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nanamiskentos · 4 months ago

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SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条悟, gojo satoru)

── NO GOD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE SKY IS ME. Gojo Satoru is the nation's treasure, and its most dangerous asset. In a world where Supes are lauded as celebrities and heroes, there's only a select few that sees superheroes for what they really are ─ cogs in the propaganda machine, corrupt and lecherous. You're determined to hunt down the golden boy that leads them, to find Gojo Satoru and bring him down. But he's just as obsessed with you, and he gets to you first.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, gojo satoru & afab!reader, wc ─ 5k

cw ─ MDNI. enemies to lovers, THE BOYS AU, love/hate sex, HOMELANDER GOJO 😁, superhero au, cat & mouse dynamics, vigilante!reader, evil!gojo to some extent, mentions of a plane crash to be safe, kitchen sèx, breaking n' entering but they're into that, súb!gojo if u squint, fíngèring, òral (f), usage of powers, 3x01 homelander/butcher inspired, BIG DÍCK GOJO!!

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) s/o to the evil man who inspired the gojo in this fic. and these scenes: 1/2 ofc (i'd rec watching to understand who reader/gojo is also inspired by). art, gojouify.

A ballpoint cap balances between your teeth as you scribble furiously, blue ink streaking across a spare napkin. The address is way too far out, a shipping container, two hours away and tucked into the skeletal maze of the port.

"This is a long drive for a maybe." You press the phone tighter against your ear, frowning at the scrawled numbers and letters, "You're sure I'll find something?"

On the other end, Nanami exhales sharply, the sound of a clock ticking faintly over the static. He's still in the office, no doubt hunched over a desk lit by the sickly glow of a desk lamp.

"Well," he hedges, ever the careful one, "I wouldn't go alone."

You tip your chair back, gaze drifting to the chaotic sprawl of files pinned to the red-string board by the wall. Photographs, names, offshore accounts that all lead back to the same festering rot. Lawmakers, politicians and billionaires.

The smiling, all-powerful titans who owned the system that was supposed to hold them accountable.

At the centre of it all? Gojo Satoru. The strongest superhero that the world had ever seen, barely held in check by Vought and international courts.

You chew at the soft inside of your cheek, "And you're sure this is the best lead we have?"

"After that shitshow at Congress?" Nanami sounds tired, stretched far too thin, "This is the only lead we have, or the only thing that I can find right now."

Ah, yes. The hearing.

The day you almost had them — Gojo, Vought and every polished, pre-packaged lie they peddled. A smoking gun to set the set the system ablaze.

And then, you could only watch the live television stream as every key witness's head popped like a balloon. Blood spraying against mahagony desks, gray matter splattered across the Capitol.

And not many had managed to escape that room unscathed. Save for a select few politicians and reporters, dealing out breathless, shaken interviews alongside an unshaken Gojo Satoru and Congressmen Geto.

You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the napkin, "Yeah, I'll check it out. See if I can find somethin' to nail that cunt."

"Let me know what you find," Nanami intones, a pause. And then, in a far more cautious tone, like he already knows you won't take heed, "Stay safe. And if you do come across Gojo, do not engage with him. In any way."

The line clicks dead.

You toss the streaky pen aside, reaching instead for the amber bottle on the cluttered table, the burn of whisky that's begging to be made familiar once more.

Regardless, it's far too late now to head out and check the address, for night has fallen and you doubt you'll manage to get far.

Beyond the murky glass of your balcony doors, the city pulses with sleepless energy. Neon signs flickering like dying embers, billboards — no doubt plastered with the airbrushed faces of the Supes who run this nation.

Sirens wail in the distance, and somewhere, far beyond the skyline you swear you see it.

A streak of white and blue, fast as lightning, splitting the sky for a fraction of a second. You blink, gummy and dry, nothing. Just the tired hallucinations of an exhausted, paranoid mind.

Pretending that there isn't a ghost in the sky watching you right back.

Your apartment is dying.

The walls peel like old skin, flaking onto the floors that were never properly finished. The overhead light's flickering, buzzing with a weak and dying hum. And the power outlets sputter like they resent being used. It's not a home, it never really was. Just another hideout, another temporary grave you haven't had to lie down in yet.

You press your knuckles into your eyes, willing the exhaustion away, but it sits heavy in your bones. Haven't you been running long enough? But even now, even here, you know it's not enough.

Because he knows. Gojo Satoru must have caught onto your trail months ago, and you can feel it in the way that the law often seems to let you go, and nation-wide manhunts culminate in no harm done. Like Gojo's toying with you.

Your fingers skim over the mess of papers on the table, stopping beneath a stack of unpaid bills and flyers. A small USB drive, wrapped in blue and silver.

Ah. Flight 37, a transatlantic flight carrying 123 passangers that never managed to land safely. But a goldmine had been fished out the torn wreckage, a shaky video clip that held proof of what Gojo Satoru truly was.

Not a saviour, not a hero. Not the golden boy that was worshipped on screens, talk shows and the international stage of diplomacy.

There's a prickling sensation under your skin, a slow burn that crawls up your arms. Then, it sinks deeper, heat. Your stomach clenches, cramping up as nausea slams into you like a freight train, your head spinning, your vision pulsing black at the edges.

You stumble, dropping the USB on the table as desparate fingers gripping the kitchen counter to stay upright. But you recognise the blisters blooming on the pads of your fingers, slow and ugly welts that bloom like flowers of rot.

This is no wayward sickness, for you would recognise the familiar decay of radioactive exposure. Something that's not quite human, or mortal.

Your blood turns to ice. Hold tightening around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cheap laminate. Slowly, carefully, you approach the balcony.

The terracotta curtains are coarse under your fingers as you pull them aside. The city beyond is still alive, cars streaking through wet pavements and lights beaming in the smog. But it all feels muted.

Standing on the ledge, hands folded neatly behind his back, Gojo Satoru.

Your breath stutters as you force yourself to inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, through your nose. Whatever sick ploy he's radiating, you know it's simply meant to shake you. A twisted power play on his end.

So you hold your ground, and after a moment, the nausea ebbs. The blisters on your fingertips sealing over, cells stitching the edges of your frayed flesh back together.

You've never seen Gojo out of that deep blue suit, never without the brass eagles that pin the ridiculous cape over his broad back. Most heroes at least pretend to be human, some charade that they cling to for the chance of a secret life, away from the eyes of the press and the authorities. Supes often put on disguises, and casual clothes, something to blend in with the mortals that they claim to protect.

But Gojo?

There's no separation, no mask nor pretense. He doesn't walk among mortal men, he hovers above them. There's no separating him from the brutal power he wields — capable of striking a laser through a man's skull, or razing a city to rubble. Just a god with a PR-approved script, and the power to carve regimes into ribbons.

And yet, aren't you still standing?

If the strongest wanted you dead, he would have made a spectacle of it. Blood and fireworks for the evening news, another death used as collateral propaganda so the masses can thank him. That's the only mercy that Gojo knows.

You school your features, masking the instinct to flee. Or toss a plastic chair at his face. Gojo is akin to a hungry shark, and fear is blood in the water. You know that the safest way to deal with him is sheer indifference. If you give him nothing, he has nothing to bite or feast on.

You tilt your head, resting your weight against the large window as you pry it open. Letting the night air seep in, cold pricking at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the chill that Gojo's already dragged in with him.

He's staring. The blindfold is gone, and those impossible blue eyes fix on you, as though they're trying carve a jagged cut straight your ribcage — his handsome features stilled to stone.

You arch a brow, "If you're here to watch me get off, it'll cost you a tenner."

A beat of silence. And then, the smallest flicker of something that isn't amusement, but not quite irritation. Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, but his brow ticks up. The barest movement, as though he's debating whether or not to indulge you.

Jaw twitching as though Gojo seems to chew his words, slow and measured, "May I come in?"

You stare at him, gaze sweeping up and down, almost against your will. The way his suit hugs his body, emphasising the unfair curve of his chest, the sharp lines of Gojo's muscles, the tensions in the fabric as it stretches taut over skin. Eyes falling to the strand of white hair that flutters across his face, swaying in the night's breeze. Absurdly perfect, as if he's crafted from some celestial ideal.

But you refuse to indulge him, pressing your lips together tightly, not even a flicker of acknowledgement to the fact that he's standing on your balcony like he owns the damn place. Slowly, you step aside from the window, taking the invitation. Gojo doesn't need permission, but you give it anyway.

As Gojo sweeps past, your eyes linger on the sharp strands of his undercut, the delicate sweep of his hair, so pale it almost looks unreal. But you can see his nose wrinkle, disgust painted across his fine features as electric eyes skim the clutter of your apartment. The peeling walls, the cracked appliances, the mess of papers strewn across your table.

Gojo stops at the red string board, his gaze lingering on the photos and notes that have been painstakingly pinned up, and you see his mouth twitch. As though he's amused by your conspiracy, your obsession, your silent war.

"It's really always about me, isn't it?" Gojo's tone carries the faintest edge of mockery, that damn entertained smile curling the corners of his petal-pink lips.

Your jaw tightens, a flash of anger rearing up inside you. You tear your gaze away from him, "Why are you here? Got no-one to fuckin' torture over at Vought?"

Gojo sighs, almost theatrically, and he's puffing his cheeks out. As though he's bored, like this is a mild inconvenience for him, "So, you're going on a trip tomorrow, huh?"

You track his gaze to the napkin still resting on the table, the address scribbled carelessly across its surface, "What's it to you?" Hoping that your voice is level, and as neutral as it can get.

Gojo Satoru doesn't quite answer immediately. Instead, he pulls off those thick blue gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are oddly elegant, but you know just how capable they are of ending a life in a second, how capable they are of tearing a throat out without breaking a sweat. The very same hands now tuck the gloves into the bronze-metal band of his belt with an almost unsettling level of care.

"Well, I'm just hurt you're going somewhere without me," Gojo quips slyly, "We could have had ourselves a little road trip, sweetheart. Thelma and Louise on the open road, eh?"

You don't say anything, although you're dying to mention how Thelma & Louise ends. Gojo just rolls his searing-blue eyes skywards dramatically, as though he's used to your stubborn attitude.

"Y'know, I could jus' pull you apart, limb by limb," Gojo tacks on casually, "Make you tell me where you're going."

You can feel the tension in your gut tighten, but you refuse to let the Supe catch onto it, although you have no doubt that his superhuman senses can hear the beat of your heart pumping, every hitch in your breath.

"Nah," you bite back, "That'd be worthless. Victim always goes into shock. You gotta' start small. Fingers, nails, ears..." Your voice trails off, calling Gojo's bluff, forcing your words out as if the prospect doesn't shake you.

Gojo's vibrant, jewel-tone stare doesn't break, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens like iron against a whetstone. "It could be a matter of national security, you know," he murmurs, "I have a duty to protect his nation, to weed out any enemies of the state."

You huff in weary, mock exasperation, dragging a hand over your chin in faux-contemplation, "Look, uh, I don't mean to be rude, but can we just skip to the part where you laser my fuckin' brains out?"

Gojo just swears under his breath, "Oh, for fuck's sake," he's muttering, side-stepping around your rickety table, stepping closer as an almost fond smile tugs at his lips, "Where's the fun in that? Come on, look at ya'. It'd be like putting down a wounded dog?"

You don't flinch, you refuse the possibility. But there's that pulse of heat, low in your spine, when Gojo leans into your space. An electric storm about to crack wide as he studies you, eyes falling to the table where your cards are laid out blatantly, and you jolt. Remembering the innocuous little thing, that USB. The one that could very well be his undoing.

"What do you have on me, doll?" Gojo drawls, his voice smooth and untempered, towering over you like an impossibly magnetic force. You hold your ground as his eyes widen, "You do have something, I presume?"

With slow precision (and trembling fingers), you lift the USB, dangling it between your nails as Gojo's eyes flicker for a split second. Amused smile slipping just enough to show something that's less calculated. As though he knows what you grasp, what you're capable of.

