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yanderestarangel · 8 months

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⸺ 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 - 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐄 x 𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐁 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

TW: PORN PLOT, NSFW, SMUT, FINGERING, MUTUAL MASTURBATION, DARK THEMES, DIRTY TALK, NUDE EXCHANGE, AFAB ANATOMY, PET NAMES, DEGRADATION, JOHNNY EATS YOUR PUSSY BY PHONE CALL, PHONE SEX, DIRTY PHONE CALL.

You were having a bad, boring day, as you looked out the window, deciding to call your friend, Johnny Cage.

You wait a while, looking out the window at night, until you hear the incoming call tone on the other end of the line.

"-Well Well Well, hello my kitten, my most beautiful boy/girl in the world, how are you kitten tonight? why did you call me? is there a problem?"

Johnny speaks in his usual moody voice, cocky and smiling on the other end of the line, waiting for your answer.

You briefly explain that you had a fight with your boyfriend/girlfriend, as you listened to Johnny smiling and sighing on the other end of the line, the sound of some kind of drink being taken lightly echoed through your senses, as Johnny talked to you, trying to cheer you up with his jokes , or just listening to their vents, you just let it all out from your heart and soul explaining how you felt, while the Hollywood actor gave you some advice, the two of you spent an hour at it, until Johnny started acting a little too sassy, and he wasn't drunk, on the contrary, he was very sober.

"-You know (Y/N), I'm sipping a glass of wine and picturing your beautiful face in my mind, the thought of you lying in your bed, looking at yourself in the mirror, is enough to make me ache with desire, Say my beautiful (Y/N), do you like the idea of me imagining you? Imagining all the naughty things I want to do to you?"

You are curious and confused, as you asked him what kinds of things he was imagining with you.

"-Oh, my curious little kitten, you have no idea just how vividly I imagine the things I want to do to you. I want to make you beg, my pretty boy, beg for my touch, for my cock inside that tight little pussy of yours. I want to bend you over, make you feel my hands gripping your hips as I thrust into you, claiming you as mine. You'd moan and whimper, your voice filled with need, as I fill you up and make you scream my name. And oh, how sweet it would be to see you come apart under my touch."

You then see a notification, seeing a picture of Johnny's pulsing, thick cock, glowing with anticipation and excitement, making your body react and your pussy wet at the sight.

"-Now, why don't you show me how wet you got? Take a picture for me, my kitten, I want to see how much I affected you."

As he talks, you can hear the unmistakable sound of his hand stroking his hard cock on the other end of the line, his voice cracking slightly with pleasure.

You send the nude back, exposing your wet pussy to him, glistening in the dim light, your clit throbbing from Johnny Cage's teasing, the image is received by the older man and Johnny's breath catches when he sees your nude.

"-Damn baby, you know just how to tease me, don't you? That pretty little pussy of yours, so wet and inviting. I can practically taste it from here. Go ahead, kitten, show me how much you want it. Slide those fingers inside you, feel how tight and wet you are for me. I want to hear those sweet moans coming from your lips. Let me see how much you crave my touch."

You obey his order, massaging your clit greedily, using your fingers slowly as you listen to him on the other end of the line, Johnny's voice was mixed with the sound of his dick coming and going on the other side, with moans trapped in his throat, released periodically when he could no longer contain himself.

"-Mmm, yes my sweet thing, I left you wet because I can't resist the thought of you dripping with need. It drives me wild knowing that you're touching yourself, that you're pleasuring that tight little pussy for me. I want you to slip another finger inside, kitten, make yourself nice and stretched, imagine it's my cock filling you up, pounding into you mercilessly... Can you feel it, my pretty boy/girl? Can you feel how much I want you?" - His breath hitches, and his voice becomes rougher, more desperate.

"-Fuck, yes, kitten. I can hear how wet you are. Your moans, the sound of your fingers sliding in and out of that tight little hole...it's making me so hard, so fucking desperate to be with you. I can practically feel your tight walls pulsing around me as I thrust into you, over and over again. God (Y/N), I want to make you come apart, make you scream my name as you cum all over my fingers."

You could feel the wetness of your pussy increase, your cervix extremely hot as you moaned for Johnny to hear, you soon decided to send him a video, showing his effect on you, increasing the heat of the forbidden connection that was happening there, he receives the video of you fingering yourself, becoming even more hard and needy to feel you with him.

"-Fuck, you really are a little slut, aren't you? Teasing me like that, showing me just how eager and wet you are, you learn fast, my pretty boy/girl. It seems you've been paying close attention to your old man here, now, spread your legs wider for me, my little slut. I want to see every inch of that beautiful pussy, watch as you fuck yourself with those fingers. Show me how good you are at pleasuring it, how desperately you want to make yourself cum for me." - Johnny says, laughing and groaning, biting his bottom lip to himself, filling the call, a deep, satisfied sound that sends shivers down your spine.

"-Oh, my sweet little slut, you're doing such a good job pleasuring yourself for me. I love seeing how desperate and needy you are. But don't worry, kitten, I won't let you have all the fun. I have a little something for you too." -As he speaks, you receive a notification and open the video that Johnny sent. The screen displays a provocative close-up of his hard, throbbing cock. The girthy member is adorned with prominent veins, pulsating with desire. The video shows Johnny gripping his shaft firmly, stroking himself with a mixture of urgency and controlled rhythm. His hand moves up and down, his thumb occasionally swiping over the sensitive head.

"-Does it excite you, my pretty kitten? Watching me stroke myself in response to your little pussy, imagine it's your tight little pussy wrapped around my cock, how good it would feel as I thrust into you without mercy.... ah~ f-fuck, I want you to imagine every inch of me inside you, claiming you as mine."

You soon saw the notifications, Johnny sent more videos, In the videos he sent, Johnny's cock is throbbing and leaking with pre-cum, a clear sign of his arousal. Each video showcases his powerful thrusts and the enticing sight of him gripping himself tightly. His abs glisten with sweat as he clenches his muscles, leaving no doubt about his stamina and desire.

The images of your arousal on his phone screen only fuel his desire further, causing his own hand to quicken its pace on his hard cock, Johnny's voice becomes rougher, his breath labored as he listens to your moans and watches the explicit videos of your wet, needy pussy.

"-F-Fuck, you're such a good little slut, look at you honey, taking those fingers so eagerly, just like I knew you would. I can't wait to feel that tight little mouth of yours wrapped around my cock, sucking me like your life depends on it. I want to see you swallow every last drop of my cum, feel you gag and moan on my throbbing cock."

"-I can't hold back anymore (Y/N). I need to be inside you. I want to fuck you, You'll be begging for mercy, begging for release, and I'll give it to you, but only when I'm damn well satisfied... Get ready for me, my little fuck toy? I'm coming for you."

You feel your orgasm coming, your pussy squeezed the only finger you managed to stick inside your wet and hot hole, with that you let out a sweet and exciting moan.

"-Fuck, that's it, my little slut. Cum for me, scream my name as you release all that pent-up need. You're so fucking beautiful when you're lost in pleasure, my little kitten." -Johnny lose control, he realizes your orgasm, making him cum and be satisfied.

After a few moments, he sends you a video of his own orgasm. The screen reveals his throbbing cock, slick with his release. As he strokes himself to completion, his member pulsates and glistens with his warm, sticky cum. In the video, you catch a glimpse of his face, slightly worn from the intensity of his pleasure, his sunglasses slightly askew, revealing the desire and exhaustion in his eyes.

"-Well... I guess we can continue, but personally in my mansion, break up with your boyfriend/girlfriend now (Y/N), you're mine kitten." -Johnny spoke in a dark voice, hanging up abruptly, with no room for discussion, it was strange to hear him so serious, but you had no other choice, you were his now and it wasn't a bad thing.

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hotvintagepoll · 20 days

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Propaganda

Madhubala (Mughal-e-Azam, Barsaat Ki Raat, Mr. & Mrs. '55)—The Venus of India; heart-throb of all who saw her; responsible for the sexual awakening of every single desi lesbian I know (including me!) And my god, she is breathtakingly beautiful. Look at the subtle grace with which she moves, and that smile - the kind of radiant smile that can make you laugh with sheer delight, or cry because of its hidden pain. Those wild curls! That Cupid's bow! The way she tilts back her head and smiles at you with mischief dancing in her eyes! She has a way of looking at the camera that makes you feel she's sharing a private joke just with you; it's something about that quizzical twist of the lips and eyebrows. As an actress, she is inimitable; she seems to effortlessly inhabit roles ranging from a heart-broken courtesan to a laughter-loving socialite. Fun fact : she's had quite the fan following in Greece! Stelios Kazantidis even wrote a song as a tribute to her.

Olivia de Havilland (Adventures of Robin Hood, Gone With the Wind, The Heiress)— The woman who took on the Studio System at the height of their power and Won! A double Oscar winner! Is magnetic and beautiful in everything she's in and gave us all the juicy scandal with her sibling rivalry with Joan Fontaine! Before the Oscar Slap was the Oscar sister snub! Also everything she wears in Robin Hood she makes beautiful even a purple green and orange monstrosity how does she do it! Anyway this scene is one of my old Hollywood favourites

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Madhubala:

An icon of Bollywood, who was well known for her beauty and has continued to inspire performances and songs into the 21st century. She was at times described as "the number one beauty of the Indian screen" and "the biggest star in the world".

SHE IS EVERYTHING AHHH. JUST LOOK AT HER SMILE-

She's been nicknamed the Marilyn Monroe of India and was one of the highest paid actresses in the Hindi film industry (the term Bollywood did not exist yet) during the 1950s. Also an extremely talented dancer and singer

SHE'S JUST SO STUNNING, like seeing her eyes IMMEDIATELY CAPTIVATES YOU, THE DANCING, THE BEAUTY!!!!!!!!! She worked in Bollywood for over 20 years and passed away at a sad early age of 36, BUT THE IMPACT SHE HAD WAS UNMATCHED!!!!!

That sassy sideways glance she does always has me WEAK AT THE KNEES. And when she's making silly faces at the camera to mimic someone ahhhh my gay little heart <3

Olivia de Havilland:

She is just perfection. She has a smile that is looks like it is barely holding back, and yet so reserved as well.

Broke the contract system and won freedoms for actors (the de Havilland Law is still in effect I believe). 2 time Oscar winner. Beautiful and smart

She legally challenged the movie studios' unfair contracts and won, setting a precedent for other actors to be treated more fairly. This was at great cost to her financially and essentially getting her blacklisted for years but the resulting judicial opinion is still known as the De Havilland Law and has won her a great deal of praise and admiration.

