growls and your keening breaths. You palm your breasts and flick your thumb over your nipples, basking in the undivided attention of Dieter watching you like a succubus.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t think you could be more gorgeous but you, fuck, you keep proving me wrong. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you on my cock. I want to paint you just like this, so fucking powerful and feminine and…shit, you’re a fucking goddess, let me worship you, let me give you everything you want, fuck, fuck sweetheart, I want…I want you every way I can have you, give you every part of me. I want you to ruin me, sweetheart, ruin me, ruin me, ruin me,” he starts chanting, spurring you on to fuck him faster, harder, slamming your hips against his as he thrusts up to meet you. His eyes roll back in his head as bliss paints his face.

“That’s it, sweetheart, change me, change me, change me, sweetheart, I’m yours,” Dieter moans, and a gleam of wetness around his cheeks makes you lean over him. You were right, a slivered trail of tears is leaking out of the corner of his eye, breathing ragged. You stop suddenly, wiping the tear away as you feel Dieter’s breathing calm again. You hold him inside you, soothing him as he puts a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, sorry…” he whispers as you lay soft kisses across the back of his palm, on his cheeks, and once he removes his hand on his lips.

“I don’t want to change you, Dieter, you’re enough,” is all you say, eyes meeting as you watch the minute muscles of his face fight through self loathing, hope, relief, and finally determination before he flips you both again. He dives his dexterous fingers into your palm to take the bullet vibe back, sliding it between his lips briefly to wet it before clicking it on. The subtle buzz tingles in your teeth before he slides it over your clit, pressing his hips flush. The vibrations search for your orgasm as Dieter begins thrusting with short, rolling strokes, keeping the vibe pressed snugly against you. Your hands clench his shoulders as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Thank you,” he whispers, lips mashed messily against your neck as he angles his thrusts up to hit against your g-spot again. “Sweet girl, thank you. This is…so good, so perfect. Thank you.” When your mouth drops into an O he knows he’s found it, adding more force as he slides his mouth down to your nipple. His fingers wrap around the little vibe and swirl it over your clit in a pattern that makes you tighten around him.

“Shit, Di, I’m so close, please,” you beg, Dieter releasing your nipple with a soft pop.

“You never have to ask with me,” he says, and whether it’s a tease or a promise doesn’t matter when he punches up and swirls just right and you’re cumming hard and blindingly around him. Your hips snap and rock, making him hold you tight and flush to him as he shouts his own pleasure. He can barely move inside you, gripped so tight he’s baring his teeth as the aftershocks finally let you relax back down on the bed. You gaze up at him, wild-eyed, thrumming with tension and question.

“Cum for me, Dieter,” you order, and with that permission he snaps his hips quickly into yours, throwing his head back and bellowing when his orgasm rips through his body. You feel him pulse inside of you, emptying out into the condom as Dieter’s thighs shake at the force of his peak.

“Fuck,” he gasps weakly, combing his curls back from his face. You smile lazily, stroking your fingertips along his forearms as his fingers relax on your hips.

“Guess this is a night of cherries for both of us,” you say, a teasing smile at the corner of your mouth. Dieter huffs out a laugh, pulling out and disposing of the condom before flopping down beside you.

There’s a long moment of silence, only your rushing blood and heartbeat in your ears, before Dieter pulls himself up on one elbow with a groan. His fingers skim your wrist, taking your hand and placing your palm against his face. You gladly stroke along that scruffy cheek, your thumb tracing that extremely kissable lower lip. The look he gives you is the most puppy-dog expression you’ve seen on a person before.

“Would you stay the night?” he asks, and the light touch of uncertainty makes your heart flutter.

“In the guest bed?” you reply innocently, and Dieter shakes his head with an incredulous look.

“Fuck no. With me.” His eyes widen. “If you want to. You don’t have to, the guest room is all set up, and I snore and take up the whole bed…” You silence him with a finger on his lips.

“With you,” you agree, and Dieter smiles and nips at your finger in agreement.

Dieter actually doesn’t snore, you’re not sure who told him that. He’s a heavy breather but the noise machine covers most of that. He does take up a lot of the king-sized bed, but it’s mostly because he wants to touch you no matter where you lie. When you roll onto your stomach one heavy hand slides under your borrowed shirt and rests on your lower back. On your side he tries to curl up under you to be the little spoon, which makes a sleepy smile inch across your face. In the middle of the night he gets up to pee and when he returns, you now lying on your back, he crawls up your body and settles between your thighs, tucking his face into the crook of your neck. It’s a little ticklish and heavy, but the sigh he breathes into your skin quickly lulls you back to sleep.