Gojo's expression hardens for a split moment, blush-pink lips parted as he watches you, drinks in the sight of you gredily. All before cold steels locks into place once more, his demeanour laced with something far more callous, like a man cornered who knows exactly how to strike back.

"Go ahead. Release it," Gojo steps closer, until you can feel his breath against your skin, and you catch the tang of iron and clean, expensive leather. "Let's light this candle, huh? I mean, sure, I'll lose everything, doll. But then, I'll have nothin' to lose." His voice is quiet, but there's unmistakable malice beneath it.

"First, I'll take out the nerve centres. The seat of the government, the High Courts. Then, any domestic defense capabilities. Critical infrastructure, cellular, Internet, all of it. And then?" Gojo pauses, teeth catching onto the plush flesh of his lower lip.

"Then, I'll just wipe this city right off the fuckin' map, for fun," Gojo adds, a dark smile curling at the edges of his lips, "Hell, I'll throw in that little town your friend's from. Kento, right? Nanami, from the office? Because, why not?"

Gojo's lips brush the shell of your ear, and you resist the urge to shiver, locking your eyes with his own defiantly, venomously as he continues, "See, sweetheart, I'd prefer to be loved. Y'know, as the strongest, I really would. But if you take that away from me? Well, being feared is A-one, okey-doke by me."

Gojo wants you to challenge him, to hear you break the silence with something other than terror, "So, doll," he murmurs, practically cooing, "Go ahead. Do it." His lips curl, sharp fangs poking out from his glossy, red mouth, "No? You don't wanna? Well, then, I'd say you have absolutely no fuckin' leverage. Because I am the strongest, and I can really do whatever the fuck I want."

You blink angrily, breath catching as Gojo watches you with an almost affection gleam in his eyes. As though he's enjoying this, this sparring match where he's got you pinned. So you swallow thickly, and deep down, you know he's right.

Gojo Satoru is unstoppable. He could easily turn on the world that worships him, props him up, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. No nuclear treaty, no tank nor fighter jet could stand a chance against Unlimited Void or Hollow Purple.

There's no undoing the seams and stitches that hold Gojo together. None, apart from...

Your eyes flicker downwards, instinctively, to the thick curve that bulges through the tight suit he dons. That mouth-watering, delicious bulge that's packed, and if Gojo steps any closer, it would jostle against your thigh.

You inch closer, smoothly, grasping at the stray strand of ice-white hair to tuck it behind Gojo's ears. His expression widening, raw and open for a split second as he shivers, purrs.

"Say I call your bluff, Gojo," you say coolly, "What are you gonna' do, right here, right now?" Your hand trails away from his ear, brushing the high, stiff collar of his suit. Fingers gently pressing into the warm flesh of his neck. You feel his pulse jump under your touch, staccato beats that hiccup along.

And you could have sworn that Gojo breathes out a gentle sigh, lips parting around the words, "Finally."

But his cerulean eyes are narrowed, jaw still clenched, as though he's trying to figure out your angle. Now, he truly does push closer to you so that packed curve brushes against your thigh. And it's big, larger-than-life, like everything about Gojo Satoru is.

Fuck this, you shake your head, as though you're tossing away your rationality. Reaching up to thread your fingers through soft, white hair. Pulling Gojo closer as he groans, closing the distance. Lips crashing against your own, forceful and desperate.

You can feel Gojo freeze, stutter as he seems to work through his shock. But then, something irrevocably shifts in him. Ocean-blue eyes fluttering close, so white lashes kiss his creamy skin. A large hand gripping at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

It's rough, and messy — and your tongue lingers on the taste of something like espresso, and sweet, sugar syrup to boot. The creamy taste of Gojo Satoru that lingers on your tongue and makes your mouth water.

"Tch', you –" Gojo murmurs, as though all the air in the world has been stolen from his lungs, "You jus' don't k-know how long I've wanted this. Ever since you, heh, fired that bullet at me when we first met."

His tone is erratic, large hands splayed against the small of your back, pushing you further against the kitchen counter.

"That shit went right through ya' head," you breathe, struggling to stay steady against the hard plane of Gojo's form, the muscles curling into you, "Didn't do a fuckin' thing."

Gojo's giggling, giggling as though he's already drunk on your touch, so utterly dangerous. Tugging at your top, fingers spread wide over the curve of your chest. Flicking at the sharp peaks of your nipples, "Waste of a perfectly good round, eh, doll?"

The tips of Gojo's ears are a searing shade of crimson, as he's pulling and toying with your clothes. You have never, ever in your wildest and most illicit fantasies imagined Gojo Satoru like this.

You've never pictured him so obedient, so desperate to meld into your hold. Bright blue eyes glazed over, filmy and hazy as his cheeks are mottled pink.

The most dangerous man in the entire world (or so you'd wager) has you firm against the cracking plastic of your counter, with his lips finding home on whatever skin he can find. Kissing, bruising, sucking at the tender flesh in a way that you know will leave blooming marks.

"C-can I?" Gojo pleads, as though he hasn't spent a lifetime whispering quiet threats into your ear, but now his large hand is softly pressed against the back of your neck.

Slick-strands falling from his lips as he sips at your taste, sucking gently on your tongue.

He kisses you firmly with such force that it leaves you dizzy, and the way he strokes at your cheek with a bruised knuckle is far too tender for a man who's practically a walking, ticking bomb.

He's roughly cupping your tits, kneading at the soft fat and flesh, "Hah, pretty, aren'tcha?" Strands of snow-white hair tickling at your neck as Gojo leans his head down, wrapping his lips around your nipple, lickin' and sucking wherever he can reach.

You arch your spine, pulling Gojo even closer. Grinding your clothed core right up against the hard length taut in that damned suit. Feeling every inch brush up against you.

"F-fuck," Gojo murmurs, slurring out babble and praise out through his kiss-swollen lips. You're slowly rocking your hips back and forth, unintentionally honestly, but you're desperate for some friction to relieve the ache that's blooming within your searing groin.

The pads of his fingers are tilting your jaw at the perfect angle, swollen lips sticky against yours, "Just like that," Gojo grunts, running his pink tongue over the kiss-bitten flesh of your own mouth, "N-not so mouthy now, are we?"

But then, because you think Gojo Satoru is unable to go even a second without antagonising you, the white-haired man is lifting his head. Glossy eyes tearing over your apartment as he pulls an unimpressed face, "Damn, this place is kinda' a dump. You really live like this?"

Your fingers latch onto the stray strands on his head, bucking your hips into his bulge harsher, "Says the cunt who made me a fugitive."

Gojo shakes his head, making a faint pshh, dismissive sound as he scoops you up, biceps not even curling to strain as he roughly stomps towards your meagre, thin bed. Laying you flat on the flat mattress as he rumples the waistband of your pants, hooking his thumb underneath the fabric.

You don't even realise it at first, but you're admiring those razor-sharp, strikingly handsome features. Watching as Gojo tugs at his cape, rough and coarse until the fabric tears away from his shoulder plates — until the azure stars and stripes end up on the wooden floor discarded.

"So, doll, how exactly do ya' want me? " Gojo titters, gently pulling a finger into the flimsy cotton of your panties. You can see his nose twitch, eyes flutter shut for a split second as he visibly reels from the messy, filthy slick pooling under his nails. You can only groan, arching at the sudden stimulation as he begins to crook his fingers faster against your folds.

You suddenly pull your thighs taut together, clenching the flesh to trap his hand, "Taste me, Gojo." Breath shuddering as Gojo's fingers suddenly still, ice-blue eyes blown wide at your gall to give him a command.

But he's always been an excellent soldier, hasn't he? Because he seems to be moving on autopilot, pulling his dripping fingers away and gently lolling his tongue on your translucent sheen, "Hah, I can't believe you're g-giving me orders." Gojo almost whimpers at your sweet tang, desperate to have your pussy drool into his waiting mouth.

"M-more, can you – oh, fuck," You inhale sharply, feeling Gojo's fingers imprint on your thighs, firmly spreading your legs apart so he can shuffle further back, his breath moist against your wet cunt, "Heh, never thought you'd ever be like this."

Gojo gives you a flat look, the underside of his eyes crinkling as he stares at you, "Don't get used to t-this." He's grumbling, but his eyes are blown wide, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch a stray drop of your precious arousal dribbling down your inner thigh, "It's just 'cause –"

You don't give his smart-alec mouth time to formulate any words, groaning as you pull at the thick, soft and tousled strands of white hair. Letting the tip of his sharp nose nudge against your clit as Gojo suddenly muffles a desparate, thirst-laden whine, "Mhm, mhm, fuck!"

"Yeah, y-yeah," You breathe, sighing in relief as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laving thickly at the glossy folds that he's desperate to munch at, "That's what I thought."

Stifled sounds prick at your ears, a mantra of words falling from Gojo's mouth, something that sounds suspiciously like "Thank you, t-thank you, thank —." The strongest man in the entire world losing his mind, so grateful to wrap his lips against your swollen bud, your throbbing clit as he sucks. Hard.

Your walls clench suddenly, and you can feel the tip of Gojo's tongue prod at your entrance. That length somehow managing to render you gummy, dazed and speechless as he pushes the wet muscle into your cunt, "Ah, ahh, 'Toru, please."

Nothing prepares you for how Gojo's long, slender fingers come to slap at your pussy. Lengthy digits pistoning right into your tender, sensitive walls as he's eager to curve and search for that sweet spot that will make you scream, "What'dya call me, sweets? 'Toru?"

Gojo's looking up at you, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his expression was almost shy. Those eyes, blue like the core of a searing star, like something inhuman was barely contained and desperate to break free. There's something eerie about how bright they are, how they seem to glow even in the dim, murky light of your apartment.

There's glossy, snapping strands of Gojo's new favourite thirst-quencher falling from his lips as he laps at you. Long lashes fluttering against high cheekbones as there's a slight sheen of exertion beading at his temple, "If, if I had known that all I had to do to shut ya' up was eat you out, then —" Gojo whistles low, the vibrations echoing through your cunt, "Woulda' drank this pussy a longgg time ago."

You buck your hips against his nose, canting against his shapely nose bridge, "Don't get c-cocky." Seems that Gojo's just that desperate for you to boss him around, because he's already turning his attention and bratty mouth back to your cunt, licking you right up until he's certain you're seeing stars.

He's still got his suit on, broad-shoulders snugly wrapped in the textured fabric. Sculpting over his bicep even as he draws you even closer, until he's face to face with his new, second favourite girl. With you being his number #1, of course, Gojo isn't afraid to admit that you plotting to kill him has turned him on immensely over the years.

The idea of you planting your thighs around his head 'til he's devoid of air has had him pulling and jerking at his cock, whimpering until he was shooting blanks.

"Come on," and Gojo's snickering at his own play on words, "Or s-should I say c-cum on." Smacking his lips filthily against your folds, fingers pushing at your clit and rubbing furious circles over and over again until you feel the world go blank, and you're star-struck.

Gojo's whispering sweet nothings, adoring praise into your cunt as you ride out your high against his face, "Pretty girl, s-so good for me, heh. Think 'm fuckin' addicted."

You're already lazily pulling yourself up, propping yourself back on your elbows as you take in the sight of a teary-eyed Gojo Satoru. You watch as he pulls himself up, frame towering over you in the flimsy bed as he tugs and paws at the thick, firm bulge in his suit. Now darkened with a translucent patch of his release.

Gojo's fisting his hand over his cock in some ineffective form of relief, "Wanna' show you, g-gorgeous, wanna' show you how the strongest fucks."

But then, his eyes are looking up, wide and superhuman. Searing blue that lights up the dim room like a torch, and it's only then you notice that the lightbulb that once precariously teetered from your ceiling has shattered, and there's a crack in the large window that you swore you've never seen before.