Her performance in The Heiress is one of my all-time favorites, she’s so good at making melodrama feel real and grounded without sacrificing any of the passion/drama.

Serenely beautiful, she struck a balance between crowd-pleasing fluff and prestigious drama. Famously at odds with her equally successful sister Joan Fontaine, she was too much of a lady to ever say anything public. Successfully sued Ryan Murphy for portraying her as a saucy gossip in Feud.

the period costume + eye patch combo in That Lady is just an absolute serve

She has the most adorable and cherubic face and voice

#olivia de havilland #madhubala #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 3

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feistyfreaks · 8 months

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𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄.

PERVERT!LEON (PART 2)

content: dirty talk, teasing, nudes, sort of orgasm guiding, m+f!masterbation, phone sex.

note: thank you so much for all the support, i didn’t think secret recipe would get so much likes 😭!!, since you guys asked for a p2 here you go.

part one

you stopped halfway, tasting something foreign. you took a peak at what was inside and found a sticky substance. you looked at the box a tiny sentence written on the nicely decorated cardboard. “want to file a complaint? call..(the number listed)”

“what the?-“

that’s when the realization had hit you.

you weren’t going to be fooled so easily, he wrote that down on purpose. that damn bastard. he wanted you to call him. who did he think he was? hollywood?

you dialed the number listed on the cardboard box to prove your hypothesis…listening to the phone ring. maybe you should have just stuck to assuming.

“hey babe, didn’t think you’d actually call.”

your suspicions were correct, just as you suspected,

“did you like the taste sweetheart?” he added as you heard a snicker come from the other end of the phone.

your heart dropped.

“wait what? what did you put in it, did you poison me?!” you gasped, running into more assumptions. “no sweetheart, it’s just semen.” he laughed, “was it bitter, perhaps salty?”

you gasped louder.

“oh calm down princess you’re so dramatic.” he sighed, “i just couldn’t help myself.” he sneered.

that’s when you heard it, wet sloppy sounds could be heard along with a soft humming, “fuck, you don’t have a clue what you do to me.”

your eyes widened, had this man never failed to make your jaw drop. you were left speechless, again. you could’ve hung up but this was making you feel a different way —

listening to this was making your thighs tense up and impulsively rub against eachother for friction. your stomach fluttered with butterflies as you eavesdropped on his soft whimpers. “are you..?” you gulped, unsure of the answer you’d get in return.

“mhm, just for you baby.” he grunted, “wanna see?” he asked, and just before you could reply your phone dinged as a attachment popped up from an unknown number.

you bit your lip hesitantly, well did curiosity kill the cat because you opened it anyway. what were you even doing?

you were supposed to be scolding him for being so inconsiderate, for having such profane behavior, for speaking filth to a woman and for having such poor manners!

your eyes blown wide with lust, pussy throbbing with arousal. and yet there was the image infront of you, his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself as sticky fluids dripped from his angry tip. “like what you see?”

“i-yes-i mean..”

what were you even saying?

your hand gripped tightly on the leather seat. you wanted to like it, you wanted more..

and yet there was this burning desire fueling inside you, your hand slipping in between your legs. god you didn’t even know the guy but he was making you wet. your hand played around with the waistband of your panties, finally giving in as you slipped your hand inside. digits hovering over your clit, your teeth dug onto your bottom lip.

“y’know.. i was imagining having your pretty legs thrown over my shoulders, fucking you raw and making that sweet pussy all nice n creamy..” he groaned, making you flush a deep red from his explicit imagination, the image formed in your head now.

you couldn’t unsee it.

you let out a soft moan, eyes threatening to roll back when you rubbed yourself. both of your moans fulfilled the phones silence, “you’re so dirty.” you gasped, inserting two of your fingers into your empty hole. “yea, but you like it dirty don’t you baby?”

you quivered, shutting your eyes. you believed you were being hypnotized by him, otherwise you wouldn’t be doing something so filthy. next thing you know you were you were demanding him to feed your eyesight with more nudes, and to your request he turned on the front view of his camera, his hand pumping his length as his chest heaved. breathing heavily and talking more profanities.

“your turn, sweetheart.”

you hesitated at first..but yet you turned on your camera anyway, angling it at your skirt as the vision of your hand bobbing up and down filled the camera view.

“good girl.”

his praises motivated you to go on, slowly gathering the fabric of your skirt in a bunch, pulling it up to give him a peak of the wet patch in the middle of your panties. you pulled it aside revealing your dripping pussy making him grunt. “f-fuck i think i might just cum from the sight of your cunt baby.” he chuckled.

“keep touching yourself f’me, ugh, i’m almost there pretty girl.” leon moaned, the two of you speeding up your movements. your thighs clamped around your hand, and just before you knew it. “shit..” you gasped. your body heat increased rapidly, your thighs twitched and your eyes watering as you rubbed that spot on your clit. you felt as if you were going down a roller-coaster, tummy doing mini flips as your orgasm washed over you.

and next thing you know you both coming undone, his orgasm coating the phone’s screen and your body convulsed. you shut your lids so hard that when you opened them again you had to keep blinking. your vision was sort of blurry and your head felt dizzy.

that’s when you realized what you had just done.

you pulled your hand out of your panties, fingers sticky with your fluids,

“ugh, this is why i don’t do this type of stuff..”

#feistyfreaks #re2 leon #hornyhour #leon kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon x y/n #leon x you #resident evil 2 #resident evil fanfiction #fanfiction #smut

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suzdin · 4 months

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Washed Up Has-Been: a Dieter Bravo one shot

Dieter Bravo x F!Plus Size!Reader

Warnings: soft!Dieter, sweet!Dieter, smut, angst, bodily insecurities, reader is plus sized but no other physical attributes are described, Dieter is a little chubby as well, mentions of drugs and alcohol, oral (m receiving), mention of sex toys, fluff? (gasp!), did I forget anything? I know next to nothing about the film industry, don’t judge me :(

Word Count: 2,800

Enjoy and feel free to reblog and comment if you wish! 💜🙂

——

Dieter Bravo had not been the same since Cliff Beasts 6.

What did they call it? Losing your spark? Your mojo? Your moxy? Whatever it was called, he’d lost it, along with his marbles… if he ever had any to begin with, and he was sure many would agree he hadn’t.

The reviews were bad, abhorrent, really. ‘Dieter Bravo as Gio Ricci baffling’, ‘Bravo couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag’, ‘I can’t believe this man has an Oscar’, ‘Did he get his Italian accent at an Olive Garden?’, on and on the critics wailed and lambasted.

He’d had a mental break shortly after the premier, firing everyone he could in his vicinity — his publicist, his hair stylist and manicurist, hell, even his agent of twenty five years. He’d hired a new one, of course, a potential script FedExed to his door that morning, fist curled and white knuckled in anger around the thick stack of papers as he perched himself like a sentient gargoyle on his couch, in the tattered clothes he’d been wearing for nearly a week.

A dad. They wanted him to play a fucking dad, some sort of buddy comedy family film opposite Dwayne Johnson, it might be a good move for your career, buddy, his agent had explained. But seriously, him? Hollywood heart throb Dieter Bravo, reduced to playing someone’s bumbling father, opposite THE FUCKING ROCK?

He couldn’t believe it.

He had put on some weight since his last film, sure, but that was no reason or excuse to allow himself to be typecasted as a dad.

Or was it the ever persistent graying in his hair and beard? The laugh lines? The crow’s feet?

‘Dieter Bravo is a washed up has-been’ the internet screamed at him daily, leading him to drown himself in an endless stream of drugs and alcohol…more so than he was already doing, anyway.

He was barely a functioning person. A husk of his former self, he could no longer get it up, unsure whether to blame the drugs or his steadily fleeting mental health, and even putting brush to canvas felt more like a chore than an escape nowadays. He’d become a hermit in his own home, the ghastly, aging 1970s mid-century horror he resided in the Hollywood Hills, that he thought was amazing when he originally bought it a decade ago.

Well, much like him, older things fall apart, and the house was a piece of shit, which was apt.

He had hired you as his assistant and he was so vague as to what that entailed that you were sort of a jack of all trades as far as helping was concerned, acting as his maid, his cook, the middle man to screen his calls, his emails, so on and so forth. Hell, you even took care of the large python he’d bought ‘because it looked cool’, that he was now too scared to touch, himself.

You did it all, and although he never properly expressed as much, he was more grateful for you than he let on.

He always found you pretty, too. Beautiful, even, and not in the fake way he’d grown used to, living in Hollywood. You were kind, sweet, and uncorrupted by a crueler world, always happy and eager to assist him with whatever he needed.

And if he was being honest with himself, the thought of you sheathed around his cock was the only thing that could even get him half hard anymore.

When you arrive for the day, you find him on his couch, glowering at what you can only assume is another bad script, graying hair disheveled and curling away from his skull, teeth gritted in disdain. A look you had come to recognize and were more than familiar with.

“Let me take that to the garbage for you,” you offer, as you normally do in these situations, stepping forward to reach for the offending script.

His eyes clock the way your breasts sway when you walk, the roundness of your belly, the plushness of your arms. He can’t help but stare; he wants to bury himself in you and stay there forever.

He swallows, moving the script away from your extended hand and tucking it behind a cushion, distracted by your body.

“No — no, it’s okay,” he replies and his voice feels like gravel in his throat, realizing he hasn’t spoken all day until now.

Although the script sucks and he doesn’t want to do it, he needs the money. “Thanks.”

You notice his eyes on you and you sit, leaving about a foot of space between you to maintain a modicum of professionalism, observing the sadness behind his dark brown eyes and knowing this has been the norm for several months now but still hating it for what it is.

“What’s on the docket for today?” you ask him and he shrugs, unhelpfully, his lips pulled into a frown, shadows staining the lines of his face. You haven’t seen him this bad in a while.

“I can… make you some hot tea?” you ask, looking down at the schedule in your lap, of which nothing is jotted down for the day.

He shakes his head, carding a hand through his hair. “No. I’m out of tea.”

You chew your lip. “Okay… well, then I guess I’m running to the store today. I have a list already, but can you think of anything else?”

Once again, he shakes his head. “No. I’ll just order it or something.”

You frown and tuck the schedule away, crossing your legs and turning to face him, contemplative.

“Then what do you want me to do today? You’re paying me to be here,” you note. “Unless you’d rather I go home.”