Golden morning light bathes you in warmth as you slowly come to consciousness. Your brain groggily registers that you’re not in your bed at home, the sheets too soft and the mattress too plush. You blearily look around for some context before you realize you’re alone. Alone in Dieter Bravo’s bed, where you spent the night after he pleasured you like a man possessed and kissed you like you were his only air. But he’s nowhere in sight now.

You sit up, back cracking but otherwise decently rested. You’re peering around for a clock, or where your purse might be, when the bedroom door creaks open. A familiar halo of curls peeks in, and the grin that graces his face makes you smile sheepishly back.

“Woke up alone,” you tut at him with fake annoyance, but are secretly relieved he’s there. It made last night feel less like a personal porno and more like something secret and sweet.

Then he comes into the room followed by a pleasantly smiling man pushing a cart. You squeak and yank the covers up to your neck, but the man doesn’t remark as he pushes the cart with covered dishes to the balcony. Dieter throws a secret smile at you as he saunters to the foot of the bed. He’s wearing a white cotton bathrobe, not the ratty ones he normally glides around in. This one looks like it would be more suited in a hotel, and when you catch the Ritz logo on the lapel you realize why. It makes his skin look all the more olive-toned and glowing. His tongue peeks between his teeth as he smiles at you, and your cunt is suddenly very much awake and very much slick at his attention.

“Thought you’d like some breakfast after all the excitement of last night,” he says, nodding at the man who leaves just as quickly as he came in. You catch a glimpse of the outside balcony with two chairs facing each other, a spread of food that’s easily too much for the both of you. But Dieter is what pulls your focus right now.

“I am starving. Where’s my phone?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows as you hear the door close behind your guardian breakfast angel.

“Never keep a phone where you sleep!” Dieter lightly scolds as he crawls up the bed towards you, his robe drooping open to reveal nothing underneath. You giggle as he drops kisses along the tops of your thighs, the soft curve of your stomach, the underside of your breasts. “The Bluetooth messes with your sleep cycle, and the signal your cell phone sends out increases your tech addiction.” You roll your eyes at his lecture and card your fingers through his hair as his mouth finally makes it to yours for a slow morning kiss.

“Hi,” he says, your noses bumping together as his smile dimples his cheek.

“Hi,” you reply, his body settling into yours as he regards you fondly.

“So the kitchen made enough food to feed an army, probably because they thought I had an orgy in here last night. The noise and all.” A laugh sputters out of you that you catch in your hand. Dieter ducks his head to drag his aquiline nose and full lips against your collarbone, tickling you as he speaks.

“So I thought we’d have breakfast, take a shower, together of course, then maybe we drive out to Santa Monica? I’ve been craving a corn dog real bad. And a walk on the pier. And then maybe lunch on the strip, a stroll on the beach, and dinner and drinks on Third Avenue.” Dieter’s voice is getting quieter as he speaks, finally looking up to take in your wondering face.

“Dieter, are you asking me out on a date?” you ask, and you can’t help how confused you sound. This was…not at all what you thought would follow last night. But Dieter is looking at you with mixed shyness and hope, and it’s filling your heart to bursting.

“Would you…like to go on a date with me?” he asks, and your smile is too bright to hide.

“Yeah, I would,” you answer, prompting Dieter to kiss you like you gave him his Oscar personally. Once you parted, a few errant giggles of relief washing over you, you speak.

“What comes after dinner and drinks?”

Dieter’s eyes darken briefly, sliding you down so he can hover over you, caging you in with his thick biceps.

“Something similar to what I’m gonna do to you now. Or completely different. Ladies’ choice,” he purrs against your lips.

“Then I think I’m gonna have to call out of work.”

“Already done, sweetheart.”