And clutched within Gojo Satoru's fingers, shards of silver metal and blue chips. Fuck, that hag, that doped-up cunt must have had that USB clenched between his fingers the entire time, swiping it off the table when you pulled him in.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," Gojo scoffs, pulling out a cock that beams with an angry, red mushroom tip. Thick spurts of cum already clinging to the slit as he hisses, and your thighs clench in anticipation of the delicious split, "I got something b-better for you right here."

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businessabroad · 2 years ago

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Before Passing Your Interview at the United Nations #15

youtube

The Final Countdown: Pre-Interview Prep for the UN

As your United Nations interview approaches, the preparation you do now can set you apart from the competition. Our latest video, "Before Passing Your Interview at the United Nations," offers a treasure trove of preparation tactics that go beyond the basics.

Discover the nuances of UN interviews, how to showcase your experiences in sync with the UN's goals, and the pivotal steps to take as your interview day looms. It’s not just about answering questions; it’s about embodying the principles that the UN stands for.

Get ready to enter your UN interview with poise and preparation on your side.

#UnitedNations #PreInterviewTips #UNJobsPrep #JobSearchStrategy

#United Nations Interview Tips #UN Interview Preparation #Job Interview Strategies #How to Prepare for a UN Job #UN Career Insights #Pre-Interview Checklist #United Nations Job Application #Interview Readiness #UN Mission and Values #Interviewing at International Organizations #Professional Interview Prep #UN Job Seeking #Youtube

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thetriumphantpanda · 10 months ago

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you'll just have to taste me | joel miller

Summary | He knows he's no good, knows it's a bad idea, you're out of bounds and should stay that way, but it's okay to test the waters, right?

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.7K

Warnings | this is literally 1.7k of utter filth, you've been warned, it's nasty, I told you, okay? Unspecified age gap, Joel is your dad's buddy and Sarah is your friend. Joel fights with his morals but the pussy is too good. Explicit smut, JUST THE TIP, unprotected PiV, cumshot, cum eating, spit play, dirty talk, Joel talks you through it. No outbreak au, no use of Y/N.

Authors Note | I AM SO INCREDIBLY LATE TO POST THIS, but this is my entry to @hellishjoel's HOT DILF SUMMER CHALLENGE. I know it's September and this was not my original idea, but it came to me and I wrote this in less than an hour. It's filth and it's nasty and I beg you not to judge me okay? Written and edited on my phone so forgive any mistakes.

Divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

He’s going to hell. He’s always known it. Despite the years of his parents putting him in his Sunday best and taking him to church each week with his brother, despite his upbringing and the way he’s always tried to be the perfect southern gentleman, Joel Miller is going to hell, and the evidence in right in front of him.

You. His buddy’s daughter. His own daughter’s friend. The bane of his existence for the whole damn summer, with your short dresses and flirty eyes and the way you make him laugh and the way he’s wanted you since you waltzed back into town, masters degree under arm, with one purpose which seemed to be to turn him on at every possible opportunity.

It’s been bubbling for weeks. You’d caught him in the corridor during movie night with Sarah, whilst she was downstairs microwaving popcorn and he’d had no choice but to kiss you, your lips drenched in something that tasted like mango and made him dizzy. Then, at the annual neighbourhood cookout, when you’d dropped a fork and bent over to pick it up, flashing him those skimpy panties as you did, he’d had no choice then but to drag you upstairs and teach you a lesson, ten sharp slaps on your pert ass and strong words that you needed to stop. He doesn’t doubt you went home that night and shoved three fingers into your cunt and dreamt of him as you came.

But now, it’s all real. Sarah’s gone back to college, your parents back to work, and you have nothing lined up until you start getting invited to interview for positions that you’d applied to with a slew of applications about two weeks ago. It’s why you’re on his bed, it’s why he’s left Tommy on site on his own, and why you’re bare as the day you were born, legs spread obscenely, pussy on display as he stands at the foot of his bed and contemplates whether he really should do this.

“Y’scared, old man?” You tease, one hand trailing down your body, two fingers spreading the swollen lips of your cunt, middle finger dipping inside.

He can see the webbing of slick you drag from yourself, finger slow as it circles your clit. His eyes can’t miss the way your hole flutters as you touch yourself, like it’s begging to be filled, begging to be filled by his throbbing cock that he’s currently fisting in his hand.

“Ain’t scared,” He mutters, “Y’sure you wanna do this?”

You don’t speak in response, just dip two fingers back into your weeping cunt and start fucking yourself with them. He squeezes his cock a little tighter in his hand, feeling the weeping of pre-cum at his tip as he watches.

“Ain’t no comin’ back from this.” He muses, moving forward, knees on the mattress, your legs spreading wider to accommodate the width of his thighs.

“Want you,” Is all he hears from your mouth as his cock rests on your pussy, hot and heavy against your skin, “Want your cock, Joel.”

He thrusts his hips a little at that, dragging his length through the soaking folds of your cunt, head rubbing against the swollen bud of your clit.

“Y’sure?” He asks, continuing the rub of his cock, “It’s all over then, baby,” He coos, “I’ll ruin ya.”

“Good,” You groan out, hips shifting to try and catch his tip at your entrance, to try and get exactly what you want, “I want it, Joel, I want it bad.”

“Y’know what I think?” He asks, looking down at you, stopping his movements and opting to circle your clit with his thumb instead, “I reckon we need t’make sure.”

“I am-” You try and protest, but he’s shushing you.

“I reckon,” He says slowly, bringing the tip of his cock to press to your weeping core, “It don’t count if it’s just the tip,” He pushes his hips forward ever so slightly, not enough to sink inside, but enough that he’s already had a taste of what you’ll feel like around him, “Just the tip baby, and then we’ll know.”

He looks down at you and he can see your wild eyes, the way you nod your head against the mattress. You’re such a good girl for him, taking whatever he’ll give you, so he does just that. With three fingers on the base of his cock, he lets the tip of him push inside you, just enough that the head of his cock is nestled inside you, and he knows he’s fucked.

You’re tight and you’re warm and you’re breathing and whimpering for him, and those perfect walls are clenching around him so right and so good that it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to shove his cock all the way in and damn you both to hell.

“Jesus girl,” He breathes, one hand clutching at your hip to hold you still, “Fuckin’ perfect, ain’t ya?”

You don’t speak back to him, it’s all you can do to lie and try not to writhe too much as he starts his shallow thrusts. The head of his cock popping from your wet cunt and then being sucked back in so perfectly. He’s had his fair share of women since Sarah went to college and he knows he’s a lot to take, knows that he knows what he’s doing too, but when he looks down at you, your eyes tilted back in your skull, cunt squeezing him just right, he can’t help but think this is what he’s been missing.

“That good?” He asks, bringing his thumb back to your clit, swirling wetness across it as he continues the shallow thrusts of his hips.

“Want it all,” You grumble, “Can take it all, Joel.”

“Ain’t got a doubt,” He teases, but doesn’t relent, “But we gotta make sure.”

He wants to lean down, wants to cover your body with his own and suck one of your perfect nipples into his mouth, but he knows the minute he does you’ll beg him so nice and he’ll break, so he resists, swirling his thumb across your clit with more purpose now.

“M’gonna-” You choke out, and he knows, he can feel it, the way you’re fluttering and tightening around the head of his cock so perfectly, “Gonna come, Joel.”

“Yeah?” He asks ruefully, “Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl?” He smiling down at you as your mouth drops open, your cunt pulling painfully tight around him, “Go on, you can do it,” He babbles, trying to fight the tightening in his own stomach until you’ve come for him, “Come for me, baby.”

And you do, by God you do, and he thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. You whine, a high-pitched kind of thing, eyes clamping shut as you arch your back. There’s more slick around his cock than he’s ever seen before, making it easy for the tip of his cock to ease you through it. The convulsing of your walls around him bring him to his own end, using his last braincell to drag the tip from your cunt and give himself three strokes before the thick ropes of his cum are splashing across your swollen pussy. He watches where they land, painting your skin as his own as his head tips back and breathes a sigh of relief.

He know’s he should stop, but there’s something mesmerising about the mix of his cum and your own, the way he’s dripping down you and onto his sheets. His shuffles down a little and leans forward, using his thumbs to spread your pussy open, before he uses his tongue to gather the mess down there. He’s slurping at you, tasting your cunt through his cum, gathering as much of the two of you as he can in his mouth.

You’re moaning for him when his tongue flicks a few times at your sensitive bud, but then his body is over yours, weight pressed against you as one of his hands takes your chin, squeezing at your jaw to get you to open your mouth, which you do, gladly.

Joel opens his own mouth, letting his cum, your slick and his spit drop from his own into your waiting mouth. He doesn’t give you a minute to swallow anything, his tongue mixing with yours in a kiss that is messy and obscene. He can feel your hips against his own, your hot cunt pressing against him. If he was younger, he’d pin you down and fuck you again, this time for real, but all he can do is pull away.

“Swallow it,” He orders, closing your mouth and watching the bob of your throat as you do what he says, producing your tongue for him, “Good fuckin’ girl.”

He unceremoniously collapses onto the bed next to you, arm over his eyes as he tries to recover some semblance of composure. He can feel your body next to his, shuffling a little closer, and then he can hear you stifling a laugh and then before long, it’s not stifled, it’s full on laughter. He takes his arm from his eyes and looks at you, and can’t help but start laughing himself, until his ribs hurt and you’ve calmed down enough, your body draped across his in the mid-afternoon glow.

“This is bad, huh?” You whisper, fingers dancing through the smattering of hair across his chest.

“Terrible, really.” He responds.

“I’m sure though,” And he holds you a little tighter at that, “Next time, I want the whole thing.”

“Don’t worry baby,” He says quietly, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, “You can have whatever you want next time.”

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mukbangg · 1 year ago

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Stress relief 18+

Your tongue swirls on the his salty tip, fat cock twitching and half hard as you tried to coax it to full mast, dragging your tongue down to the base to suck softly at his balls.

Kenji Sato, the man himself whines, sucking a sharp breathy gasp as he glances down at you with teary eyes.

Brows drawn and pouty lips pursed, he looks like he would actually cry.

Its not like you've been teasing him.

You've got a sadistic flare but you're not cruel. Besides, you were trying to relieve his stress.

He had trudged into your shared bedroom after a hectic day of back to back interviews, baseball practice and saving the city, or at least as much saving he could do half asleep before the KDF came.

A sob and a wail here, a sulky tantrum when you hadn't catch what he said, he's winded himself up even more after an overwhelming day.

So you had to take things into your own hands.

"Are you listening to me at all? Emi's asleep finally, and-"

He goes on and on and on as you smile and nod, walking him to the couch, leaning him back and sliding down between his thighs as if you're going about the day like normal.

It wasn't until you clicked open his belt that he pauses, eyes flicking in confusion from your face to hands before your mouth nips gently over his briefs, taking in his musky scent.

He yelps, flushing red as he struggles between irritation and lust.

"What're you doing...?"

Which brings you to now as you pull off his cock sloppily with a wet pop, finally red and hard as it glistened from your spit.

It swirls with his pre, thick globs dribbling down to the couch.

Your mouth twitches up into a smirk at his whines when you stop.

Eyes glazed and loopy, his mouth lolling open, he definitely looks stress-free right now.

"Feels good, Ken?"

You murmur against his swollen tip, hot breath causing him to flinch and twitch.

"Yea...s'gud baby..."

#ken sato x reader #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato #ken sato #ultraman x reader #ultraman rising #ultraman #my writing #smut #kenji sato smut #ken sato smut

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martian-astro10 · 8 months ago

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Astrology observations - Part 4 (use whole signs)

🌟 Moon in 4th is one of my favourite placements. These people usually have a good career, like an emotionally fulfilling one. They won't stay in a job that doesn't make them happy. Their mom can help them choose a career or give them interview tips.

🏮Mars in 2nd house people are so lucky when it comes to earning money, it's like, they get a new money making opportunity just when they're on their last penny. They're also not afraid to get their hands dirty and are willing to do almost anything, very hard working people. They're also the ones managing all the money in their family.