“No!” he damn near shouts, making you jump, and he immediately regrets his lack of impulse control. His gaze traverses your subtle cleavage and you clear your throat, heat warming your skin. “Sorry, it’s just… I don’t want to be alone right now. Can we just hang out?” he queries.

“Dieter, are you okay?” you question and he shakes his head in response.

“No.” A single word that says so much more than that. It pulls at your heart strings, seeing him like this. “I — I’m a nobody.”

“You aren’t a nobody, you’re Oscar winner Dieter fucking Bravo,” you counter, and he snorts, picking at some dry skin on his ankle.

“Yeah, Dieter fucking Bravo, the aging has-been who can’t act his way out of a paper bag,” he snorts.

“If you keep talking like that, I’m going to take away your internet access so you can’t read all the mean tweets about yourself,” you threaten.

“You wouldn’t.”

“One call to your financial advisor and I would and could,” you retort and Dieter scoffs, trying to remember if he’d fired him yet or not.

You cross your arms and flop back against the worn and flattened couch cushions, eyeing him smugly.

The movement pushes your chest up and out, his gaze on you once again and he isn’t subtle about it this time. You clear your throat and stir, staring back at his soft, plush lips.

“Dieter—“

“Come here,” he murmurs quietly and the spontaneity of it catches you off guard, your jaw hanging agape in disbelief and confusion.

“…What?”

It had been months since anyone had touched him, had wanted to touch him, and now, as he stares at your body and smells your light vanilla perfume, after the shitty week he’s had, he needs to be touched, even if only briefly.

“Come… here,” he repeats, more dogged than before, and in spite of yourself, despite how unprofessional it is, you find yourself scooting forward.

He grabs your hips when you’re within reach and drags you the rest of the way, pulling the cushion partially off the couch in the process, a small yelp of surprise escaping your lungs as he softly grips your face to bring his lips to yours.

They’re plush, dry, lightly chapped and he tastes a little like whiskey and weed, but you don’t really mind, his coarse, wiry mustache scratching and tickling against your nose.

Suddenly, with a soft groan in the back of his throat, his hand is under your shirt, cupping your breast, and you break the kiss, looking down to where his arm disappears beneath the fabric, shock settling over your features.

“Dee… are you… are you sure?” you ask. You don’t exactly look like the people Dieter had been confirmed dating in the past, and you feel a wave of trepidation, your self conscious nature bubbling to the surface. You’ve always felt Dieter Bravo was more than a little out of your league.

Not that you’re dating him, but, you know.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t sure,” he tuts and kisses you again, rougher this time, palming your breast, making your cunt throb.

He groans. You’re so good to him, always taking such good care of him, and you feel exactly the way he thought you would, warm and luscious and supple, his dick already fighting with the seam of his pajama pants, the first time in weeks.

And you’ve wanted this, too, as long as you’ve worked for him, never confessing your feelings for fear of losing your job. You never imagined Dieter fucking Bravo would feel the same way about you.

You know Dee needs this, you need this, and you want to make him feel good.

You brush a hand over his hardening cock and he damn near bucks himself straight off the couch with a grunt and a sharply uttered, “Fuck” against your lips. You grin into his mouth at how much composure he’s already lost from so few touches.

You pull away after a moment and scoot off the couch, sinking onto your knees in front of him, nestling yourself between his broad thighs.

He watches you, rigid cock tremoring in his pants at the sight, the outline of it clearly visible and straining against the fabric. “You… you don’t have to…” His voice is thick, haggard.

“Let me take care of you, Dee,” you mewl as you nuzzle your face against the squishy paunch of his stomach, lifting his shirt to plant small, reverent kisses in a circle around his belly button. He giggles and flinches at the contact.

“Sorry, sorry — ticklish,” he explains and you smile, placing a few more kisses there, more delicate than the ones that preceded them, trailing a line from his navel to the thick swathe of hair leading to his crotch.

Despite the pounds he’s put on recently, he doesn’t feel at all uncomfortable in front of you, eyes darkening as he drinks you in visually, lips tight and parted, breaths growing deeper in the barrel of his chest.

You look up and from your current perspective, he’s all wild haired and broad shouldered, panting, your cunt clenching with desire as you eye him with a wry grin.

You smooth his shirt down over his belly and move your face to the hard bulge below, nosing the bulk of it through the fabric and inhaling his natural scent, thick and musky and masculine in your nostrils. You both groan in unison.

“Dear god,” he grunts, “I feel like I’m about to— aaaaugh— fucking bust already.”

“Save it for my mouth, at least,” you snip and his head rolls back against the cushion at your words, the one with the sag in the middle where his neck always rests, eyes sliding shut.

“You’re so good for me,” he pants softly, already so close to falling apart, “I take you for granted and I’m sorry.”

“Dieter, shh.” You find the stretchy waistband of his striped trousers and drag them down his hips, not all surprised to see he’s gone commando, cock springing free from the cage of fabric, uncut and dribbling against the drag of soft cotton. He’s girthy, and you’ve never seen one intact in the flesh before — literally — a small puff of air escaping your lips, taking in the sight of him for a few seconds before coming to your senses.

“Is everything alr—“ he starts to ask, cutting himself off when you unexpectedly cup his heavy balls in your palm and lick a slow stripe up his length with the flat of your tongue, his hips quivering and bucking involuntarily. “Shit—“

You grin, humming satisfactorily to yourself and continue to tease him, his hands finding your hair, fingers twisting at the roots as the rings he insists on wearing get caught in the strands, pulling ever so slightly. You moan.

You feel incredible, your tongue working his most sensitive areas, and he’s having a hard time holding it together, torso heaving above you, tiny whimpers departing his lips, and he hasn’t even entered your mouth yet.

You sense how much trouble he’s having at keeping himself in check, so you back off a touch to give him a momentary reprieve, shifting to kiss along the meat of his inner thighs, nipping at the tiny elephant tattoos etched into his skin as you do so.

He cups one hand on the back of your neck, watching you through half-lidded eyes, your lips like pure velvet and heaven.

He’s already forgotten about the shitty script tucked into the couch, about the bad reviews and the critics with their cruel, baseless quips. Faded away to nothingness, akin to what he experiences when he’s completely blitzed, negative thoughts dissolving to the back of his mind to be discarded, and for now, for the moment, the only thing that matters is you, your beauty, and how well you take care of him.

After what seems like an eternity of small, worshipping, teasing touches to the insides of his thighs and the rim of his belly, your lips return to his cock, lapping at the precum that’s beaded up at the slit before taking him into your mouth, hand fisted at the base as you work him into your throat.

He’s impervious at this point to keep his hips flush against the couch, shuddering into your mouth as you take him and pushing further down your throat, not entirely on purpose, moaning as the wet heat of your mouth engulfs him.

“Wanna— fuck your pussy next time— with a vibrating plug in your ass,” he grunts, hardly able to string a single cohesive thought together, making your cunt throb and slick leak into the cradle of your panties.

Dieter wasn’t one to shy away from toys, and in fact had an entire drawer full of them, which you had accidentally stumbled upon one day when putting away some of his clothes; everything from butt plugs to cock rings to flesh lights with multiple attachments and bondage gear.

You steady his hips with your hands and hold him in place as best you can, difficult with how much stronger he is than you, jaw stretching to fit him, the musky tang of him flooding your tastebuds.

You steadily rock your head up and down his length, taking him all the way to the back of your throat, and you can feel the veins running the length of his shaft pulsating against your tongue, feel the way his balls tighten as he edges ever closer to the precipice.

He’s wanted you, needed you, for so long, that he can’t contain himself much longer. His hips begin to stutter and you feel his body growing taut, hear his breaths growing shallow and haggard, fingers curling against your scalp.

“I’m… I’m gonna… fucking cum,” he grunts deep in his chest. That’s all the warning he allows before his hips stall and he lets out a visceral growl of pleasure, spilling a hot and heavy load across your tongue, some of it seeping out at the edges and dribbling down his thighs until you’re able to steady yourself.

You hold him in your mouth until you feel the very last drop hit the back of your throat, slowly pulling off only when you feel him starting to go soft.

“You should really clean up this awful mess you’ve made,” Dieter taunts when you sit back to catch your breath, watching the cocktail of spend and saliva slide down his tan skin.

You grin and tip your head forward to obediently lap at the escaped fluids. He groans as he savors the delicious sight of you, affectionately brushing his fingers through your hair as you do so.

After a moment, you rise from the ground, your knees cracking from the exertion, joining him on the couch as he tugs his pajama bottoms back up his hips.

He snakes an arm around the small of your back and kisses you, deep and full, moaning when he tastes remnants of himself on your tongue.

He grins against your lips and then rises, yanking you off the couch and giggling along with you when you pass him a perplexed look.

“Where are we going now?” you ask, pleased to see him happy and relaxed again after all this time, to actually see him smiling.

“You took care of me, so I’m going to take care of you. You’re familiar with my special drawer, aren’t you?”

—

FIN. xx

#pedro pascal #writing #fanfic #smut #author #romance #pedro fanfic #dieter bravo #dieter bravo the bubble #the bubble

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jupitercomet · 1 year

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@gretagerwigsmuse spiraled me into thinking thots about an Andrew Garfield Amelia Dimoldenberg vibe actor Bradley au so fucking hear me out!!

it’s award season and as a young, charismatic, popular interviewer, you’ve been given the opportunity to do some red carpet interviews. it’s all going well until Hollywood heart throb Bradley Bradshaw spots you and literally does a physical double take—his entire reaction captured by multiple cameras at multiple angles.

Bradley’s been recently introduced as a new character in a prominent movie franchise and the internet has been going crazy over him since the movie came out. he’s also very private about his personal life, which just adds to his allure, and so audiences eat his interviews up.

you fully intend to keep things professional, but before you can even say “hi” Bradley’s looking you up and down like “that’s a beautiful dress” and then he grabs your hand to spin for him so he can get a better look at your blue dress and he is so obviously flirting with you when he says “you know, blue is my favorite color. what’s your favorite color? that way I can wear it next time” and as you continue the interview he can’t stop staring at you and asking you questions about yourself. at one point, he fully wraps his hand around yours over the microphone and holds it. and you’re playing up your disinterest a bit for the cameras, so now Bradley is also blushing and letting out a few nervous giggles. by the end of the interview, he looks genuinely sad to go and says something about how you’re his favorite interviewer and dramatically declares that he’ll find you at the next event while you’re left standing there a flustered mess.

almost as soon as the interview is posted, it’s blowing up. you haven’t even left the event before articles are being published about you and Bradley. people are absolutely losing it because Bradley wasn’t even trying to be slick, and they all can’t wait for you and Bradley to run into each other again. by the time you get home, you’re even getting texts from friends and family either screaming in excitement or asking if “that man who was friendly with you on the television” is your boyfriend.

you know there’s probably some damage control to be done, but it’s late so you decide to only make one call and take care of the rest of it tomorrow.