END

[deepdisireslonging]

Wrestling Threesome Fics

Andrade Cien Almas/Reader/Dean Ambrose : Choose Me (AR, A, Ficlet)

Bobby Fish x Reader x Kyle O’Reilly : Our Princess (AR, S, threesome)

Dean Ambrose vs. Shane McMahon for Y/N : Who’s It Gonna Be? (AR, F, A)

Elias x Reader x Roman Reigns : Chained to the Wall (S, Threesome)

Jordan Devlin x Reader x Finn Balor : Teacher and Student (AK, S, Threesome, no M|M)

Revival/ FTR (Scott Dawson and Dash Wilder) : Hands Everywhere (AR, S, Threesome)

Roman Reigns x Reader x Drew McIntyre : Cheek to Cheek

Tommaso Ciampa x Reader x Johnny Gargano : Just a Thing (AR, S)

[thepartyresponsible]

today i discovered febuwhump, and idk how many of these i will write, but i wrote one for today.

so here’s a short fic about bucky and clint for the prompt “difficulty breathing.” it’s not particularly whumpy, so i’m not sure it qualifies, but we’re all doing our best out here.

if anyone has any requests for the other prompts, send them in.

- - -

They lose Bucky in Alaska, which is bullshit, because Clint warned everyone that they should’ve let him stay home. “Fucking Alaska,” he says, to no one, to the inquisitive squirrel in the tree he passed half a mile back. Alaska, so close to Russia that it used to be Russian territory, snow-infested, grizzly-riddled, bleak, brutal, cold. Alaska.

They’re here chasing down some Hydra holdout, spending their free time unofficially avenging through a hitlist Steve doesn’t like calling a hitlist. Two days ago, as Clint reviewed the general typography of the situation, studied potential sightlines, prepared a packing list of all his favorite base layers, he’d said, “Maybe Bucky stays home, huh?”

And Steve, of course, had whirled around like a scandalized meerkat, and Bucky had sulked in the corner like someone just forcefed him a wheelbarrow of rancid lemons, and Nat patted him on the shoulder and gave him a look like You’re right, and nobody cares.

And now Barnes has fucked off into the wilderness, and Clint’s going after him because the others are busy Sticky Bandit-ing their way through Home Alone Hydra’s inventive series of booby traps, and Clint, because he didn’t grow up in Brooklyn or a bunker or fucking Manhattan, is somehow the designated wilderness expert on the team.

At least he’s been spared the indignity of nearly getting obliterated by a deadfall in the woods. Tony seems to be taking that incident fairly personally.

“That’s what I’m saying about Alaska,” Clint says, to the rock he’s passing. “Everybody’s got fuck all to do up here.”

Death pits, with hand-sharpened stakes. Christ.

It’s the mountains, he thinks, and the height of the trees. The way the landscape looms and shades and suffocates. Same reason so many serial killers ooze up from the undergrowth in the Pacific Northwest, like creepy little murder mushrooms feeding on death in the dark.

Clint’s from good, wholesome country, the far west of Iowa, where the land has the grace to lie flat and let you get a good look around. Not a damn thing sneaks up on you back there. But here, in the Godforsaken Saint Elias Mountains, even the air is hard to find.

The altitude sickness kicked in about three miles back. He’s got a headache like his skull’s imploding, and he keeps reaching up to tug at his coat and the layers of shirts beneath, trying to break free from the building pressure around his throat.

He hated the stupid spindly stretched-out trees until he left them, moved from forest to tundra, and then it was like the trees kept all the air with them. “Baby, come back,” he mutters, really leaning into the stupid, dizzy way he feels, luxuriating in getting dumber the higher up he gets, because the only thing up here that’s going to kill him is Barnes, and Barnes could do that at any damn elevation he wanted.

Well, maybe there’s bears. Probably there’s bears. But he feels pretty good about his odds against most of them.

Clint tries to remember which bears are endangered. One of the other STRIKE teams got in serious shit once for annihilating a nesting pair of whooping cranes during an emergency landing in Texas, and Clint doesn’t want to end up with that kind of note in his file.

Clint Barton, Avenger, known enemy to the animals.

Anyway, he’s not overly worried about the bears. He’s carrying enough firepower to crater several of them into the side of this mountain, and he’ll lie about it later if he has to, say it was whichever type isn’t endangered.

Used to be, he never lied on a SHIELD form. Since Coulson died, it hasn’t seemed to matter.

“Shit,” he says, suddenly breathless, and he slides into a crouch, chest to knees, heart beating like he’s been feeding his lungs through a straw. He wonders about his aim, about what this dizzy lightheaded feeling will do, but he doesn’t worry about it much.

If it’s Barnes coming after him, he’s dead anyway. If it’s a bear, a centimeter or two of variance isn’t going to matter much.