🌟 Mercury in 8th house people are the ones with a "sexy brain" like the WAY their mind works, are so good at analysing arguments and coming up with the best possible solution. Good debating skills. These people have great manifestation skills, I have a list of 100 + incidents, it's honestly a little scary. Can also develop clairvoyant abilities if they work on it.

🏮I haven't met a single non religious, Sun in 9th house person in my life. Even if they're not that religious in their younger years, they will be when they get older. Always willing to help others even when they themselves are suffering, my mom has this, and.....it pisses me off so bad. The "put your own oxygen mask on first" advice is for you all. Stop helping people, be selfish, it's not your duty to make everyone else's life better. My mom doesn't listen, but maybe you all will.

🌟 Venus in 11th house is a placement that's really good from a business perspective. They're great at negotiations so that's helpful. They won't like doing a regular 9 to 5 job as it will suppress their freedom and creativity. They will open their own business pretty early on in life, in like late 20's or early 30's. Great architects and interior designers. I remember when I made the architecture and astrology post, a lot of people had this.

🏮I haven't seen anyone talk about this, but moon in 6th house people can be really good leaders, they're very helpful and kind and their ability to understand emotions makes them extremely likable. They have more of a people oriented leadership style. They focus on building strong relationship with their group members or employees. Also, why are you all always sick 😭? Prone to anxiety and stress and this leads to body pain and digestive issues. Please put your health first.

🌟 It's really funny how ALL my friends, every single one, has Venus in 1st. I would say that rather than us being pretty, we're just very likable. Even if they're introvert or shy, they have a communication style that makes other people want to talk to them. It's just an aura thing, tbh. Also, they're huge people pleasers and will do their best not to offend anyone, like even if a person is being annoying, they won't say anything. (Mars in 1st can change this)

🏮 Jupiter in 2nd house is not good for marriage but great for career and friendships. I know people with this who are still in contact with their pre school friends. Their friends will help them in their career as well. They're intelligent but they think they're not, and this makes them lose a lot of opportunities. Need to have a little bit of courage to succeed in life.

🌟 Sun in 12th house people probably had a painful childhood (more so than others), if mercury is with sun in 12th, then they write poems to express this pain. They're good writers, and can be lyricists, authors, script/play writers, etc. these people are physically weak. Might also not know who they are, as in, not aware of their own personality traits.

🏮Saturn in 12th house people lack confidence when they're young, but become more confident as they get older and learn to get out of their comfort zone. These people have better luck outside of their homeland. This is a good placement if you want to become a psychologist as it gives you the ability to properly analyse those with mental disorders. They also look aloof most of the time. This is another placement that is good in terms of writing skills, many famous authors have this (those who write sad stuff)

#moon in 4th house #mars in 2nd house #mercury in 8th house #sun in 9th house #venus in 11th house #moon in 6th house #venus in 1st house #jupiter in 2nd house #sun in 12th house #saturn in 12th house #astrology observations #astrology #astroblr #astrology community #astrology content #astro notes

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demie90s · 18 days ago

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You Can’t Take Her Nowhere

UConn x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Every team has that one player. That’s you. Bold. Shameless. Unfiltered.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: crack, chaos, thirst, unapologetic sapphic horniness

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: excessive flirtation, suggestive content, wild one-liners, Geno stress levels dangerously high

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.6k

I don’t flirt quietly. Never have. Never will. If I think you’re fine, I’m saying it—with my full chest, mic’d up or not. And if you’re on the court with me? Even worse. I’ll call a screen and still find a way to compliment your thighs. I once told a ref he looked like he had a crush on me mid free throw. He missed the call completely. Geno was furious. I winked.

At practice, I’ve been threatened with cones. At games, the student section either worships me or reports me. There’s no in-between. The team just lets me talk now—mostly because there’s no stopping it, and half the time I back it up with twenty points and a viral moment. The camera loves me. The mic loves me. I love her.

And by her, I mean whoever I’ve decided to obsess over that week.

Flau’jae once bit her lip while stretching pre-game and I moaned loud enough that the opposing team asked if I was okay. Angel winked at me at tip-off and I deadass fumbled the ball. Paige adjusted her jersey in front of me and I said, “Goddamn, let me be the elastic.”

They don’t take me seriously. Not until halftime.

That’s when they roll the locker room feed and forget the audio’s still hot. I don’t say anything too crazy—until I do. Like when we played LSU and I looked around calm as hell, mid-taping my ankle, and said, “I could take Angel from the back while Flau’jae sits on my face and still have the stamina to run zone defense.” The camera guy choked. Nika shrieked. Geno left the room and never came back.

I’ve been warned. I’ve been benched. I’ve been caught blowing kisses during a national anthem. But the thing is? I mean every damn word I say.

Like when I told KK in the middle of a timeout, “Baby, if you hit that three, I’m folding your jersey and mine and using them both to tie you to the hotel headboard.” She missed. Came back next play and sank it with her tongue sticking out at me. I stood up. Clapped once. “That’s my girl!” Azzi nearly passed out laughing.

The staff doesn’t know what to do with me. Geno calls me “a walking HR violation.” The media calls me unpredictable. Twitter calls me iconic. All I know is, when Paige does that little thing with her wrist, the one that shows off the vein while she dribbles? I black out a little. I once bit my lip so hard it bled.

Last week, they mic’d me up again. Said they wanted “authentic energy.” Bad idea. At the free throw line, I leaned over to Angel Reese and whispered, “You smell like coconut oil and disrespect, and I’d ruin both of us if you let me.” She missed the shot. I blew her a kiss. We won by twenty.

Post-game, I told the sideline reporter she looked “good enough to bench press,” and when she asked what I attributed our fourth-quarter run to, I said, “Horny aggression.” KK walked away mid-interview. Paige slapped the back of my head.

But the crowd? Ate it up.

Geno pulled me aside after. Looked me dead in the eye and said, “You’re gonna be the reason I go bald.” I smiled and said, “At least I’m giving them a show.” He shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

Because deep down, he knows—They can’t take me nowhere.

And that’s exactly why they keep bringing me.

I knew I was getting on her nerves. That was half the fun.

Inês was always so damn composed—soft voice, tight ponytail, eyes that darted everywhere but mine when I got too close. And maybe it was because she was so shy, so serious, so put-together… that I couldn’t help myself. I liked the way she tensed when I entered the room. I liked the challenge.

She looked real good that day. Hair braided back, sleeves pushed up, legs tucked under her during stretches. And I don’t care who was around—when someone looks that fine, I’m gonna notice. Loudly.

“I swear, if I ever got the chance…” I muttered to myself, not loud enough for anyone but Azzi to hear. She turned around slow, eyes wide like girl please. I shrugged. “She’s damn fine. That’s all I’m saying.”

But Inês must’ve caught the vibe, because next thing I knew, she was standing, arms crossed, giving me a look like she was trying to burn a hole through my forehead.

“You’re outta pocket,” she said. Not yelling. Not playful either. Somewhere in between. Like she didn’t know whether to cuss me out or blush.

I grinned and pushed up from the floor, slow and easy. “I’ve been called worse.”

She rolled her eyes and started walking off, but I didn’t let it end like that. I followed. Not too close. Just enough to make her feel it.

“You know I’m not like that with everybody, right?” I said. “I don’t play like this for fun. You’re different.”

She stopped. Just a few feet from the lockers. Didn’t turn. I stepped closer, real gentle. Nothing wild. Nothing invasive.

“I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable. But I’m not about to lie either,” I said, voice dropping just enough. “You’re fine, Inês. And if you ever gave me the green light, you wouldn’t regret it.”

She finally turned her head a little, eyes cutting over to me—but not sharp this time. Just curious. A little confused. Maybe a little caught.

I didn’t push. Just stepped in, leaned down slow, and kissed the corner of her mouth. Not cocky. Not dramatic. Just a promise. Just enough.

Then I smiled, brushed her arm with the back of my hand, and walked off like I hadn’t just changed the way she’d look at me forever.

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t stop me either.

And I knew damn well she’d be thinking about that kiss all day.

@draculara-vonvamp @non3ofurbusiness @toorealrai

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undyingdecay · 28 days ago

Note

's a clichè but walker remarry with user and decides that their honeymoon is the right time to do some redemption(?)

(i go feral for a remarry troupe)

if someone had asked you two years ago why you divorced john walker, you would’ve said—without thinking—that he was too proud to love you properly.

he didn’t cheat. he didn’t hit you. it wasn’t that kind of story. but god, it hurt all the same. he buried himself in his job, in his title, in that fucking shield, until it felt like there was no room for anything else. every time you tried to reach him, to open the door he kept shut between you, he’d say he was fine. that it wasn’t important. that you should stop worrying so much.

but love doesn’t grow in silence.

so you left. and you didn’t look back. not right away, anyway.

and then he showed up at your door almost a year later, not in uniform, not with apologies rehearsed like excuses—but with his eyes bloodshot, fingers trembling, voice cracking (though he tries to hide it with a cough) as he said, “i still wear the ring.”

you fight back saying ‘i know’ because you do know, see it on tv all the time during his interviews, even with the familiar glint of the ring, the first thing that comes to mind is you don’t remember the last time you saw john cry—the last time he let you see him cry.

you told him you needed time. and time, for once, he gave you.

now here you are, two years after the divorce, lying beside him in the soft light of your honeymoon suite—your second honeymoon, technically. it’s quieter than the first. there’s no grand hotel, no press breathing down your neck. just the mountain air, a too-soft bed, and the way john is touching you like you’re something fragile.

you feel his hand trail along your side, pausing just below your belly button. you glance over your shoulder at him, still on your side, sheets tangled between your legs.

he’s watching your stomach like it’s holy.

you smirk sleepily and murmur, “already groping me?”

he lets out a small chuckle, but his hand doesn’t move. he just presses in a little tighter. “you do the same to me.”

“yeah,” you breathe, turning slightly toward him. “but you like it.”

his voice is quieter then. husky. “you know i do.”

and he does. god, he does. he loves being touched by you. watched by you. needed by you. it gets him drunk faster than any drink ever could.

but what he doesn’t say is this: it’s not just that he likes touching you. it’s that he wants to leave something behind. a mark. a legacy. a piece of himself in you so he can never be forgotten again. not like last time.

he doesn’t say that out loud. not yet.

but when you roll onto your back and let him kiss you, slow and deep, when you thread your fingers through his hair and he ruts against you with a breathy whimper in his throat—you feel it. how badly he wants it.

his hands shake a little when he undoes your robe. not from nerves, exactly. something closer to reverence. like he’s not sure he’s allowed this, even now, even after the vows have been said again, rings swapped a second time. you guide his hand between your legs, the warmth of it, the slight callouses making you gasp.

his pupils blow wide. he curls a finger inside you, slow, watching your face like it’s a compass. he’s always been physical, always good with his body—but tonight he doesn’t lead with ego. he leads with care. your moans feed something in him, your praise makes him shudder.

kisses you like he’s kneeling at an altar. like you’re a miracle, not a person. and when you reach for him—wrap your fingers around the thick, flushed weight of him through his boxers—he groans, almost bashful before pulling his fingers out of you and pulling his own boxers off.

he jerks himself with the hand you just slicked up with your arousal, pre-come already beading at the tip. his cock twitches when you reach down to help, wrapping your fingers around him, whispering that he’s doing good, that you’re proud of him. he ruts into your hand like he’s starving, forehead pressed to yours

“fuck—please—don’t tease,” he breathes. “i’ll cum in your hand if you do that.”

“it’s okay—you can let go.”

he shudders, but you feel the way his cock twitches against your palm. his hips shift without meaning to, grinding into your hand like he’s already on the edge. and when you push his boxers down, when you let him rut into your bare thigh with flushed cheeks and a trembling jaw, you realize just how badly he needs this.

how badly he needs you.

he doesn’t ask about a condom. and neither do you.

he lines himself up with hands that tremble only slightly and pushes inside—slow, deep, bare.

you gasp. your body stretches for him, pulls him in like it missed him. like it remembers him.