“what the fuck was that?”

“what do you mean?”

you scoff. “you asked me what my big three were so you could look up our compatibility!”

“oh yeah.” you can hear him grin through the phone. “was I not supposed to ask that?”

“the entire internet is convinced we should be dating now,” you say flatly.

he hums, sounding all too pleased with himself, but you don’t know why you expected anything else. “well, they’re not wrong. are you still coming over? I miss you and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you in that dress, pretty girl.”

“...I’ll see you in 20.”

#okay i'm going to bed now goodnight #actor bradley bradshaw

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the-hottest-band-tournament · 1 month

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Welcome to the hottest 80s band tourney

In this tournament you can submit an band from the 80s here and we’ll see who’s the hottest

Submissions are now closed

Submission requirements

It must be a band no solo artists

I need a list of the members and the instrument they play

They had to have produced at least one album during the 80s

Choose the lineup that you want just make sure that they just all performed together during the 80s

For a list of the lineups check here a quicker list of submitted bands is down below. We are trying to get to 256 submissions so don’t worry about submitting to many bands.

List of submitted bands

will be updated

Guns’N Roses

Mötley Crüe

Queen

Hanoi Rocks

Iron Maiden

Poison

Rush

Anthrax

Possessed

Bon Jovi

Skid Row

Talking Heads

Warrant

The Cure

The Bangles

Def Leppard

The Traveling Wilburys

Dokken

Blondie

Duran Duran

Quiet Riot

Aerosmith

Dio

Metallica

Winger

The Human League

The Clash

Cinderella

Nirvana

The Smiths

The Police

They Might Be Giants

Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

R.E.M.

Spın̈al Tap

Tin Machine

Red Hot Chili Peppers

ZZ Top

AC/DC

Beastie Boys

Depeche Mode

The Pogues

Bauhaus

Prince and the Revolution

Joy Division

Fleetwood Mac

Devo

Van Halen

Van Halen (again)

Led Zeppelin

Joan Jett and The Blackhearts

Genesis

Primus

Ramones

Yes

Siouxsie and the Banshees

Kraftwerk

The Alan Parsons Project

Hall and Oates

Echo and the Bunnymen

Tears for Fears

The Psychedelic Furs

Misfits

Living Colour

XTC

Adam and the Ants

Run-DMC

King Crimson

Public Enemy

KISS

N.W.A.

Whitesnake

Black Sabbath

Deep Purple

L.A. Guns

W.A.S.P.

Pantera

Styx

B-52’s

Vixen

The Go Go’s

The Residents

Pretenders

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Asia

Jethro Tull

Green Day

Journey

Wham!

Pet Shop Boys

The Who

Scorpions

Heart

Ratt

The Beach Boys

Queensrÿche

The Cars

Foreigner

Marillion

GWAR

Max Webster

Twisted Sister

Stray Cats

Megadeth

The Stone Roses

Slayer

Operation Ivy

Bam Bam

Cybotron

Steve Miller Band

The Highwaymen

10cc

Fugazi

Minor Threat

Dead Kennedys

Blackfoot

Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble

Dire Straits

Electric Light Orchestra

The J. Geils Band

Judas Priest

Motörhead

Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young

Elvis Costello and the Attractions

Chicago

The Replacements

The Kinks

Pixies

Men at Work

Stryper

Faster Pussycat

Thin Lizzy

Grateful Dead

Sepultura

Bananarama

Nine Inch Nails

Foghat

Blue Öyster Cult

Culture Club

Tesla

Soundgarden

Berlin

Boston

Public Image Ltd

Pink Floyd

The Professionals

Starship

REO Speedwagon

Extreme

Shonen Knife

Night Ranger

De La Soul

Salt-N-Pepa

Earth, Wind & Fire

X Japan

The The

The Time

Steely Dan

Godley & Creme

The Tragically Hip

Dexys Midnight Runners

The Cross

Sonic Youth

Roxy Music

The Rolling Stones

Hüsker Dü

DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince

New Kids on the Block

Huey Lewis and the News

Eurythmics

A Flock of Seagulls

The Blues Brothers

Love and Rockets

Strawberry Switchblade

Los Lobos

Santana

Oingo Boingo

Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five

A-ha

Crack the Sky

Crowded House

Yellow Magic Orchestra

Eric B. & Rakim

Commodores

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

KIX

White Zombie

UB40

Great White

Bruce Hornsby and the Range

White Lion

.38 Special

The Tubes

Utopia

The Sugarcubes

Faith No More

Throbbing Gristle

Ministry

'til tuesday

Sparks

Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band

The Oak Ridge Boys

The Judds

Dinosaur Jr.

The Moody Blues

Pat Metheney Group

INXS

Status Quo

Melvins

Pandora's Box

Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark

New Order

Meat Puppets

Descendents

The Fall

Spandau Ballet

Thompson Twins

Tom Tom Club

Jane's Addict

Bob Marley and the Wailers

Modern English

Cutting Crew

My Bloody Valentine

Black Flag

Wire

The Cult

The Jesus and Mary Chain

The Specials

Missing Persons

Simply Red

The Romantics

Madness

Violent Femmes

Skinny Puppy

Cocteau Twins

The Damned

Simple Minds

Frankie Goes to Hollywood

TISM (This Is Serious Mum)

The Cockroaches

The Allman Brothers Band

Cold Chisel

Midnight Oil

NOFX

The Crucifucks

America

Bad Religion

Helloween

Mother Love Bone

The KLF (a.k.a. The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu, a.k.a. The Timelords) [same group, just used numerous names]

Dog Police

Frank Chickens

Men Without Hats

Europe

Can I submit propaganda?

Not right now. If you do I won’t post it until the polls start which looking right now could be a while. But it will be posted eventually

can I submit more than one band?

yes!! Go wild

Some blogs that inspired this

@billboard-hotties-tourney

@the-80s-music-colosseum

#80s bands #80s music #80s glam #80s metal #80s rock #tournament poll #tumblr tournament #The hottest 80s band tournament #80s pop #80s post punk #80s country #80s #1980s #eighties

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theconstantsidekick · 1 year

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no because, supernatural is absolutely a train wreck. it's a colossal accident that is happening in front of you that you can't look away from. it is homophobic and non-sensical and downright laughable at times but you know what? I love it. I absolute love it.

season 1 was absolutely beautiful. you don't understand, really, you don't. they had a piss poor budget, you can see that in every frame. but does that stop it from being fucking beautiful? no. it is stylised and ambitious and a fucking visual treat.

and this is like the first fucking episode. the shots have so much character! and that's nothing to say of the characters themselves. from the first fucking scene you can clearly distinguish sam and dean's character clear as day. their motivations, their dreams, their hopes, all of it. it's established so well. their dynamic is unmatched. does it also have a lot of garbage? yes for sure. because what in the name of hell was that episode with bugs? what glue were they sniffing when they green lit that one? no seriously... I wanna try some.

but then they recovered, cause they did faith. my god, what an episode. WHAT AN EPISODE. that motherfucking reaper haunts my every waking hour

like yeah, I love me some baby dean and baby sam going on their small scale ghost hunts while learning deep lessons about who they are as people and what they want from life.

also that 'laugh I nearly died' needle drop? where sam sees jess? god tier editing, GOD TIER.

then they came back with season 2. and here is my most controversial opinion that should not be controversial at all, season 2 is the best season of supernatural to ever supernatural.

what is and what should never be, hollywood babylon, heart, nightshifter, and the whole fucking season actually. not a single miss in my humble opinion. and that finale? THAT FINALE. beautiful, magnificent. ground breaking character writing, everything comes full circle while simultaneously opening up new plot lines to explore.

and my god, yellow eyes is an epic villain. he is a very viciously written villain like, he's... my god. it ain't a walk in the park writing villains, believe you me patient readers, villains are harder to write than the protagonists, always. well, at least the compelling ones are.

now season 3 suffered because of the writer's strike, but didn't miss much either. like yeah some of the hits don't hit as hard as the season 2, but hey, mystery spot, time is on my side, ghostfacers, bedtime stories are nothing to laugh about. those episodes are fucking solid, like most of the season. and there is so much raw emotion is sam's need to save dean, it just makes my weak winchester brothers loving heart throb a little too hard. also...

need I say more?

does the show did look little more washed out and boring? yes. but it's cool, cause we're moving on to season 4.

listen, I kinda just wanna leave all my season's critique at this. i mean, yeah this. this is it. this is the long and short of it; castiel. i don't think i need to get anymore into it

so season 5 is just—

i'm kidding. obviously i'm gonna talk about season 4, at length.

listen, being able to introduce angels this late in the game and then have them be a such perfectly hidden players is a masterstroke of genius. it just is. i am a writer guys... apart from the relentless fanfic as well lol. and when i tell you, introducing a new big player which is also (not so) secretly the next big bad and playing it off as smoothly as they did in season 4, is beyond hard. but the biggest home run these fuckers hit is castiel and the best part is they weren't aiming for a one lol. and oh oh, the way they use their very VERY limited budget to show wings with just flashing the fucking light? CINEMA! that's fucking cinema right there man. i work on film sets, i am telling you, this is the smartest filmmaking choice they make on the entire show. it adds so much visual intrigue while being so awfully easy to execute. BRILLIANt.

now i cannot talk about supernatural without talking about the deancas romance of it all, which i understand not everyone can see or wants to, which is fine. to each their own. you consume art the way you want to, i don't care much as long as you can acknowledge that castiel and dean's friendship was just some of the best written television that mankind has ever seen. is that too grand a statement? yes. does that make it any less true? no.

they even brought back the moody lighting.

and then there's the episodes this season, most of which are home runs in their own regard. just like beautiful writing, the character development for cas, for dean, for sam, even the late john winchester is wild. anna is a wonderful addition, so is uriel, and alastair? they don't make villains like him anymore, they just fucking don't. AND THAT GODDAMN PLOT TWIST AT THE END? man! the finale was just... too good. Chuck's introduction is absolutely wonderful, even if they ruin him by the end but that happens a decade later so wtv, who cares? But,,,, Jimmy. Fucking. Novak. That's all. that's the tweet. yeah. i'm gonna end the season 4 fan fair with jimmy.