“What are you doing?”

That’s Barnes, of course. Appearing outta nothing, like the ghost of failed missions past.

“Fuck’s sake,” Clint tells him. And then, half-laughing, “I’m here to rescue you.”

Barnes crouches down in front of him. He’s always a little wild-eyed when the target’s Hydra, but the desperation on him now is quite the throwback. Clint hasn’t seen that kind of fear in months. “‘Rescue me,’” he repeats. “You can’t breathe.”

Clint rolls his eyes. He can breathe just fine. “Made it this far.”

Barnes nods, slow, and then tips his head. “Yes,” he says. “How’d you find me?”

Clint scoffs. It’s a real allocation of scarce resources, that scoff, but he commits to the things that matter. “Yeah, maybe you don’t need oxygen, but supersoldiers still leave footprints.”

“Barely,” Barnes says. “And I need oxygen.”

“Barely,” Clint says, just to be an asshole.

Barnes’ stern almost-scowl breaks apart, splintering with a quickfire smile, and then he’s Bucky again.

Steve wouldn’t get it. Neither would Tony. Both of them, they’ve been remade, but never unmade.

Hydra, tundra, cold. They should’ve left Bucky at home.

“It’s not that I think you can’t handle it,” Clint says. He takes a break in the middle for a quick gasp at the useless cotton candy air. “Just maybe I kinda hate that you think you have to.”

Bucky shrugs. If the cold bothers him, he’s forgotten that he’s allowed to show it. He squints toward the skyline and then tips briefly into Clint, shoulder-to-shoulder, before he hauls him to his feet. “Then let’s go home,” he says.

They should check on the others. But, judging from the radio silence and the plume of smoke rising in the southwest, they aren’t needed.

“Yeah,” Clint says, leaning into him. “Let’s go home.”

[300yearschallenge]

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5

"My God!" Charles Elias said. "That's awful! The poor girl..."

"Oh, yes, yes," the maid said, "Very tragic. But to see a troll! Could you imagine? There's whispers she might be cursed, troll-touched as she is."

"Are you done?" A voice rang out across the kitchen and a bolt of ice ran down Charles Elias' spine.

"Oh, Laura!" The maid said. "This young man here was waiting for you."

"I can see that," Laura said, glaring daggers at the maid, "You didn't think to come fetch me?"

"Oh, no," the maid said, "I was sure you would turn up soon enough. Besides, the poor man ought to know what he's getting himself into, don't you think?"

Laura and the maid both turned to look at Charles Elias at once, and he desperately wished for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

"I see..." Laura said. "So he's a gossip too, then? That's good to know."

"A gossip, hah!" The maid laughed. "He seems perfectly fine to me. Don't you agree, young man?"

"Uh--"

"Oh, forget it!" Laura snapped. "Come on, Mr. Park. We're leaving."

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5

Summary of Part 3:

The maid told Charles Elias about an incident in Laura's childhood. Her and her mother and father had been traveling by wagon back home when their horse startled and the wagon fell off a cliff. In the aftermath only Laura survived, albeit wounded, and when she was rescued she told people that what had startled their horse had been a troll.

Historical Info

Let's talk about trolls and superstition!

Art by John Bauer (1882 - 1915)

So the troll in Scandinavian folklore/superstition is a creature of the wilderness. There's like a quintillion different troll stories and their appearances and behaviour can be quite varied from place to place, story to story. Sometimes they're hostile, sometimes they're friendly. Sometimes they're human-like, sometimes they're very not.

In The Genre of Trolls by Camilla Asplund Ingemark, she summaries the varied views of trolls based on location in the following way:

"The Central Swedish trolls dwell in mountains, those in Southern Sweden inhabit mounds, and Norwegian trolls live in the high mountains. The looks of the troll may be pictured in various ways, but its ugliness is a common feature. In Central Sweden the troll can be of human height, whereas the Northern and Western parts of the country favour huge trolls (Hartmann 1936: 60–65)"

Since there's a lot of research that has been done into folklore by smarter minds than me, I won't make any further proclamations on the workings of trolls as a whole. Other than to keep in mind that views and stories were varied and different, but the throughline seems to be that trolls are often to be feared and avoided.

In the story of what happened to Laura's family we have a horrific and traumatising accident attributed to a troll. Obviously trolls aren't actually real (although Laura and others believe them to be) and so whatever she truly saw was most likely twisted by trauma and injury into something she had heard of in stories.