“you feel—fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “warm—soft—missed you so fucking much.”

his pace isn’t rough. not yet. it’s steady. drawn-out. he’s savoring every inch, every squeeze of your walls around him, every gasp that escapes your lips.

and then you feel it—his hand sliding back down your stomach. holding you there.

“john?” you ask softly, fingers brushing his jaw. “what’re you doing?”

he lifts his head. his face is flushed, pupils blown wide. there’s something pleading in his expression.

“wanna fill you up,” he murmurs, breath trembling. “want you carryin’ me.”

you blink, stunned for half a heartbeat. “john—”

“you don’t have to say anything,” he whispers, rutting deeper with a quiet whine. “just let me. just let me do this.”

your body clenches around him, and he gasps into your mouth. you kiss him. not because you’re sure. but because you love him. because you want him, even when he’s this open. this vulnerable. this reckless.

his thrusts get harder. more desperate. every time your walls tighten, he groans into your throat, forehead pressed to yours like he can’t bear to look away.

“gonna make you so full,” he whimpers. “gonna fuck a baby into you. say it—please, say you want it.”

you do. and you don’t. but you say it anyway.

“—love you, i love you so much.” you find yourself able to gasp out.

and that’s all it takes.

he cries out when he cums, hips jerking forward, balls slapping against you as he buries himself to the hilt. he doesn’t pull out. not even after the first wave passes. he stays inside you, twitching, panting, tears in his eyes.

his face is buried in your neck, body trembling with the aftershocks, cock still hard even as his cum begins to leak from your entrance. he won’t let go. not yet.

you stroke his back. whisper his name. kiss his temple.

and later—much later—you realize he’s still hard because he wants to go again.

not for pleasure.

for insurance.

because john walker wants to trap you. not with chains, not with guilt. but with life.

with the idea of a future you can’t walk away from again.

and you?

you just might let him.

#.ᐟ.ᐟ #john walker x reader #john walker smut #john walker #thunderbolts #marvel #new avengers #⤷ john walker

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friendlynaborhooddisapointment · 3 months ago

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trying to write a oneshot where billy gets a phone (his neighbour in the condemned building he squats in gives it to him after she gets a new one) and then ends up starting a tictok account as Captain Marvel. he starts it cuz a tictok abt him got viral so he makes one to repy to it but then gets attached to the app a little (cuz he's like 12) and just continues to make them.

but suddenly i forgot about all tictok trends i could have him do . the only ones i remember are the "pass the phone to someone who" (gonna have him pass it to batman and then batman shits on him for filming a tictok in the watchtower) and the smash or pass cake. WHAT OTHER TRENDS CAN I HAVE THIS GUY DOOOO PLEASEEEEE.

things i want him to do with this acc:

when he sees ppl in shitty situations (abusive), he comments on them being like want me to beat them up for you? (? something along those lines)

dueting dance tictoks and failing really badly

making a video abt all the stray animals he visits (damian becomes an avid follower and fan after this one) and it becomes a series

an info dumb video about tigers

suspiciously helpful life hack videos that are sometimes borderline illegal

maybe a video where he goes around and interviews homeless people with stuff like hey whats ur favorite food? and supper mundane questions- want this to lead to a whole bunch of videos of Cap picking fights with people on the internet over the dignity and rights of homeless people

has a series of 'rate this parking lot' type videos but of different roof tops

Superman pissed him off so he starts a collection of interrupting and finishing Superman's fights for him (oh sorry was this your fight? rip ig u dont have to worry abt him now, see you later!) what did superman do? bro idk ill figure it out

a video taking abt the best websites to download music from for his mp3 player since a comment asks abt it when it shows up in a video (it becomes v obvious that he is broke as fuck in this video and thats all the comments focus on)

billy dueting with fanart and fan edits freaking out being like wow these r so cool!!! (he ignores all the gooner stuff eyes close do not see)

doing tictok dances with some of the homeless of facwet

ends up making a video on resources in facwet for homeless people (since some people ask for it) but they are all kinda unofficial or just survival tips, and also him dunking on some of the official ones that are kinda shady (weirdly personal advice for someone who is probably not homeless? is the vibe)

makes a video complaining abt how because of how popular it has become to pay with everything by card most people dont carry around change anymore, and because of that homeless people get a lot less money then they used too

videos where random citizens call out to him and ask questions or ask him to do random stuff (most of them start off with him about to do a video on something else then derails)

some of the JL ask to do join him on some of the tictoks so a few collabs wth them.

'how many times can i film batman without him noticing me' it gets to 2 because batman was to busy to tell him to stop both times. it ends with batman lecturing him on filming in the tower again

thats all i got for him to do. idk if i will actually write this so feel free to steal it to make your own fanfic (actually please do i hate writing). but i think it would be funny for this perceived adult to make half brainrot type content that feels weirdly natural. also the weird little hints he accidentally leaves abt his civilian life that is very concerning to everyone. no one can tell if he's a million years old or born yesterday lol.

also Captain Marvel and Superman beef pre identity reveal means everything to me. ALSO THE CAPTAIN CHILLING WITH THE HOMELESS AND BEING ACAB MEANS EVERYTHING TO ME and thats like half the reason why i want this to exist.

#billy batson #fic idea #fic prompt #shazam #captian marvel #facwet #batman #justice league #superman #homeless billy batson

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pippin-katz · 2 years ago

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In all the pre-conducted interviews I've read about Taylor and Nicholas doing the intimate scenes, they always tried to make the other laugh to keep them from getting too in their own heads about what they were doing and stay comfortable with each other.

With that in mind, I am almost 100% sure that this moment was them trying to make each other laugh:

Maybe Taylor was scripted to help him with the shirt, but I feel like the comment about the buttons wasn't there initially, cause Nicholas' grin looks like he genuinely thinks it's funny, rather than just the giddy laughs and smiles they do in other scenes when they're excited.

However, I wonder how much of that was them just getting the giggles and it working for their characters. They are adorable bastards lmfao

Gifs courtesy of @phakphumm who I’m crediting this way cause I couldn’t find the gifs through scrolling so I had to copy-paste them but that removes the original poster’s name for some reason

Edit: here’s the follow up post I made for this.

Thanks for reading!! If you enjoyed this essay & would like to support me, you can give me a tip on my Ko-Fi! ☺️

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb movie #alex claremont-diaz #taylor zakhar perez #henry hanover-stuart fox #nicholas galitzine #firstprince #history huh? bet we could make some

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chelseypprimrose · 2 years ago

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Home Movie / Negan x Reader / S7 / 18+

Warnings: daddy kink, oral, unprotected/rough sex, slight dom!negan, talk of masturbation, Negan references himself as “the big bad wolf” (cringe but I love it), creampie, forbidden attraction, talk of voyerism, use of derogatory language, glove/leather kink (slightly)

Summary: Negan finds a smut tape of you on the video camera at Alexandria and makes it his mission to seek you out.

A/N: I got this idea in my head while I was watching the episode of season 7 where the saviours first visit Alexandria with Negan and he finds Rick’s confessional video as he’s emptying the houses out. also inspired by another Negan series called Polaroids by @reevesdriver on here as it’s one of my faves ever! 🫶🏼 I just had to write a Negan imagine in the TWD universe again bc as much as I like pre apocalypse Negan, I needed to write apocalypse Negan because there isn’t anything sexier to me than a murderous man swinging a barbed wire bat and talking about his dick, hope u enjoy 🤍 x

“Goddamn it.” You huffed out, a long breath leaving your lips as you shoved the deer that was on your shoulders further up to prevent yourself from dropping it on the ground. You’d been gone since the crack of dawn, with Daryl gone at this point in time, you were one of the best hunters that Alexandria still had. While you felt some type of way about putting in so much effort for someone else to just take the shit you’d risked your life for, you knew Rick needed people on his side at the moment. It would be foolish to try and be defiant right now, too much blood had been spilt recently and you didn’t want to be the reason it continued. Yeah, you’d played your part in the attack on the outpost but you’d all been in acceptance that it was just that outpost. That once that was cleared, you were rid of the foreboding threat that was the Saviours. How wrong you’d been in that moment, it was only the beginning.

You were now dealing with the aftermath of Negan, having to risk life and limb, bend over backwards to make him happy, the asshole. You couldn’t count the amount of times you’d had to hold your tongue to stop yourself from verbally berating his people, knowing what the consequences of giving them a piece of your mind would be. You hadn’t been there when he had killed Abe and Glenn, only hearing the horrid, sordid details after the fact.

The blood from the deer that you’d managed to kill was seeping into your white tee, making your shoulders feel sticky and matting up in the tips of your hair. You signalled a high pitched whistle, waiting for the large dark beige gate to be opened, allowing you enter back into Alexandria. Your eyes found the large sign, “Alexandria Safe Zone: Mercy for the Lost. Vengeance for the Plunderers.” You scoffed, how fucking ironic. The gate began to be moved, revealing three large vans parked up just a couple feet away from the entrance, the Saviour vans. “For fuck sake.” You thought, what could that bastard want with you now, you couldn’t help but feel slightly nervous.

“Negan, you’ll want to see this.” Negan turned to look at the saviour approaching him, holding out a small silver video recorder. “Well, what do we have here Grimes? Got my fingers crossed for a little freaky deaky!” He grinned, crossing his fingers in front of Rick’s face. He slid his hand into the leather handle of the camera, a video of Rick coming into view, looking a lot more threatening than he did now. He could barely make out it was Rick, with the massive beard grown on his face he wasn’t used to seeing. “Woah! Is that you? Underneath all that man bush? Holy shit, I would have not of messed with that guy… but you aren’t that guy anymore. Are you Rick?” He grinned, Rick stood with a stern look on his face, not moving. Negan continued to watch the interview, Rick speaking candidly about the amount of people that he’d killed. The video started to go static, indicating there was a tape that had been recorded on top of the original. Negan’s eyebrows furred in confusion, before his eyes widened at what the camera had blessed his eyes with. He watched as you were stood in-front of the camera, a light pink lace open cut babydoll set on, your breast sat in the cups, nipples on show for the camera. You started posing for the camera, running your hands through your hair, holding it up Pam Anderson style. A large sexy smile on your lips, turning to do a 180 spin, your smooth backside coming into view for the camera, Negan pulling the camera closer to his face, almost not believing what he was seeing. He didn’t recognise you, maybe it had been someone that used to be in Alexandria, wasn’t a member anymore. He growled lowly, that would be just his luck, the sexiest woman he’d seen in recent history just missed by a couple weeks. He moved his attention back to the camera, now watching you spread out on the bed, playing with your nipples while starting to rub your folds underneath your panties before the camera cut out, showing Rick’s interview once again.

“Fuck! Just when it was getting good!” He cursed, snapping the cameras screen back into place. A fire now in his stomach, his jeans now contracting around his hard bulge. He couldn’t get you out his mind, he knew he’d remember if he’d come across you before, so who the hell were you?

You’d managed to get the deer half way back to your house before being stopped by one of Negan’s minions, asking what you were doing. You ignored him, just wanting to get back, the saviour hadn’t liked that, grabbing you by the waist, dragging you towards the circle of people that were gathered around one of the vans. You could hear Rick talking about some guns that he’d found, apparently Negan thought you were trying to stash items, to prevent having to hand them over to his people.