moving to season 5.

subjectively speaking, this is my fucking favorite. this season is a writer's dream while also being their goddamn nightmare. so many WONDERFUL characters to play with and such a grand plot but you get to see it all on a very small, consumable scale which is just... it's too smart for me to not mention. i won't start naming the plot points and neither will i name my favourite episodes because what even is the point? all of it was fucking perfect. you don't understand how hard it is to develop characters to such an extent that they become so familiar to the audience that they know their next move before you even put it on the screen. and supernatural had that. they tied everything together with so much care and consideration, just... AAAH so good.

a special shoutout goes to endverse!cas, crowley and death this season. you all know it in your bones that those three were just the absolute scene stealers. especially death's introduction... immaculate.

they did lose a few points for not being as aesthetically pleasing as the past few seasons but hey, gabriel was enough to make a smooth recovery.

but this... this is the end of the road for me people. season 5 is where it should have ended. in no way shape or form am i saying that there aren't a few good episodes here and there after this, because there are. i think season 5 was so fucking solid, tied up so many goddamn lose ends and then just put a cute little hell shaped bow on top and i just... yeah. this was and should have been the end of the road. do not get me wrong, i love me some jack kline, charlie bradbury, kevin tran, rowena macleod and eileen lahey but were they worth the bullshit ending i had to sit through? not really.

i absolutely think if there weren't more episodes of supernatural I would never have become a destiel fan, because i started shipping them when dean made cas a mixtape in season TWELVE! but my god, the good times were so scattered amongst the horseshit that even when i found those hidden gems, they were so fucking drenched in the stink that they lost their value.

the worst of it all is that, i cannot explain to you what supernatural means to me in a million words, because it is a part of me, heart and soul. i fucking AM castiel. i am a gay little angel you hear me? i love this show. i do. i'm glad it went on for however long it did but i feel like once in a while i need to write shit like this or read shit like this to remind myself of the show that it used to be. of it's beautiful cinematography, of it's clever little storytelling techniques. of it's wonderful cast. of how epic their song choices used to be.

FUcking RENEGADE? iconic. wanted, dead or alive? cannot hear the song without hearing sam's off tune goat bleating that he called singing along.

i need to remind myself of how afraid i used to be of lucifer. of how much i cried while watching dark side of the moon; when dean and sam burst the crackers, and how i learnt the lyrics to knocking on heaven's door just because of that scene.

sometimes i just have to walk through memory lane and look back at gabriel's death, the good one, the only one. it was so fucking meaningful. i have to think of "we are making it up as we go" to be able to breathe properly because those moments were so fucking beautiful.

fuck the big ones, i even remind myself of the small ones, of dean's handwriting being in all caps, just like him. of sam's fucking huge laptop with that weird blue black sticker in the middle. of castiel's tie, that just was the right shade of blue, and hung all wrong but just naturally enough to add so much more to his character than any fucking dialogue could. every small little detail of supernatural that made it so damn supernatural. i miss it all.

idk. i'm rambling. whatever.

#superntural #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #deancas #destiel #spn #spn season 1 #spn season 2 #spn season 3 #spn season 4 #spn season 5 #dean #cas #sam #dean and sam #i think it'll add onto this post later #as i think of more things #because you best believe i will

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sour-ggrapess · 1 year

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ILL SHOW YOU

switc jungkook x sub fem reader

warnings; oral, praise kink, over stimulation, multiple orgasms, mean names (ig), b!d jk, cum eating, teasing, unprotected sex.

A\N; WHEN DID BTS GET A STAR ON THE HOLLYWOOD WALK OF FAME?! nvmmm it was fake

Jungkook had always been shy during sex because he was never sure what could please you but this time you take control but he has other plans

¨ I want to make tonight last for you baby¨ y\n groaned as you rolled over causing Jungkook to be on the bottom as your boobs hovered over his vision. His eyes grew out of shock when you started sucking and kissing on his pecks. Soft groans escaped past his lips and his cock grew in his tight black jeans.

You moved down to his lower belly button as you undid his pants. Your touch on his erection makes his hips shutter and his mouth grow dry out of pleasure and desperation. Desperate for you to just stroke it or suck it, silently pleading for you to give him real pleasure.

Sliding down his pants but only keeping his calvin klein boxers on. palming his hard length as your thumb ran across the wet part feeling his sticky tip through the cloth prison. ¨ p-please y\n, touch me. pl-please.¨

“No, I want this cunt on your face.¨ you state out as you take your hands off of his hard cock. His body jerks in desperation and pain, he felt as if his heart were to stop any second if he didnt get a feel of your body. You climb up to get to his face but as soon as you reach jk snaps and grabs your soft waste. He placed you on his face as he regains his grip on your hips and it's even more forceful and harder than before

Jungkooks tongue dived into your slit making hard contact with your clit making your back arch up and your cunt spill wetness all over his chin leaking down his chest and neck. Pornographic moans escaping your lips as he makes out with your clit. A new side of your boyfriend nobody has ever seen before. This Jungkook makes your pussy clench, it's just something about dom jk that makes you wild.

¨ m´gonna cum, koogie.¨ Slips past your lips as the knot in your stomach gets tighter. Jungkook´s big warm hands push you off his face and onto your back. Flipping you over as he groans ¨ Only good girls can cum on this face. Without a warning he shoves his whole length in your throbbing pussy. Every single vein on his cock was rubbing along your wet walls as he ripped your hole wide open making a familiar burning feel in your pussy.

His cock was the biggest you ever felt and seen through all of fucking and sucking. You knew he would just rip you straight open and he does every time. Ramming his giant cock into you, balls deep making loud porn star moans leap from your vocal cords every damn time. Your clit tingling then a sudden burst of cum seeping onto his cock and down your legs.

¨ My good cum slut.¨He growls as he pulls out and gets on his knees to clean the mess off your womanhood. Kitty licks on your clit then moving down to your hole licking you all clean as if you were a plate in the hands of a homeless man. Sticking his tongue insied to clean your inner walls so none drips out but that suddden action making you release all over his tongue as you intended to the first time. ¨such a good girl can you come for me again? Jungkook asked in such a slutty tone you could never say no to.

At this point you were fucked out already just nodding so he could wrap his big buff arms around you. Big hands flip you over to your back so he could slide his length into your pussy for the last time tonight. His cock filling your cunt up making you feel like a slut as he rams into you like one too. His creamy tip kisses your cervix every time making you and him even more close.

He bucks his hips and starts getting even sloppier as his high approaches. Dick sliding out just to crash into your cervix 2x harder ¨FUCK KOOKIEE, AUGH!¨ A scream rips from your throat. You squirt all over his sheets and balls.

#bts fic #squrt #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts x reader #dominate jungkook #bts fanfic #fypppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp #jeon jk #bts

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

Note

Daddy is at an event all smiley because he finally caught you and tied you down in his basement with a reminder that nobody says no to him 😊

You know, I had to do a tiny little drabble for you, sly.

Behind the Scenes

Warnings: kidnap, deception, allusions to other dark elements.

The frigid air pickles over your skin, clouding from your lips into the dark, a shiver rising from more than the temperature. You heave as your teeth chatter, the thin sheet your only semblance of warmth in the pitch black. The metal beneath you offers little more as you squirm.

The cuffs bite into the flesh of ankle and wrist, a heavy collar around your neck similarly chained to keep you trapped. Even if you were not bound, there is no escape from these walls. You squint but see nothing, yet you know they are there. That they are immovable.

You shudder and close your eyes. You hear him, feel the gentle caress along your forehead, a memory stirring as the echo of his breath grazes your cheek.

“I’m sorry, baby, but you can’t be good,” his voice is gravelly, rough with restraint, “maybe one day when you can behave.”

You clench your teeth. Your instinct is fear but a spark of rage flickers beneath the helplessness. He’s insane. Deluded. There will not be one day. There cannot be. If that day ever comes, you would no longer be you.

A crackle tears through the silence. Your eyes snap open as a haze casts over you, hues blurring around you. You stare at the ceiling, confused. Slowly, you turn your head. The wall is lined with screens, at least a dozen, each one a different size but projecting the same image. It’s him.

Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes. Heart throb. Paparazzi bait. Hollywood’s most wanted.

Whatever’s written in those rags, whatever he recites in those carefully curated interviews, no one could ever suspect the truth. Who he really is is even more far fetched than the movies he stars in. One would laugh in your face, even if they saw you then, quivering and bound.

“So, James,” the interview with her overly large mic gushes at him, “the rumour is you’re taking a break from the big screen. Is there a special reason?”

He smiles, his blue eyes gleam at the camera, his chiseled jaw even sharper in the lighting. No wonder he’s famous, no wonder he’s on the cover of every magazine, no wonder you were gullible enough to fall for his stupid act. You sneer as you watch with dread, the vision of him smiling scalds you to tears. A master of his craft indeed, to stand there and pretend so easily.

“I don’t wanna spoil anything,” he smiles as he pushes a long lock behind his ear, giving a coy grin as his eyes skirt away, “you know, I wanna just wait and see how things pan out.”

“It sounds like maybe… there’s someone special?” The interviewer prompts.

He shrugs. A barely believable evasion, “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

You suck in air as your heart tamps behind your ears. You turn your head straight, the spectrum of colours pulsing over you, limning your body in a soft glow. You can only move your head enough to see the rise and fall of your chest. You drop back futilely and sigh.

“I can imagine there are a lot of broken hearts out there right now, James, but we are truly happy for you,” the interviewer preens, “all the best. A good luck tonight.”

“I don’t need luck,” Bucky’s voice slices into you, “I’m the type of guy, I don’t wait for good things to come to me. I go out and get them.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #ask drabble #marvel #mcu #winter soldier #avengers #captain america

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random-brushstrokes · 10 months

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Federico Beltran Masses - Pola Negri y Rudolph Valentino (ca. 1926-27)

On 23 August 1926, news broke that Hollywood heart-throb Rudolph Valentino had died, due to complications from peritonitis. He was 31 years old. Tens of thousands of fans took to the streets of New York, and riots broke out at the funeral home where his body lay, the frenzied masses clawing and trampling each other as they fought for a glimpse of the actor's mortal remains. Two fans committed suicide.

At his memorial service, Valentino's lover – vampish actress Pola Negri – arranged for her name to be spelled out in white blossoms among $2,000-worth of blood-red roses. Her dramatic display of grief – wailing audibly, weeping and fainting over his coffin – made global news. She later rode alongside Valentino's body from New York to California, on a train that stopped at dozens of major stations so his adoring public could pay tribute, sharing her anguish with journalists on demand.