In my pictures I chose to have the troll look like a mix between a goat and a man, inspired by the following quotes from the previously quoted text:

"The ambiguity between human and animal characteristics is an important one"

&

"One troll from the Åland Islands shows itself as a he-goat with terrible horns and a beard enveloping the entire hill where it lives (SLS 59: 48–49)"

It intentionally looks almost like very typical depictions of the Devil, since after Sweden became Christian "the troll was assimilated into the image of the Devil"

Now you may be wondering why Laura is being treated so poorly when she was simply the victim of a horrible accident (and supposed troll encounter).

Partially this is just basic human cruelty. Laura, for one reason or another, was seen as an acceptable person to mistreat.

It is also a matter of people fearing those who have had encounters with trolls. People surviving a troll encounter can be viewed in a few different ways. Sometimes they are simply victims of unfortunate circumstances, other times they are transgressors who get punished.

Often in the stories mentioned by The Genre of Trolls the people who have encounters with trolls where they survive (relatively) unscathed are in some ways tied to the trolls. Whether it be a troll expecting a future favour or gift, or wishing to re-capture a previous victim. Sometimes in stories where someone has a non-deadly encounter with a troll they may be gifted a "second sight" of sorts, allowing them to see through troll-made illusions or tricks. In these cases the people are "trapped between different versions of otherness, first a supranormal otherness, then a socially defined alienness".

In Laura's case she is not quite thought to possess any supernatural abilities, but the people in the village see her as someone who could be at risk of either a repeated troll encounter (which could put others at risk) or someone who could unknowingly owe the troll something since she lived when others didn't.

In essence her being mistreated by others is them seeing her connection to trolls as a sort of 'otherness', and as we all know many people in the past and now don't appreciate those who do not fit in.

[romanarose]

Her Hair Reminds Me of a Warm, Safe Place

Marc Spector x Layla El-Faouly

Summary: Marc finds safety in Layla.

Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, childhood trauma, adult dysfunctional relationships, parents permissive of abuse, regular Marc Spector warnings.

************

Marc knew it was a nightmare, but he couldn’t wake himself up. You’d think his nightmares would be about Randall dying or of his mom hurting him or all the horrors he’s witnessed, but it was rarely that. His mind created new scenarios to torment him with.

Steven and Jake couldn’t protect him in his sleep.

When he woke up, it was with a start and tears in his eyes, the memories of the dream slipping through his finger tips, as did any chance he had at processing it or assuring himself it wasn’t real. How can he self-soothe by saying ‘It’s just a dream’ when he might have dreamed of Randall's death? He can’t say it wasn’t real when his back was littered with belt marks? His night terrors were often like this, he didn’t know what they were about, but he woke up shaking.

As he came back to reality, Marc tried his best to orient himself into the real world, and the first thing he registered was curly hair in his face.

Layla.

Marc smiled, breathing out and not bothering to brush it off just yet. It was a comfort to him, the thick curls, the smell of coconut oil, the tickle on his face… it meant he was safe. Layla would never let anything happen to him.

The few times Layla met his parents, they mostly went decent. Layla was friendly, fun, and wicked smart. Elias adored her. Mark new he always wanted a daughter, but Randall’s birth was an emergency c-section and Wendy nearly died on the table, sothey decided to not risk it again. So, when Marc called his dad and said he was married, he was thrilled to have a daughter-in-law, especially someone like Layla. Wendy wasn’t a completely different story, just different.

When you grow up in abuse, there's a few paths you can take in adulthood. Some completely cut contact, but Marc couldn’t do that. Sure, there were his wilderness years, and there were periods of Marc’s life where he was not in contact with his mom at all, but for the most part things calmed down after he left in his teens. As a 20-year-old marine, Wendy wouldn’t even try to lay a hand on him, but her words were almost worse during fights, and it pained Marc that Elias merely tried to mediate, he never really stood up for him. Time went on, and Marc was usually in contact with his mom through his dad if nothing else.

‘Your mom says hi’

Did she?

‘Your mom wanted to send you this recipe you used to like’

Did she really?

‘Your mom likes Layla?’

Does she?