“Negan. Got a rude bitch here for you, was about to run home, sneak this thing back with her.” You slightly rolled your eyes. “How am I meant to sneak a deer back, smartass?” You questioned, not believing someone could be so stupid. The man’s face contorted into a rage fuelled look, his hand raising up to you, before he had the chance, Negan whistled. “Hey! We don’t raise a hand to a woman, you know the fucking rules.” He stepped forward, now coming into full view of you, his eyes glancing over your body, looking like a kid on Christmas. You were still here, he couldn’t believe his luck. Lucille sat on his shoulder, his one gloved hand wrapped tightly around the bottom of the wood. “Now I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Negan.” He smirked, holding his free hand out for a handshake, his large frame towering slightly over you. You were met with a slight musk, you recognised it as an old spice fragrance, masculine and powerful. You looked at it, questionable look on your face before your hand met his, engulfing you from the size of it. His rough skin a stark contrast from the softness of yours, the movement felt foreign, you shouldn’t feel this way, especially when it’s him.

You saw Rick tensing up as he watched on from the sideline, wondering what Negan was up to, showing such civilness to you. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Y/N.” You stated, his smirk getting wider. “Sir? Oh, you my dear, are like the gift that keeps on damn giving!” He exclaimed, bewilderment sitting on the faces of those around you and yourself. What the hell did he mean by that? “Load em up, we’re leaving.” He commanded, the saviours starting to retreat back to their vans, Negan not moving from where he was stood.

A few of the Alexandrian’s moved away as well, not wanting to be in his presence for a moment longer than they were required to. “Now doll, take that damn thing off your shoulders, wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” You reluctantly agreed, placing the deer just behind you, before Negan nodded at two remaining men, them coming behind you to take your prized find. You scowled, fury raging inside your soul, you’d risked your life trying to get just one actual nice, fulfilling meal for everyone, just to have your hard work stolen off you. “I believe that’s mine.” You spat out, the fire showing from your eyes as you glared up at him. “What’s yours is now ours doll, or hasn’t Rick drilled that into you yet?” He asked, aware of the sexual innuendo of his words, his tongue rolling across his lower lip. You huffed, knowing if you talked back further, it wasn’t going to end well for you. You felt like you were tasting blood from how hard you bit down on your tongue, fists balled up.

Negan walked over slightly to the back of the last truck, the doors open, a load of stuff that you recognised from peoples homes in the compound. Picking something up, he walked back over to you, Lucille still sat on his shoulder. You saw the small video camera, not thinking much of it, not knowing there was a tape inside that you probably would have never wanted him to see. He placed it on your chest, it digging into your skin, sat just on top of your heaving breasts.

“You should be careful with such sensitive material, never know what kind of perverts going to come across it!” He joked, your eyes widening in embarrassment as you finally understood what he was talking about. You got a look of disgust rise on your face, you couldn’t believe he’d seen such an intimate piece of film. You went to grab the camera from him before he gripped tight on it, making it harder to move. “Now doll, it’s a good job I found this before any of my men did, you know that right? They would have taken this back with them and sat around in a circle jerk together, I however am returning this to you, soooo… How about a thank you, Negan?” He demanded playfully, leaning closer to your face, nose almost touching your cheek. You gulped shallowly, your hand moving over his that was holding the camera to your chest. “Thank you, Negan.” You managed to get out, the words tasting like poison to you.

He laughed, letting go of the camera, allowing you take it back with a yank. “You are more than welcome, baby. Also, in case you were wondering, you are most definitely my favourite Alexandrian now.” He winked, walking backwards before getting in the truck, holding his head out the window, giving a small wave to you as they drove out the front gates. You huffed, letting out a breath you didn’t realise you held in your throat.

It had now been a couple weeks since Negan’s last visit, he’d sent groups of his saviours in between but never actually visiting himself. You were thankful that this had been the case, you’d found yourself thinking about what could have been. You’d began to let your mind wonder to the scenario of meeting Negan in another situation, you couldn’t help but be attracted to him. He was one of the most attractive men you’d ever come across, it was just a shame he was also the most evil men you’d ever come across.

Unbeknown to you, he’d found himself thinking about you too, that fucking video. He’d managed to score some old age dvd porno films from supply runs over the years but he couldn’t even watch them to get off anymore, only thinking of your little smut tape. It wasn’t even like you’d done anything massively explicit on the tape, it shutting off before it managed to get that far but he had concluded that was probably worse. It allowed his mind to run at all the different possibilities, what did you sound like when you moaned, what would you sound like whimpering out his name as he was filling you up? What did you look like when you reached climax? All these unanswered questions racing through his mind as he got out his sexual frustration on his wives, not caring which one it was as all he pictured below him was you. Moaning out your name instead of theirs, the women not caring that much as they were only there to be used by him, no affectionate feelings connecting them to him.

You were currently in the garage, clipboard in hand, biting on the end of your pencil in anxiousness as you went over inventory. You were expecting another visit today, making you want to double check over everything to make sure there wasn’t any discrepancies in the numbers. That was the last thing you needed, especially since you were now actively trying to get plans in place to take the fight back to the Saviours. You were just finishing up when a loud knock startled you, the garage door vibrating at the motion. You put the clipboard down on the side, bending down to pull the door up.

“Well well well! If it isn’t my favourite Alexandrian. I’ve missed you, doll.” It was Negan, that signature grin on his face once again, eyes raking over your body. You felt sheepish under his wandering eyes, now knowing he’d practically seen you naked since he’d come across that video of yours. You sighed, hands resting on your hips. “What do you need, Negan?” You asked, him walking into the garage now, the door slamming back shut. The anxiety started to kick in as you were now alone with just him, as he looked over the shelves, picking up random items and studying them. “Nothing really, just wanted to see your pretty face. I just cannot stop thinking about you, doll! I wonder why that is, huh?” He laughed, you knowing what he was alluding to. He noticed how you crossed your hands over your chest, almost trying to shield yourself from him.

“Oh no no no! There’s no need for all that, I’ve seen those pretty babies already, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of, doll.” He sauntered over to you, towering over you again like last time, practically feeling the heat from his body on yours. You couldn’t take your eyes off his, the way he looked at you making you get slick. He wasn’t one to hide his true emotion, his jeans getting tighter as he imagined you as he saw in the video, putting on a little private show for him. “I’ve gotta know, what made you film something like that? You must of known someone could come across it, why take the risk?” He questioned you, hand coming to rub over his bearded chin. “In this world, there’s not much opportunity to feel sexy. I just wanted something to look back at when I felt down about myself.” You squeaked out, feeling very intimate. Here you were telling the leader of a rival camp your biggest insecurities, possibly giving him ammunition to further torment you and your people.

“Oh doll, you could be covered in damn walker guts, and I’d still think you were the sexiest thing on this damn shithole planet.” He purred, grabbing you slightly by the chin, making you smile slightly. You shook your head, pulling yourself out of his grasp. “What are you doing Negan? We can’t be thinking like this. I can’t be thinking like this. You… you are the enemy.” Your hands resting on the lapels of his leather jacket, the slight coldness of it sending shivers down your spine. You leaned dangerously close to Negan’s lips, his beard scratching the surface of your skin. “Rick would fucking kill me, he’d fucking kill me, if he knew I think about you the way I do. Think about you when I touch myself, wishing it was you.” You whispered, getting more confident in your tone, your eyes staring at his lips, then back up to his dark eyes, your lips partially open as you let out shallow breaths, anything you could to try and lower your heart rate that was pumping under your chest. The silence in the room was deafening, you started to get nervous again, like you were just waiting for him to recoil away from you and laugh at your confession, that this had all been a massive joke to humiliate you further. “Goddamn it doll, looks like great minds think alike because I’ve been doing the same damn thing since I saw that little treat on that fucking camera.” He chuckled, picking you up in one swift movement, placing you on top of the workplace bench.

“Did you think about me claiming your pussy, doll? Fucking you until you can barely remember your goddamn name? What would Ricky say if he saw you submitting yourself so easily to me, the big bad wolf?” The dark tenor of Negan’s voice caused you to whimper in half fear, half pleasure. You could tell his personality was darkening to the more intense side, the jolly joking and fucking about traits were completely absent. You didn’t feel terrified though, like you did when he committed some of the horrific atrocities in front of you, the feelings of excitement causing your hairs to stand on edge and your pussy getting wet with every word that spilled out of his mouth.

“I did, god I want you inside of me.” You confessed, as Negan’s hands ghosted over your cleavage that was exposed by your tank top, before he pulled it over your head, your breasts spilling out of your lace bra. He shoved his gloved hand into your mouth, commanding you to suck. You obliged, your hands holding his arm in place as you swirled your tongue around the two thick fingers, head bobbing up and down as you did. The leather of the glove rubbery on your tongue, causing you to moan onto his fingers.

He grinned at you, a deep grunt as he leaned over capturing your right nipple into his mouth, suckling it, swirling his tongue around and biting it with his teeth causing you to moan and pull his head against your chest as you kept sucking hard on his fingers. He did it again, giving you light bites and licks, alternating between your two erect nubs. Negan removed his fingers from your mouth with a pop, bring them down to give one final pinch to your nipples, the wetness of his one hand causing the cold air to make your nipple more sensitive.

“Get on your knees, I want to see your mouth full of my dick, doll.” Negan grinned with a wicked smile, his hands undoing his jeans, letting them fall to pool at his boots. You felt your mouth salivate, eager to take him as slid off the table onto your knees. You started to lick him, going from bottom to top slowly, teasing him like he did to you with his dirty sweet nothings in your ears, hearing his low groans. You sucked the precum from his tip and swirled your tongue under his head, and then looked up at him, making sure you held eye contact with him, opening your mouth and taking him in little by little, bobbing your head up and down. Your mouth was being stretched wide, you started to move a little faster, sucking him, licking him, taking him deeper and deeper until you felt him in your throat. He was big, causing you to gag a little as your eyes began to water, your throat starting to get a sore feeling within it as he fucked your throat at a quick pace. He gave a slight gasp and his hand took a firm hold of your head keeping you in place, as his hips bucked, making it his mission to get as far down your throat as possible.

“I need to fuck you now, doll. Get up here.” Negan pulled back to your feet, slamming you stomach down onto the table, almost ripping your jeans as he pulled them down your thighs, your moist panties now on show, one tug and the flimsy material broke in two halves, now fully exposing your slick entrance to Negan. He rubbed his dick up and down your slit eliciting a pleasurable moan from both of you, pushing his length inside and then pulling out and rubbing it down your slit again.

“Please... Negan! Please!” You whimpered out, pinching your nipples, trying to get some relief from his teasing. He smirked down at you, that dark gaze watching your every move. “Please what? I want to hear you saying you want daddy's dick. I want to hear you beg me. Come on little girl, say it.” he demanded as he rubbed his length along your wet slit. “Please daddy! I want you deep inside me, please fuck me!” He groaned and pushed himself hard inside your walls, with no hesitations. You screamed, even being sopping wet, you were too tight around his shaft. He leaned on top of you and started to kissing your neck, biting lightly. Negan felt you getting used to his girth, you started to move your hips against him, wanting friction. He started to thrust in slowly, checking for your reaction to his movements. “I'm fine, please, fuck me daddy!” You moaned out, Negan pulling almost all the way out of you and then thrusting in hard making you gasp.

“You're loving this doll, aren’t you? Yeah, you're loving having my dick inside of you. I’d love good old Rick to walk in right now, see you bent over for the big bad wolf.” he chuckled, turning you on even more. Thrusting again and again building up speed, going faster and harder, just like you had imagined he would in your dirty dreams, but so much better than your imagination. “I'm going to fuck you like the slut you are and you are going to thank me for it.” He whispered in your ear, pulling your hair with one hand and holding your hips firmly with the other as he snapped his groin into you, making your ass ripple with the powerful movements. “I want to hear you doll, thank me.” You almost rolled your eyes at the narcissistic request but your brain was too blank to comprehend it. “Thank you, thank you Negan!”