After the actor's death, Negri commissioned the Spanish artist Federico Beltrán Masses to paint Pola Negri y Rudolph Valentino.

Beltrán Masses had built a successful career as a portraitist, his wide network of patrons and supporters including royalty and high society in Paris and Madrid. He was introduced to Valentino on the French Riviera during the summer of 1924 by a mutual friend, the novelist Vicente Blasco Ibáñez.

Beltrán Masses created an ethereal double portrait, with Negri the femme fatale, gazing wistfully into the distance while her saturnine lover serenades her from a darkened corner. Negri was unhappy with the way she looked in the finished picture and refused to pay the artist. He promptly sued her for $5,000. (source)

#Federico Beltran Masses #spanish art #group portrait #pola negri #rudolph valentino #1920s

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rotten-corpses-blog · 9 months

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Ok ok can we talk about how similar JD and Billy Loomis are?

Both have murderous tendencies, mommy and daddy issues, has a piece of clothing that makes up their wardrobe (JD has the trench coat and Billy has those god damn white t shirts), hot girlfriends who want nothing to do with their killing sprees, brown hair, played by heart throbs, and they are both hot???

wtf Hollywood (JD and Billy would be friends if they were in the same universe and the same age in said universe, I don’t make the rules I just know them)

#jason dean x reader #jason dean #billy loomis x reader #billy loomis

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hotvintagepoll · 6 days

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Propaganda

Linda Darnell (Hangover Square, Unfaithfully Yours, A Letter to Three Wives)— Her dick is ENORMOUS. She was Fox’s resident bad girl for a while, and she was goddamn sexy during it. She could also play sweeter, and she was still beautiful when she wasn’t crushing men beneath her heels, but also she sometimes crushed men beneath her heels and it was really hot

This is round 4 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Madhubala:

SHE IS EVERYTHING AHHH. JUST LOOK AT HER SMILE-

That sassy sideways glance she does always has me WEAK AT THE KNEES. And when she's making silly faces at the camera to mimic someone ahhhh my gay little heart <3

Linda Darnell:

LOOK AT THOSE EYES. She redefines sultry and dreamy.

ok i have a lot of feelings about linda darnell. she was so complex and messy and talented and just such a tragic figure and deserved so much better. her mom basically ignored the rest of her kids in favor of pushing linda into hollywood, which led to her missing out on a lot of childhood experiences, prevented her from enrolling in college, and caused some mental health issues later in life. it’s especially heartbreaking that she met such a preventable end so early in life, and i always wonder what might’ve happened if she had been able to make more movies. she also disliked the hollywood social scene, which i think is totally valid of her. anyway, i loved her in a letter to three women and unfaithfully yours, and especially in no way out, which i think is one of her better roles, really showcasing her acting ability. and the fact that she never really got recognition keeps me up at night,, in my heart she has all the oscars

#madhubala #linda darnell #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 4

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write-and-buried · 2 years

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Celestial Navigation

Part 6 - Waning Gibbous

Summary; Whatever happened to that guy anyway?

Warnings; jesus christ listing them makes me want to hide my face under pillows. Oral sex (m!receiving), excessive rimming, cum play, dirty talk, very messy sex, cum eating, spitting, and some discussions of toxic workplaces

A/N; This got filthy... fast. Huge thanks to @astroboots @the-ginger-hedge-witch @radiowallet and @jazzelsaur for encouraging every single whore thot I've ever had

Series Masterlist \\ Main Masterlist

[prev] - [next]

Whatever Happened to Derek Brown?

You couldn’t go to the movies without seeing his face. From the round cheeks and eyes filled with wonder as a child discovering life on other planets from his backyard telescope to the chiselled jaw and sharp cheekbones as a peasant teen in the period drama that won him an Oscar at only 14, Derek Brown was a staple of early nineties cinema.

A clean-cut heart throb, the duelling box office titans of Eric Webster and Derek Brown plastered the walls of teenage girls (and boys) across the nation.

But while you only have to scroll through Twitter to catch a glimpse of Webster’s latest escapades (yacht orgy, need we elaborate?) Brown has been absent from public life for almost two decades. Emancipated at sixteen, running wild through Hollywood throughout his late teens, he suddenly vanished after the death of his parents. What was assumed to be a brief period of quiet mourning has since turned into a mysterious disappearance, fuelled further by Eric’s locked lips on the subject.

“I wish him happiness, wherever he is” the only official statement he’s ever given, referring all other questions about him to his publicist, who parrots the same line.

His sizeable talent notwithstanding, Derek’s disappearance has sparked numerous conspiracy theories about the cocky young stars whereabouts. Every few years an unconfirmed sighting emerges along with a new theory, a monastery in Brazil, a surf instructor in Australia, an extra in the background of Marvel’s latest release. The lack of tax returns, public filings or holdings make most believe he has left the United States and lives a quiet life of anonymity out of the public eye.

With the twenty-year anniversary of ‘Rebel of Owls’ on the horizon, his last, and most famous film, many fans have wondered…

Whatever Happened to Derek Brown?

Buzzfeed News.

“Here it is” Dieter grunts, the sound of falling debris as he pulls a box from the back of his closet. Shining in the lamplight, the statue doesn’t look real. He tosses it on the couch next to you as your eyes scan the slideshow. You barely recognise him, your brain only tickling familiarity as the quintessentially 90s photos scroll across your vision.

Red carpets, cigarettes tucked behind his ear, set photos with the young face of Eric Webster, one of the most famous celebrities in the world, their arms linked around the others neck, brotherly love in all its glory.

ACADEMY AWARD

DEREK BROWN

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

‘FOUNDERS AND PEASANTS’

“I never saw it” you say, running your thumb across the grooves in the metal.

“Don’t bother. It’s not very good” Derek replies, sparking a joint held between his lips. The flame illuminates his face, and you see the ghost of the boy on the screen.

“I had to wear these stupid lifts in my shoes. I hadn’t had a growth spurt yet, and my voice cracked all over the acceptance speech. Hackman should have won it, for Unforgiven, but I guess the voters thought I was a cute kid with a good story, and that’s what they vote for anyway”

He flops down on the couch next to you, peering at your phone screen to see Eric Webster and him, linked together in the past.

“I met Eric a few years before that. We both auditioned for Judgement Day, but obviously didn’t get it. Became friends and stayed that way. Roared through Hollywood like a couple of young-dumb-full of cum idiots and caused havoc for our agents.”

“That’s why everyone recognised you at the party” Your voice is quiet, the realisations coming to you in waves as he blows smoke rings to the ceiling.

“It happens. But I do have one of those faces, and nobody thinks they’re gonna meet a child actor one day”

“It’s been a secret? This whole time?”

“No… not really” he says carefully. “I don’t hide it. I never legally changed my name, so my accountant knows. My old agent knows, Owen and Molly know. Eric, obviously, he knows too. He visits at Christmas once every few years”

“But I didn’t know” your voice cracks for the first time.

“Hey, no, hey hey” grabs your cheeks, your phone falling into your lap, the screen illuminated as he scrambles toward you.

“How did I break my nose?” he asks, swiping tears from your cheeks as he tilts your face upward.

“You got punched in the face in a bar fight you thought you could win”

“What’s my favourite movie snack”

“Kit Kats”

“What’s my favourite medium?”

“Charcoal… or acrylic depending on the canvas” you’re sobbing now, reaching to touch his wrist as he looks at your face.

“Why do I paint so many stars?”

“You think stories are told there”

“Including ours” he says, brushing a kiss across your mouth. “I didn’t tell you, because that isn’t important to me. That’s a life I left behind, I shed my name and everything about it. It wasn’t me Lou. It was something I did, not who I am, remember?”

You take a deep breath, forcing the tears back as you circle your fingers to feel his pulse.

“Why did Eric call?”

He sighs, pressing his forehead to yours as you stroke his skin.

“He calls whenever he gets a weird question. They ask about me whenever an anniversary is coming up, or when nostalgia is going to help them get more clicks on an article. Usually its just the vague, where is he, stuff that he never answers. But they asked him, through his publicist if he spends a lot of time in New York, and where his favourite coffee shop is. He thinks they might know I own this place. He wanted to warn me.”

“And what happens if they find you?”

“Mayhem, I would guess. If I could do it over, I wouldn’t have vanished, just publicly stepped away. Let it fade in people’s memories and have an ending to the story. That’s what they’re looking for, a satisfying conclusion to the Derek Brown ‘mystery’” he scoffs.

“They’ll come here”

“At least, trying to get a photo. They’ll want interviews and canned sound bites and all that fake bullshit. When they don’t get it, they’ll start digging. Derek Brown might not exist anymore, but Dieter Bravo has been thrown around enough that they’ll get some good stories out of it”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I always do” he grins, “whatever I want”

The scent distracts you, an acrid burning as your eyes flick to the threadbare rug under his coffee table, currently smouldering from a half smoked joint. He follows your gaze and smothers it with a military green croc. When he turns back to you he shrugs, an apology on his face.

You reach out, hooking your pinkie with his own.

It takes four days. A weekend of waiting in an anxious puddle, two days of staring at your spreadsheets with Twitter open on your phone, refreshing the top trending stories and TMZ between each click of the mouse. There aren’t enough interns left for you to fade into the background. Your co-workers ask you repeatedly if you’re okay. Your boss makes you take a COVID test in the bathroom, when it comes back negative, she rolls her eyes and tells you to get back to work.

The first photo of him is grainy. Tousled hair and mismatched socks, sweats rolled over one knee. It’s outside the café, leaning against the brick with sunglasses hooked into his threadbare shirt. You sleep in that shirt sometimes.

It takes an hour for the internet to catch fire. More recent photos appear, Molly and Owen in the background as blurry ghosts as his form is shown painting the walls of the café, or as a hunched figure carrying a mustard yellow armchair down a busy street.

The stories come that evening. People that have slept with him, done drugs with him, snorted lines off his body or had him snort lines of theirs. A woman who shared tabs of molly with crushing kisses in the middle of a silent rave. None of the stories surprise you, he’s told you most of them. They’re good experiences, memories he laughs at, turned suddenly sinister.

His first naked photo hits the internet less than 24 hours later. He’s sprawled on his round bed, cock laying thick and imposing on his thigh as he grins into the camera, offering a cup of unknown liquor to the taker. More follow. They begin to form a narrative, one of a life of pleasure and excess, of unconcerned privilege and recklessness.