Layla sood up for Marc the way Elias never could, the way Marc was still unable to into his thirties. It wasn’t like every visit was bad, most went well, Layla just countered all Wendy’s snide remarks and things said under her breath. The big fight, the one that left Marc and Wendy out of speaking terms before she died, was because Wendy made a comment, Marc can’t even remember what now, and Layla defended Marc. This lead to Wendy calling Layla and cunt, and Marc finally standing up to his mom; he couldn’t ever say a word to her when she said awful things about him even as an adult, but he’d be damned if she insulted his wife. When Wendy, likely only raising her hand in frustration, made Marc flinch, Layla stepped between them, deadset and determined to protect her husband, moon knight or not.

Marc Spector was Moon Knight.

Moon Knight was not afraid of his mom.

But Marc Spector was.

And Layla El-Fauley was not.

Safety.

Layla was his safety. 

Eventually, Marc rolls over a bit, brushing the hair off his face and turning over to pull Layla close to him, making her stir.

“Marc? ” She always knew when it was him, Jake or Steven. 6th sense, she called it.

“Sorry baby, did I wake you?” 

“A lil” Layla mumbled sleepily. “But that’s okay. You have a band dream?”

“Yeah, don’t remember it though. I’m okay now.”

Layla hummed. “Okay, Are you sure you’re fine? You can wake me, you know.”

“I know.” And he did. Marc wasn’t afraid of asking for help anymore, not from his brothers and not from her. 

“You need anything?” She asked one more time, always looking out for him, always loving him.

He peeked his head out to kiss her cheek, assuring her he was fine. Looking over to the cradle next to the bed, he glanced at their daughter, checking for that steady rise and fall of her chest. When he found it, he laid back down, Marc buried his face in the messy hair, drying the remainder of his tears.

“No baby, I’m just fine. Everything I need is right here.”

**************

just wanted to write a lil drabble for my Marcy Marc and wifey Layla

tagging a few who may be interested

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @howaboutcastiel @eyelessfaces @jake-g-lockley @whatthefishh

[chashmenaaz]