You focused on the obscene sounds of your bodies echoing around you, amplified by how small the garage was. Negan continued fucking you rough and hard, until you felt the orgasm surging inside of you, building fast and strong. When it finally hit you, you screamed with the intensity of it, your body shook with the pleasure waves, running through your core. Negan released your hair to hold your hips so he could keep fucking you. His thrusts shortened, you clenched around his length, a groan leaving his mouth, feeling him finally release just after you. Negan pulled himself out of you, watching as his cum spilled out of your hole, dripping slightly onto the concrete floor below you. He leaned on top of you, leaving small kisses on your spine, body covered in a light sheen of sweat.

“Y/N! We need you out here! Negan is on his way!” You turned to Negan, a confused look on your face, he’d snuck into the compound to fuck you and now you had to act like he wasn’t even here.

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maxillness · 1 year ago

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🇪🇸 || Tonight (I’m Fuckin’ You) || CS55 x Interviewer!reader

Warnings: 18+, jealous!Carlos, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, oral (M reviving), hair grabbing

Wordcount: 0.9k

“Thank you for the Interview, Carlos” She said after they were finished talking

“Of course, no problem” He sighed, occupied with her beauty

In his opinion, there was no other woman that could beat her beauty. There was no other woman that was more beautiful than her

But the others couldn’t see what he saw in her. They’d laugh every time they saw how flustered he would get after talking with her

“Are you coming to that party tonight?” Right. The party. She had happily forgotten the party

“I’m invited, but I don’t know. There’s gonna be a lot of people there that I don’t know” She explained to him

“Well, I’m gonna be there… And the rest of the drivers of course, so there’s gonna be some people you know” He would have begged her to go, wanting to see her all dressed up

“I’ll think about” She caressed his arms “I gotta go. See you around, Carlos” He blushed like crazy once she turned to walk away

And yet again, Charles and the rest of the team lightly chuckled as he walked into the motorhome, still blushing

“Oh, shut up”

She had decided to go to the party. She wouldn’t admit it to herself, but she knew she only did it to be with Carlos

She had told her friends she only wanted to go because she didn’t wanna sit alone and be bored all night, but even they knew she did it because he would be there

“Come on. He doesn’t even like me like that. He had a professional opinion towards me” She said as they chuckled

“I’m guessing your not watching your own interviews” One of them chuckled

“His eyes is saying ‘I’m gonna bend you over and fuck you all night’” The group laughed as they looked at their oblivious friend

“Whatever you say” But deep inside, she hoped it was true

“You made it” Carlos said as she walked over to the group of drivers sitting in the couch area, all with a drink in hand

“Didn’t have anything else to do, and I did my wanna be bored all night” She chuckled as she sat down in an empty place on the couch

As the night went on, she had an amount of drinks, resulting in her dancing close with several people in the middle of the room

Carlos just stared. Leaned back into the couch, gripping his glass so tight I might’ve broken

He was jealous. Too jealous. He tried holding back, and did a good job. But at one point, it became too much for him

He stood up, discarding his glass on the coffee table, and walked towards her. She grabbed her bicep roughly and dragged her away from the party

He dragged her into a bathroom as far away from the others as possible

“What the hell is your problem, Carlos?” She asked as he pushed her roughly up against the door

“How can you have the audacity to grind up against those people you don’t even know?” His eyes and facial expression said it all

“Are you jealous, Carlos?” She crossed her arms over her chest and had a cheeky smirk on her face

“What? Of course not” He said fast and confidently

“If you wanted me to suck you off, you can just say so” He didn’t resist when she had turned them around, so he was the one pressed up against the door

Neither did he resist when she went to her knees and started unbuckling his belt and zipped his zipper down

She pulled his pants and boxers down in one quick motion, making his cock hit his abdomen

She spit into the palm of her hand before she started stroking him slowly. He threw his head back into the door. His hand tangled into her hair as the other landed on her shoulder

Her tongue darted across his tip, making him moan loud. She worked her tongue around his tip, collecting all the pre-cum

“Fuck. Please, d-don’t tease” His moans were breathy and shuttered. She swirled her tongue a few times more before hollowing her cheeks with his cock

Her pace was slow, and he was trying so hard not to fuck her mouth. He wanted to, but it would make him seem needy

“F-fuck. You feel so good” He unintentionally bucked his hips into her mouth, hitting the back of her throat, making her gag

The vibrations made him feel good. It made him feel better than any woman ever made him feel

He did it again hitting the back of her throat over and over again, making his orgasm come closer and closer to his release. Quicker than he would like

“Fuck. I’m gonna come” His eyes were screwed shut as his hand gripped her hair tighter

His words were to only warning she got before he held her head all the way down and came deep down her throat

She popped off of him and swallowed before standing up “Please, let me fuck you” He whimpered kissing her lips softly

“Are you still jealous?” She asked looking up at him with raised eyebrows

“Yes. Very much so” He admitted, even though he had just been sucked off

“Then, no” She Said, kissing his cheek before unlocking the door and walking out, closing the door behind her, leaving a very flustered and needy Carlos behind

#music monday #smut #dom!reader #formula one #Carlos Sainz #Carlos Sainz smut #Carlos Sainz x reader #Carlos Sainz x reader smut #Spotify

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novlr · 2 months ago

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I'm really struggling with motivation and haven't touched any of my WIPs in a couple weeks. Do you have any tips on staying motivated?

Every writer knows that feeling of demotivation, when the words just won’t come, and opening your work-in-progress feels like an insurmountable task. It’s hard not to feel the draw of the TV show everyone else is watching or that book that everyone is raving about when you’re faced with a blank page. So how do you stay motivated to write?

It’s completely normal to experience periods of low motivation, but there are always strategies you can try to help you get back on track.

Understand what’s really blocking you

When we’re not motivated to write, we often label it as writer’s block. It’s a catch-all term that lets us put a label on how we’re feeling. We get to blame our lack of motivation on some ephemeral writer’s malady, when usually it’s something concrete and fixable. Before trying to force yourself back to writing, take a moment to identify what’s really holding you back:

Are you stuck on a particular plot point?

Has your inner critic become too loud?

Are you overwhelmed by the scope of your project?

Have you lost connection with your story’s core idea?

Are you physically or mentally exhausted?

All of these are valid, and very real reasons why we might experience writer’s block. But understanding the root cause can help you choose the most effective strategy to overcome it and stay motivated.

Create a sustainable writing routine

Motivation is unreliable, but habits are powerful. We can trick our brains into staying motivated just by having a routine that we expect to follow. It stops us overthinking things and keeps us grounded in the physical activity. Instead of waiting for inspiration to strike, you could try to:

Set aside a specific time for writing each day, even if it’s just 15 minutes.

Create a dedicated writing space that’s free from distractions.

Develop pre-writing rituals that signal to your brain it’s time to work.

Track your progress to build momentum.

Celebrate small wins along the way.

Remember, you don’t need to write for hours. Consistent small sessions are often more productive than irregular marathon writing. You can build a routine that works for you. If you can only write for 20 minutes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, then that’s fine. But set aside time that is there for writing that isn’t just “when I feel like it.”

Connect with your story again

Sometimes we lose motivation because we’ve lost touch with what excited us about our story in the first place. A fresh idea might come along and pull us in a different direction. We might even find ourselves in a different mental state that means the original idea isn’t as appealing as it once was. When this happens, first, examine whether you genuinely want to continue with the project you’re working on. If the spark is really gone, then there is no shame in shelving the project and working on something new. But if you know you want to continue, then you can try these techniques to rekindle that spark and stay motivated to write:

Reread your favourite scenes.

Write character backstories and do some worldbuilding, just for fun.

Create a mood board or playlist for your story.

Set a timer, and freewrite about why this story matters to you.

Imagine telling someone about your book in an interview and write out your answers.

Revisiting your story in a way that goes beyond the work of it can make a world of difference when trying to reconnect.

Find your community

Writing doesn’t have to be a solitary pursuit. Having support can make a huge difference in staying motivated. Seeing someone else get excited about your story, or genuinely helping you to improve it can be a massive part of staying motivated. You could try to:

Join a writing group or find a writing buddy to bounce ideas off and give each other critiques.

Share your goals with someone who will hold you accountable. There’s no bigger motivator than having to justify your lack thereof to someone else.

Participate in writing challenges or events. A deadline and a shared goal can be a great push to get some writing done.

Consider working with a writing coach or mentor. This won’t work for everyone, but for some people, the structure really helps.

Change your perspective on motivation

Instead of viewing motivation as something you need before you can write, try seeing it as something that comes from writing. I’m often not in the mood to write when I sit down at my desk, but once I get started, I almost always get in flow. Some ways to shift your mindset might be to:

Focus on process over product. Enjoy the act of writing and worry less about the finished product.

Give yourself permission to write imperfectly. There’s no such thing as a perfect first draft. Hating your writing is the biggest demotivator, but just remember, everyone’s first draft is terrible compared to what gets published.

Set achievable goals that build confidence. This means keeping your goals realistic and not setting yourself up to fail. A goal as simple as 10 words a day means you can see progress, instead of having something huge and unattainable looming over you.

When motivation simply isn’t there

Sometimes, despite our best efforts, motivation remains elusive. And sometimes it’s ok to not stay motivated, and there are usually good reasons for that. If you really can’t get back into the swing of things, then be gentle with yourself and try the following to make sure that this is really the project for you:

Take a deliberate, guilt-free break.

Set a specific date to return to your project.

Use the time off to refill your creative well through reading or other activities.

If journaling is something that works for you, write about your writing struggles and try to interrogate them.

Consider if your project needs to evolve in a new direction.

If you’ve tried the above (or some personal variation of it) and you still don’t have the motivation to keep going on your project, then it might be time to shelve it and move onto another project that does excite you. Sometimes you just can’t force creativity.

Practical exercises to boost motivation

Write a letter from your future self celebrating completing your project. Seal it, and only open it when you get to the finish line.

Set a timer for 5 minutes and write anything. Starting is often the hardest part.

Create a “done list” instead of a to-do list to recognise your progress and take focus away from the tasks still ahead of you.

Interview your characters about where they want the story to go. It’s fun and helps spark ideas.

Write something else for a little while to give yourself a break from just working on the one project.

Remember, motivation isn’t a constant state. It’s normal for it to come and go. The key is building systems and habits that help you continue making progress, even when it’s hard to stay motivated. Trust that your story is worth telling, and keep showing up for it, one word at a time.

#writeblr #writing tips #writing advice #creative writing #writing resources #writers on tumblr #writers #writing #writing community #writers of tumblr #creative writers #writerblr #writing inspiration #writer #writers block #ask novlr

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trulybetty · 3 months ago

Text

late night.

pairing: dieter bravo x actressf!reader word count: 6,337 warnings: dieter bravo, alcohol, reader has a glass of wine, p in v, practice safe sex, don't take sex ed from fanfics, barely beta'd, mistakes are my own estimated reading time: 31 minutes summary: much to your annoyance, an unexpected guest arrives at the late-night talk show you've been booked on. written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope Challenge. ao3: linked

x. masterlist

A/N: I'm terribly late to completing this, not even fashionably late, I dare not look when the deadline was. Without being all vaugebook status - I lost my love for writing, found it and life said lmao, no. But I'm slowly getting back and working through my wip's.

Late Night.

The city lights of London had glowed well into the late night. Casting a hazy glow over the bustling streets when you’d arrived at the TV studios just over an hour earlier. It was Thursday, and the city carried the anticipation of the weekend ahead. You were in town for the recording of a British late-night TV show that would air the following night. The studio was abuzz with energy and excitement as entourages arrived and technicians prepared for the recording.

You were sat backstage, sat in a makeshift hair and makeup set-up for last-minute touch-ups. The hustle of it all, the sound of chatter and laughter fought to distract you. You shifted to get comfortable in the chair you’d been planted in moments ago. Stifling a yawn, you wrinkled your nose as the lingering scent of hairspray hit your nose. Even though you’d been in the city for three days already, this interview—a cap on a whirlwind press tour—the jetlag was still hard to contend with having hit the ground running since you’d touched down in Heathrow.