Your co-workers begin to whisper that afternoon. You had always assumed watercooler gossip was a trope, overused and never actually happening, until you caught your name in a hushed tone as you walked back to your desk with your fifth, shitty, coffee. There are glances, out of the corner of their eyes you can feel them, pinpricks all over your skin that make you feel itchy, under hot lamps.

You ignore a colleague when he calls your name at 5pm, packing your journal into your handbag you spill into the anonymity of the street. You keep your eyes glued to your phone as you walk, the first of many think pieces about Dieter beginning to appear on TMZ and Buzzfeed, asking what happened to give him such a fall from grace.

You’ve seen the photos from the café, texted by Molly in a moment of peace, full to the brim with fans holding DVDs of his movies, paparazzi with jiggling knees and separate flashes, people taking photos of the paintings on the walls. You haven’t heard from Dieter since it broke, your phone silent except for the reminders for meetings, deadlines, notifications that you once lived by now causing you to grit your teeth as you felt a flush of disappointment.

Your apartment is quiet. The dead plant in the corner seems to mock you as you microwave a poor imitation of macaroni and cheese, your shoes kicked haphazardly across the rug. The sunset is beautiful across the windows outside your apartment, streaking purples and oranges that remind you of his paintings.

Everything feels uncertain. You hover over his contact in your phone as you settle on your couch, too rigid to truly be comfortable, but a stylistic choice in the space. Your phone screen goes dark, giving you a glimpse of your pinched face, the teeth burrowed into your bottom lip. You grab your laptop instead, dragging it and a blanket over your knees as you scroll through the list of classic movies Dieter has mentioned in passing, organised into a spreadsheet.

Selecting one at random, you feel a tug of loneliness at his absence, the stream of consciousness commentary that’s always accompanied these black and white pieces of history.

The colours aren’t mixing right. The contrast not dark enough to make the light glow, dimming the image on the canvas in front of him. He can taste the splinters of his paintbrush as he stares at the unsatisfactory image, the purples in the palette on his arm seeming suddenly wrong. The sunset had looked so beautiful tonight, reflecting off the shining concrete buildings as he sat on the overgrown balcony, listening to the cacophony of the street.

Usually, it was anonymous, the noise below. Horns and screaming and laughter and crying, floating up to him like a symphony he could view from afar, enjoy while staring at the blankness of the universe and wondering how it all came to matter so much it hurts.

But today, his name is the primary noise. Owen and Molly had told him to stay upstairs, as if he had any intention of going down, of allowing them to split him open and feast on the aged flesh. Find a story that only mattered because of a life he willingly gave up.

He wanted to create. It burned like a dying sun inside him for as long as he could remember. Everything itched and scorched until he had a pencil in his hand or a play to perform. Drama club, into auditions, acting into stardom. It was a round peg in an oval hole… right enough to think it worked.

Worked for his parents, anyhow. Supportive but distant, they enjoyed the high society of their sudden famous surname. Never pushing him, never encouraging him, they just were. He can hardly remember their faces now, the scent of his mother’s perfume sometimes caught and followed on the summer air.

Eric had always understood. Standing in line in the same auditions, the blonde hair in perfect spikes, his eyes somehow smouldering at the tender age of fifteen. They ran along parallel lines, his parents shaving down his edges until he was round enough to slide right through the hole. They would sneak off the back lot at Warner Brothers and smoke clove cigarettes, drink whiskey until they were sick and shaking, a makeup artist with glassy eyes giving them eyedrops, breath mints.

Nobody cared, until they did. Until the photos hit the papers, glossy and high def, Dieter on a bar top at eighteen, loops of women’s lingerie collected around his wrist. Eric sucking tequila out of a Victoria’s Secret models bellybutton. Fame and excess rolled together until they were packaged together, saran wrapped for consumption.

They never showed up drunk or high to interviews, they toed the line of playful bad boy together, always yanking the other back by the collar until it stopped being enough. If he dug deep enough, he’d know why he stopped when they died, taken within months of each other, cancer and a stroke. He’d proved enough, they loved him enough, and they were there. Until they weren’t.

He read some of the coverage about his parents’ deaths. The family photo’s he doesn’t remember posing for in contrast to the questions about his morality. Everyone expected him to go off the rails, to join the elusive 27 club and sell pictures of his coked-up face. Everyone would have been sad, and moved on.

Instead, he picked up a paint brush, and bought a cheap canvas at an art supply store. He sat in the back of a rented limousine and ruined the seats with shitty acrylics and painted what the world looked like behind tinted glass. When he left Hollywood, he never had the urge to look back.

He saw this place on the 8th of August. The flat brick exterior with no windows, an old oak door with rusted hinges, tucked between new developments like the least appealing fruit at Whole Foods. It was owned by an estate, nobody wanting it and nobody offering enough to take it off their hands. A grimy shop with a small apartment overhead, the balcony overrun with weeds. His skin had hummed when he touched the brickwork, a promise zapping through his skin.

He didn’t know what it was until you had walked through the door.

Dieter wasn’t expecting you to call. He knows the story has broken, can only imagine what is being thrown around about him on the internet, the conclusions people are jumping to as they dig up more, and more again. He stayed upstairs for most of it, hearing Owens voice boom out against the brickwork, insisting that he wasn’t here, that they didn’t know where he was and wouldn’t say even if they did. He snuck a muffin up an hour later.

He could imagine you now, sitting in your apartment, an empty microwave meal next to you on the couch. Maybe you were watching a movie, you might have been consuming every new article about him – continuing on the trend of the day he assumed. He wondered what you were watching, if his not-so-subtle steering towards Bette Davis had taken root yet, or if you had chosen something mindless, something you’d seen a thousand times and could recite from memory, its words etched on your brain, a script nobody asked you to memorise.

The stories about his family start the next day. Innocuous enough, his parents, his upbringing. They have him in their teeth, it seems, unwilling to let go as his silence begins to annoy. Undeterred by the swirling uncertainty they speculate wildly. His relationship with his parents picked to shreds, interviews and DVD extras dragged forth from memory and replayed on loops. TikTok analysis of his body language, a livestream of someone getting coffee from the shop, the line now snaking down the street.

Owen and Molly are next. A photo of Molly flipping off the paparazzi sparks a new wave of speculating about his chosen family. You giggle when you see she makes it her Instagram profile picture. They find Owen’s friend in L.A – the one who works in porn. Not as an actor, but a makeup artist, and that’s enough for the morality police to come down even harder on Dieter.

They’re ripping him limb from limb, an evisceration in 180 characters, each pillar of his personality smashed to dust with memes and jokes and vicious hatred. Eric cops some of the blowback as well, refusing to distance himself from his friend. There’s a clip of him, drunk at a party, shouting support for his former partner in crime, daring anyone to question him. In a room full of glitzy yes men, nobody does.

It tickles beneath your skin. That everyone cares so much about him while knowing very little. None of the articles mention his paintings. None of them talk about his apparent connection to the human spirit, his obsession with the stars and their stories, classic Hollywood. He could recite the general principles of the Hays code from memory, and he liked to explain all the ways you’d broken them while he licked cum from between your thighs.

He talked until you fell asleep every night, a soothing rumble of a story you’d have never known otherwise. It’s the same feeling from the party, a thousand years and barely a fortnight ago, where they fell in love with an image, only this time it’s the reverse. You haven’t watched his movies, no morbid curiosity to see the cheekbones that could cut glass. It was something he did, not who he was, and it became clearer with every tweet that it wasn’t who you know.

It settles like a dull ache, a burning chasm of loneliness that drags you from your desk at 5pm that day, again. Committing cardinal sin as you close your laptop and leave, not looking over your shoulder for what you once considered vital additional responsibilities. You’re wearing heels today, and the bones of your feet hurt when you reach the building.

There’s still a crowd outside, despite the door being closed. People are taking pictures against the brickwork, jostling for the best light, the capture of the frayed cardboard closed sign that greets them. A few men in jeans with expensive cameras mill off to the side, glancing upwards to the light just visible through his heavy curtains.

You don’t think before you hit his contact. If you strain over the noise, you can hear the foghorn alarm, his ringtone before he picks up.

“I’m outside”

It’s pandemonium when the door opens. Flashes blind you as you feel fingers lace into your own, tugging you inside the door before shutting it with a slam. It barely dims the noise. The bell falls from overhead, cracking into three pieces on the ground as you feel his arms wrap around you, the tension draining from your body for the first time in days as he squeezes your waist, pressing his face into your neck.

“Missed you” is all he says before dragging you upstairs.

He’s covered in paint. Muddy browns cover his hands, sticking through his hair and smeared on his cheek. The canvas in the corner is dripping, long sludgy trails of paint on the floor. You can see the stubs of three joints in it, his palette peeling from the weight of it.

“Couldn’t get it right” he shrugs, following your eyeline to the ruined canvas. “It will happen when it’s supposed to”

His thumb brushes your cheek as you take him in fully. His hair is unruly, his eyes creased deeper than you’ve seen them, his clothing creased and stained. You can smell paint thinner, weed and Makers Mark on him, and you wonder if he’s showered since the story broke.

“Want to take a shower?” you ask, feeling his fingers round brush against your skin

“Together?” he asks, a grin that makes your chest crack breaking his face.

“Wash the paint off first, then we can talk” you reply, the laugh he lets out a shaft of sunlight through your skin. He nods, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead before turning towards the bathroom.

You know where his things are. You know where yours fit in this space, where you leave your bag, kick off your shoes, shed the corporate layers. You know which drawer to dig through for his softest shirts and you pick one that smells just like him to slip on. Your clothes tangle with his in a laundry basket. You know there’s a pile that has clean ones somewhere. You grab fruit from his fridge, a punnet of blueberries and misshapen plums, setting them on the edge of the coffee table as you hear him through the wall, humming under the spray of the shower.

You pick a movie, something in the endless queue and wait, checking your phone and not worrying about its dying battery. You respond to Molly’s questions about her aid relief form, you double tap Owen’s picture on Instagram, the caption something witty about being famous and wanting his dick sucked. You check your email. The sharp one from your boss demanding a meeting in the morning barely makes a dent as you toss the device on the table, stretching your limbs back into the deep couch, waiting for him to emerge.

He brings a cloud of steam with him. His hair damp and curling around his neck, a towel slung low on his hips as he continues humming to himself. His rings catch the light, throwing silver across the walls like stars as he comes to you, seemingly distracted, to grab your wrist and pull you to your feet.

“You forgot this” he says, bringing his mouth to yours.