Be-naam fareha- Jaun Elia

UNNAMED FAREHA

Saari baatein bhool jana fareha Tha wo sab kuch ek fasana fareha

forget all the matters Fareha

it was all just a story Fareha

Haan mohabbat ek dhoka hi to thi Ab kabhi dhoka na khana fareha

yes, love was nothing but a deception

now never be deceived Fareha

Chhed de gar koi mera tazkera Sun ke tanzan muskurana fareha

if someone were to mention me

hear and smile sarcastically Fareha

Meri jo nazmein tumhare naam hain Ab unhein mat gungunana fareha

my poems that are named after you

now do not hum them Fareha

Tha faqat roohon ke naalon ki shikast Wo tarannum, wo taraana fareha

there was only the defeat of the drains of souls

that way of singing, that melody, Fareha

Bahes kya karna bhala halaat se Haarna hai, haar jana fareha

what to argue with the circumstances

have to get defeated, get defeated Fareha

Saaz-o-barg-e-aish ko meri tarah Tum nazar se mat giraana fareha

Do not let the luxurious belongings as i did

fall from your sight Fareha

Hai shaoor-e-gham ki ek qeemat magar Tum ye qeemat mat chukana fareha

there is a price to the awareness of sorrow but

do not pay this price Fareha

Zindagi hai fitratan kuchh bad-mizaaj Zindagi ke naaz uthaana fareha

Life is inherently somewhat unpredictable

bear with the whims of life Fareha

Peshkash mein phool kar lena qubool Ab sitaare mat mangana fareha

accept the offering of flowers

now don't ask for stars, Fareha

Chand weerane tasawwur mein rahein Jab nayi duniya basana fareha

when the deserted wilderness is in imagination

start a new life, Fareha

Jaanib-e-ishrat gah-e-shehar-e-bahaar Ho sake to milke jaana fareha

Towards the abode of joy, the city of spring

If possible, meet and go, Fareha

Sochta hun kis qadar tareek hai Ab mera baqi zamana fareha

I wonder how dark it is

Now, the rest of my time, Fareha

Sunn raha hun manzil-e-ghurbat se door Baj raha hai shadiyana fareha

I am hearing, being far from the destination of solitude

The wedding music is playing, Fareha

Mauj-zan pata hun main ek sail-e-rang Az-qafas-taa-aashiyana fareha

I know how to create waves, like a painter of colors

from the cage to the nest, Fareha

Ho mubarak rasm-e-taqreeb-e-shabaab Bar-murad-e-khusrawana fareha

Congratulations on the ceremony of youthful beauty

May your desires be fulfilled, Fareha

Saj ke wo kaisa laga hoga jo tha Ek khwaab-e-shayerana fareha

how would he have looked adorned, who was

a poetic dream Fareha

Sochta hun main, ke mujh ko chahiye Ye khushi dil se manana fareha

I think that i need to

wholeheartedly embrace this happiness Fareha

Kya hua gar zindagi ki raah mein Hum nahin shana-ba-shana fareha

What happens if on the path of life

we are not side by side Fareha

Waqt shayad aap apna jabr hai Us pe kya tohmat lagana fareha

Perhaps time in itself is tyranny

why accuse it, Fareha

Zindagi ek naqsh-e-be-naqqaash hai Us pe kya ungli uthana fareha

Life is an uncarved design

Why raise a finger at it, Fareha

Kash ek qanun hota jo nahin Zakhm apne kya dikhana fareha

I wish there was a law that didn't exist

Why show your wounds, Fareha

Kash kuch iqdaar hote jo nahin Phir bhala dil kya jalana fareha

I wish there were some choices that don't exist

why burn your heart, Fareha

Sirf ek jalti hui zulmat hai noor Taab-o-tabish par na jana fareha

light is only a burning darkness

dont be fooled by it's heat and fervor Fareha

Ye jo sab kuch hai ye shayad kuch nahin Rog jee ko kya lagana fareha

This everything that exists this might be nothing

why make the heart ill Fareha

Sail hai, bas be-karaan lamhon ka sail Gharq-e-sail-e-be-karaana fareha

It's a journey, just a collection of aimless moments

Drowning in the sea of purposeless journey, Fareha

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Book Boyfriends Tournament - Round 1a

Hey y'all. I got bored and decided that I wanted to try something, and we have polls on Tumblr now, so I am doing a little bracket for book boyfriends. (If this goes well we can do book girlfriends later.) I could be more specific about the rules, but I'm leaning into my chaos energy, so...just vote! This will be Mondays for a while now, and how this works is that the main post will have the bracket and brief explanations of who everyone is. Then, the actual polls themselves will be in reblogs (I'm sorry if this is cumbersome, I'm literally trying to work out how to not have this take over a year and I can't put multiple polls in a single post). You'll have a week to vote, and then I'll update the bracket and do the next round the following Monday. As always, please reblog for a bigger sample size!

This list is not exhaustive by any means; it's basically me staring at my bookshelves and putting together fun head-to-head pairings, so if I missed your favorite book boyfriend, vote and we can do another bracket where I include your favorite book boyfriend.

Here's Everyone!

Rhysand: The Shadow Daddy from Sarah J. Maas's A Court of Thorns and Roses.

Xaden Riorson: The Shadow Daddy from Rebecca Yarros's Fourth Wing.

William Laurence: A former naval officer turned aviator from Naomi Novik's Temeraire series.

Rian Grant: A colonel and sometimes spy in the royal army from Chloe Neill's The Bright and Breaking Sea.

Wendell Bambleby: A high fae cosplaying as a university professor in Heather Fawcett's Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faerie.

Elias Wilder: The immutably grumpy lord sorcier from Olivia Atwater's Half a Soul.

Numair Salmalin: A black-robe mage from Tamora Pierce's Tortall books.

Suhail ibn Ramiz ibn Khalis al-Aritati: A naturalist and low-key royalty from Marie Brennan's Lady Trent memoirs.

Dain Aetos: A rider cadet in Rebecca Yarros's Fourth Wing.

Wenzhi: A dark prince and celebrated general in Sue Lynn Tan's Daughter of the Moon Goddess.

Selwyn Kane: The Merlin of the Southern Chapter of the Order and the Kingsmage from Tracy Deonn's Legendborn.

The Dragon: The protector mage who is also deeply introverted and anti-social from Naomi Novik's Uprooted.

Ash/Nyktos: Yet another Shadow Daddy and Primal of Death from Jennifer L. Armentrout's Flesh and Fire books.

Darius Reed: Pratorian trainer from N.E. Davenport's The Blood Trials.

Domovoi Butler: The bodyguard from Eoin Colfer's Artemis Fowl series.

Nathan "Cujo" Hendricks: Gentleman Johnny Marcone's bodyguard from Jim Butcher's Dresden Files.