You’d always broken this into body parts. Lips touched lips, hands clasped hands, the rhythmic sectional breakdown of affection, neatly categorised and labelled as one progressed to another, switched their categories to explore further.

Kissing Dieter is a full body experience, you’ve since learned. From lazy and slow and sleep heavy, to frantic and primal, he kisses you with his whole body. His hands roam your back, tangle in your hair, grab your ass and squeeze your flesh. He mumbles into your mouth, feeding you words like candy as he hovers indecisively between your neck and earlobe, fluttering between the two to scrape his teeth and make your knees tremble.

The towel loosens under the growing erection beneath it as he walks you backwards to the bed. His hands slide under your shirt, tracing over the lines left by your bra as his mouth travels down your throat. He’s consuming, the familiar feeling of being completely overwhelmed by him settling like a weighted blanket on your soul as the damp towel falls free, his encouraging hands pulling his shirt from your body.

“Really fuckin’ missed you” he moans, his mouth travelling across your chest as he backs you right against the rounded edge of his mattress, the sheets and blankets tangled in the middle.

You need more. The days without him have rubbed you raw, left you feeling adrift and furious on his behalf, and feeling his skin on yours, so warm and soothing sparks something deep inside your gut you’re unwilling to name.

“Can I taste you?” you ask, the question feeling ridiculous on your tongue. His hands dig into your skin, you hear his sharp inhale around your chest as his beard scrapes the sensitive flesh.

“As if I’m ever going to say no to that” he says, grinning up at you with a wink.

For all you’ve done together, this is a rarity. He tends towards worship, the focus of his body seemingly on yours alone, save for moments where you manage to catch him off guard, your teeth scraping his hip as he orients his hands on your body, prying you open for spit slicked fingers as you lick the weeping head of his cock.

He throws pillows to the floor before you sink to your knees, his aim precise enough to ensure a soft landing as your hands trail his thighs, encouraging him to sit, the softness of his stomach, the warmth of his skin making you catch alight. His hand is confident, trailing your cheek to the crown of your head, settling comfortably with a broad palm as he watches you, gasping lightly at the scrape of your nail along the sensitive skin of his thigh.

“You can’t fit it all Lou… But I’d love to watch you try”

Heavy. It’s the word that always comes to mind, whenever you take him in hand or feel him thicken beneath or behind you. The veins that run the length of him, pulsing inside you, the drips that leak from the fat head of his cock whenever he looms over you, watching your cunt pulse in wanting.

It flushes darker than his skin, like a storm on the horizon, swollen and tempting as you watch a single shining drop of precum appear at the head, sliding to drip sticky on his thigh. His hand tightens in your hair when you dart your tongue to taste it. Salty and hot, the heady feel of the weight of it on your tongue makes you squirm, your thighs pressing together as you guide him between your lips.

His hand tightens in your hair, a groan escaping his lips as you stretch your mouth around him. He fills you everywhere. The press of him on the roof of your mouth, immediately filling with saliva as you dig your nails into his strong thighs, shuffling closer as he spreads them for you, a low curse and a shifting of the sheets as he grips them in a wide palm.

“Fuck, yes… that’s it” he’s breathless.

You manage a third the first time, your throat protesting the attempted intrusion as you swallow around him, pulling off to watch the thick spit drip from the sides of your mouth, feeling your eyes prick with tears as he reaches to curl a hand around the base of it, holding himself steady for you to resume.

He watches you. His eyes only squeezing shut each time you choke around him, the depraved groan he lets out as you watch his hips twitch, suppressing the urge to fuck into the tightness of your throat, to apply a little more pressure to the back of your head. You’d let him, you’d like it.

Instead he lets you lead, a pool of your spit now dripping over his knuckles as you take as much of him as you can, a steady, slow rhythm as you synchronise your breathing, enough to stave off the tears in your eyes, focused only on the salty, hot taste of him as you feel his skin heat under your palm.

Your jaw aches, the unnatural stretch of him in your mouth as you pull off him, watching as he twitches, the thick vein pulsing as he grips himself tight around the base. With a gentle tug he pulls your head back, makes you meet his eyes as he strokes his length with a lewd squelch of spit and precum, his own wide hand barely fitting around the thickness of him as he squeezes more the swollen tip. You kiss his thighs, his skin still warm and clean from the shower as you scrape your teeth along the soft skin.

“Look at me” he says, his voice gravel rough as you stare past his lazy strokes to meet his eyes, blown dark and focused on you as your mouth travels further up his thighs.

He can do this, he knows how to control himself, has had this same sensation enough times. But the feeling of your breath, ghosting lightly over his skin makes him feel fevered as he shifts, allows your cautious exploration of the crease of his thigh, your cheek brushing his balls as he lifts his foot onto the bed.

You look like you want to ask, as if he’d ever say no to you, and he nods his head before you can find the words. This is new to you, not something you’ve ever ventured towards, despite a forbidden thrill at the thought. Dieter tries to relax, tries to breathe as your mouth travels lower, as the first cautious kitten lick of your tongue flicks across his hole.

The sound he makes is broken, ripped from his chest without permission as he half strangles his cock in response, the sudden locking of his muscles as he sees your eyebrows raise in a smile. You liked it. Slowly, torturously you explore him, every ridge of furled muscle, the sensitive skin of its surrounds as Dieter feels his hair begin to stick to his forehead with sweat. He can’t breathe for how good it feels.

You’re so careful with him, gently coaxing him open with your mouth as he pants and groans, finding exactly what way he likes to be touched, shifting lower to get enough access. He can still see your eyes, watching him as you lick and trace his glistening hole.

“You want to see me lose it don’t you?” he asks, braving a single stroke of his cock, his whole body shuddering from the searing pleasure that races up his spine.

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you, to watch? Or do you want to do it yourself, you want to have me like this, loose and begging for it, fucking myself back onto something just as thick as I am. You want to watch my face? Want to see what it looks like when I get fucked just as hard as I fuck you? I can tell, I can fucking smell your cunt right now, you’re soaked you filthy perfect thing. Don’t you dare stop”

You’re squirming, shifting your slick thighs together as he talks, his hand squeezing his cock in an unsteady rhythm, drops of sweat rolling down his chest as you breach his ass with the tip of your tongue, enough to feel the tight ring of muscle give under your ministrations, swollen and sensitive from your mouth.

“Fuck, don’t fucking stop, please, so good, fuck”

Dieter can’t help it, the barest scrape of your teeth around his fluttering rim and he sees stars. It explodes from the base of his spine with shocking force travelling through his limbs and robbing him of his senses. He comes thick and heavy splattering his stomach and chest, flowing over his knuckles as you lick across his sac, drawing it further, making everything oblivion as he half screams your name.

Your lips are swollen, wet with his cum. Its on your cheek, sliding down in a thick river as you watch him come back to himself, squeezing the last drops from the thick head of his cock. His hand is still in your hair as his eyes swim back into focus, watching you lick the taste of him from your skin. His knuckles are covered in it, and you watch as he releases himself with a wet smack, bringing his hand to his own mouth, collecting it on his tongue.

He leans over you, close enough for his nose to brush your cheek as your lips part for him, feeling him spit his own cum into your mouth as he follows it with a messy kiss. He drags you onto his lap with surprising strength and shaking fingers, and you feel your slick cunt graze against his cock as he tastes himself on your teeth.

You’re desperate, rutting yourself along the underside of his twitching length as you feel his hands grip you, guide your rhythm as your swollen clit catches on the slick head of him, making you gasp into his mouth.

“That’s it, there’s my girl. Use me, get yourself off on me, I want to see you cum on me. Got so wet, so needy from sucking my cock. Wasn’t enough for you was it, next time you want to, I’ll plant this pretty cunt on my face as well, so you can drip down my throat while you choke on me. And I want payback, I’m going to spread you wide open, show you just how good it feels to cum that hard with a tongue in your ass. I’ll stretch you enough to take me one day, get you nice and open and begging for it, hm?”

His hand slips between your own cheeks, slick still with spit and cum as he brushes lightly against your ass.

“You want that? Want me to fuck you here as well, treat me to the sight of your ass swallowing my fat cock while I make you cum on it?”

“Dieter… fuck”

“I know, you’re right there aren’t you. I can feel it, you’re soaking me, you always get so wet for me, just desperate to be filled up properly”

He holds you close when you come, wrapping his arms tight around you and holding you firm to his lap, so that every shudder passes through him as well his mouth claiming yours as you scratch down his spine, seizing in place as he spreads his hands wide across your spine. It’s those same kisses. The lazy, long and slow ones that bring you back to him, each gentle pass of his hands on your skin as he chases your mouth, catches his own breath in between.

“I need another shower now” he says, grinning as he presses his forehead into yours. “You’re coming with this time” You squeal when he stands, wrapping an arm under your ass as he lifts you both with seeming ease.

He’s had less sleep than you, you can tell. His arms wrap around you from behind as he buries you both in blankets, freshly showered on clean sheets as he kisses behind your ear. He insisted on you naked, cupping at your breasts, his hands sliding over your stomach as his breathing slows, the lazy circuit of his hands becoming heavier.

“Dieter…” you whisper, feeling him scoot closer to you, a half-conscious hum of acknowledgement.

“You could leave for real you know.”

“Mm, no” he says, nuzzling closer into your neck. “Your job is here”

“They’re eviscerating you, going after your family, and Owen and Molly and… I don’t know, if you went away for a while, maybe it would die down”

“Won’t” he grumbles, “Do you want me to?”

“No” you answer, the thought of it pulling gravity from your stomach as you feel him smile into your skin. “But you don’t have to put up with it, and if you wanted to… get away from it… I’d understand”

You feel him huff a laugh into your neck.

“They’ll get bored eventually. Find some other scandal and leave me to fuck you in peace. Besides… I’m not going anywhere without you”

It makes tears prick the back of your eyes, some swelling bursting feeling you can’t name erupting in your chest as he kisses your neck again, finding your hand to lace your fingers together.

“I watched Jezebel” You say, clearing your throat of a warm, soothing blockage that heats your insides.

“Oh, that’s a good one. Bette Davis did that one because she didn’t get to play Scarlett in Gone With the Wind. It’s funny though, it’s the first real link between her and Tallulah, because she originated it on the stage. Then there’s Dark Victory, and of course, The Little Foxes. They had these mirrored careers, one on stage and one on screen, and even though Bette had bad things to say about everyone, she never really did about Lou…”

His voice lulls you to sleep. You’ll hear the rest in the morning.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo smut #the bubble fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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