Adjusting the delicate layered necklace that rested against the crisp white blouse you wore, you watched as the fluorescent lights above caught on the linked chains. Both were items your stylist had picked out for you. A little rich for your own taste, but you were at the mercy of the machine that was the studio bankrolling this press tour.

Your manager, Olivia, stood beside you and flipped through cue cards with the pre-selected questions for your segment. Her stacked bracelets jingled as she shuffled through them again. “Remember, keep it light and engaging, babe,” she reminded you, ignoring the exasperated sighs of the makeup artist as they tried to work around her. They love a good anecdote on this show.”

You brushed down the front of your pants, picking at an imaginary piece of lint. “Got it?” you nodded, despite the fact that your mind was elsewhere.

Something felt off. There was a tension in the air that set your nerves on edge. You couldn’t put your finger on it—call it intuition, call it a severe lack of sleep, whatever it was—it felt like something was going to tip the balance of that evening.

And then you heard it.

That laugh, that unmistakable laugh followed by a voice you’d hoped you’d never have to hear again, at least not in person. Your heart sank as recognition settled in.

“Is that…?” you began, your eyes widening as you whipped your head around to face Olivia, your make-up artist cursing under their breath.

Before Olivia could respond, the unmistakable presence that was Dieter fucking Bravo sauntered into view. His trademark entourage of hangers-on and ego strokers and a gaggle of studio staff hanging onto his every word. His tousled hair and effortless grin only fueled your irritation further.

“Liv, what’s he doing here?!” you hissed.

She looked genuinely perplexed. “I had no idea he was booked for tonight,” she said, rechecking her phone and the hardcopy of the night's rundown. He is not on the schedule. " You shot her a disbelieving look. “Honestly, babe, I had no clue!”

Dieter’s gaze swept the room before landing on you. His eyes lit up, and a slow mischievous grin spread across his face. He smoothly excused himself from his group, reciting that he’d miss them all equally, if not more, in that Hollywood-cliched faux sincerity before he strode toward you, with that infuriating swagger that was all him.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” he drawled, stopping just within the boundaries of your personal space, “My favourite almost was co-star, fancy meeting you here,” he shot Olivia a look, throwing her a charming wink that she responded to with a roll of her eyes.

You straightened in your seat before clearing your throat, “Dieter,” you replied cooly, fighting the urge to roll your own eyes.

“Dieter,” Olivia said, turning to address him in the hope of running interference, “always a pleasure,” the tight smile she gave him at a contrast to her greeting.

He ignored her, his focus solely on you, “Funny, they didn’t mention you’d be on the show tonight.”

“Funny,” you echoed, meeting his eye in the reflection of the mirror, “they didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

He let out an obnoxious laugh, the sound grating on your nerves, “Must be our lucky day then,” he said, propping his hip against the vanity table—much to the annoyance of the makeup artist who had now given up trying to complete their job and had moved on to organizing their brushes.

“Or just poor scheduling,” you muttered, wishing for someone or something to give you an excuse to leave.

His eyes finally leaving you his gaze fell on the untouched glass of champagne in front of you, “May I?” he asked rhetorically, the flute already at his lips.

“Help yourself,” you said dryly with a wave of your hand, anything to get him moving on.

He took a sip, “Mmm… a 2000 vintage would you say?” he gave you a smirk and you bristled, “A memorable year wouldn’t you say?” his eyes met yours through the mirror over the rim of the champagne flute, a challenge in his eyes.

You were a damn good actress, but it was a fight to keep your face neutral. You weren’t going to give him this, not the satisfaction of pressing on the still tender bruise of the year everything had gone sideways. The year your promising big break had imploded before it’d even had a chance to begin. All in thanks to the erratic behaviour of the man beside you.

Your jaw tightened, “Is there a reason you’re here Dieter? Or are you simply here to raid the refreshments?”

He downed the remainder of the alcohol, making no attempt to hide his grin, “Can’t a guy catch up with old friends?”

The grin on his face only grew wider when the emphasis on the word friend garnered a visible flinch from you. It might have been a loose truth once upon a time, but you two were the furthest thing from it now.

You arched your eyebrow at him, finally turning in your seat to look up at him, “That’s a generous definition of the word, isn’t it?”

Sensing that Dieter was doing a good job of getting under your skin, Olivia cleared her throat, “We should really get back to prepping here, so if you would excuse us, Dieter.”

Dieter made no move to leave, “Oh, don't let me interrupt,” instead, he plucked the cue cards from Olivia's hand shuffling through them. “Let's see—keep it light and engaging,” he read aloud. “Sounds like riveting stuff, maybe you should tell them about the time at Cannes, you know—with the yacht and that producer you accused of stealing your script idea?” You glared at him, your nails digging into the arms of the chair, “You were…loud. And also right, I think,” he gave an exaggerated frown, “Too bad you puked overboard before you could make your point though.”

You glared at him, “It was food poisoning,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

“Sure,” he nodded, his face giving no indication he believed you.

Before anything else could be said a production assistant appeared, “Mr. Bravo, you’re required over in wardrobe to change.”

Dieter casually handed his glass over to an unimpressed Olivia, who took it with a scowl and held it delicately with two fingers as if it might contaminate her, “Well ladies, always a pleasure running into you both.” Then, turning to you directly, he added, “I heard they’re putting you on before me… break a leg,” he winked with a parting smirk.

“This is un-fucking believable,” you cursed, your eyes reluctantly following Dieter’s retreating figure.

Olivia sucked in a breath, “Don’t let him get under your skin,” she cautioned as she deposited Dieter’s glass on the vanity, wiping her hand on the arm of her jacket, “he’s not worth it.”

“Too late for that,” you muttered under your breath as the makeup artist was finally free to return to touch up the rest of your makeup.

The stage lights bathed you in a warm glow as you settled into the plush chair across from the show’s host. The audience had erupted into applause at your arrival, the lights blocking them from view. You flashed a confident smile, the kind that had won over countless fans.

“Welcome back! Always a pleasure to have you on the show,” the show’s host beamed as he shuffled his cue cards.

“Thank you, it's wonderful to be here,” you replied smoothly, well rehearsed in the etiquette of late-night talk shows. The cameras panned out and for a brief moment, you caught a brief glimpse of the studio audience, rows of bright eyes and bright smiles. You spotted Olivia in the wings, she gave you a reassuring thumbs up.

The interview progressed smoothly, the host effortlessly guiding the conversation through your most recent project, those upcoming, and even touching on your personal life. You played along, deflecting the more personal questions with ease and a light-hearted laugh, well-versed in the art of maintaining your privacy all the while still appearing open and relatable.

“So now,” the host spoke to the audience, your interview at a close, “we have a wee bit of a cheeky surprise waiting for us backstage,” he turned to you with a conspiratorial smile, “and I understand you and our next guest share a connection?”

Your smile tightened as you feigned your best impression of surprise, “Oh gosh, really? I’m intrigued. I do love surprises!”

“Well, you’re in for a good one! Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Dieter Bravo!”

The audience erupted into a thunderous applause of standing ovations. It was a fight not to roll your eyes, how someone as messy and equally irksome as Dieter Bravo could still command such adoration from the public, you'd never understand.

Dieter strolled onto the stage, dressed in a flashy silk shirt, its buttons undone halfway to reveal the glow of tanned skin and a glint of a chain from which his signature Ray-Bans hung. He waved flamboyantly at the cheering audience, blowing exaggerated kisses that only spurred more applause. You had just stood from your seat to shift over for him—hoping to avoid more contact with him than necessary—when his hands settled firmly on your shoulders and pulled you into a theatrical embrace.

With the lights beaming down on you and the cameras rolling, the heat of his body pressed against yours you forced a grin for the watching crowd. You felt the heat of his breath at your ear, just before he spoke in a whisper only you could hear, “Miss me, gorgeous?”

Despite your best intentions, the words sent a shiver down your spine—whether it was annoyance or something else entirely, you weren’t exactly sure, but it wasn’t time to explore those feelings. The audience oblivious to the crackling tension between you two, ate it up as you went through the motions of allowing him to air kiss you dramatically on each cheek.

He released you just as theatrically, gesturing to the audience to keep cheering and you took the opportunity to slide into your seat, determined to continue your air of unbothered confidence in his presence. Meanwhile, Dieter dropped himself into his seat with the kind of shit-eating grin that said he knew exactly how well he was getting under your skin.

The host, picking up on the dynamics between the two of you, beamed, “Well, well, it looks like our stage just got a little more star-studded. How exciting is this?”

As the audience responded with raucous applause, you exchanged a fleeting glance with Dieter. His eyes glimmered mischievously as he raised a knowing eyebrow at you before launching into a charisma-filled anecdote that had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. It only did well to remind you of the many times he’d used showmanship to deflect attention.

The host leaned forward eagerly. “It's not often we get two dynamic talents such as you two on one stage! You two worked together a few years back, no?”

“That's right,” Dieter interjected, turning to give you a wide grin before you could open your mouth to respond. “It was a really unforgettable experience.”

You shot him a warning look as you shifted in your seat. “Unforgettable, indeed.”

The host leaned in, clearly enjoying the underlying tension. “Do share!” he encouraged as he looked to the audience’s agreement. “Any memorable moments?”

Dieter leaned back casually, his eyes never leaving your face. “Well, there was that time someone decided to rewrite half the day’s script without telling anyone.”

You felt a spike of irritation as you bristled, “Better than not showing up to set at all, don’t you think?” you countered, forcing a tight smile.

The audience chuckled nervously, sensing the undercurrents between you.

“Ah, creative differences!” the host exclaimed, trying to lighten the mood.

“Something like that,” you said, keeping your tone even.

Dieter leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving your face. “You know, it's all water under the bridge now. Besides, some of us have moved on to bigger and better things.”

“Yes, professionalism can take one far,” you replied sharply.

He smirked. “And a good sense of humour.”

You clenched your jaw, determined not to let him rattle you further.

The host cleared his throat, “So, any chance of a reunion on screen?”

“Unlikely,” you both said in unison.

The audience laughed, and despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met his, and something indefinable passed between you.

“Well, one can always hope,” the host said with a wink. “Now, moving on…”

The remainder of the interview continued with practiced ease, though Dieter never missed an opportunity to test your composure. Each surreptitious remark was a calculated attempt to unsettle you, but you held your ground. But by the time the cameras stopped rolling, your patience however had been worn thin.

As you walked backstage, the loud chatter and bustling activity faded into a distant hum. Your pace quickened as you made your way straight to your dressing room, Olivia hot on your heels. Finally reaching your destination, you swung open the door to your dressing room.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern etched on her face.

“I'm fine,” you replied curtly, though your hands were shaking with frustration. Because despite your best efforts, the memory of Dieter’s smug grin during the interview kept infiltrating your thoughts, a consistent reminder that he had succeeded in getting under your skin.

“At least you won't have to deal with him anymore tonight,” Olivia reassured you.

“Small mercies,” you muttered. Yet even as you said it, you could still feel the unsettled anger burning in your chest that showed no sign of cooling any time soon.

After what felt like an eternity, the commotion of packing up your dressing room finally settled. You breathed a sigh of relief as you opened the door, eager to escape to the comfort of your hotel room. However, before you could take a step forward, a familiar voice rang out from down the hallway, “Leaving already?”

You turned to see Dieter leaning casually against the wall, his gaze unapologetically fixed on you. He looked maddeningly at ease, still dressed in the clothes he’d worn on stage, as though your tense exchanged barbs hadn’t ruffled him in the slightest.

“What do you want?” you snapped, turning to face him against your better judgment.

He shrugged, “Just thought we could catch up,” he said innocently.

“I have nothing to say to you,” you retorted, adjusting the strap of your handbag. “Pulling that shit out there, what the fuck were you thinking?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Still holding a grudge, I see.”

You felt heat rise up your neck. “A grudge? You nearly derailed my career.”

He sighed dramatically. “Must we rehash ancient history? It’s such a bore.”

You felt a surge of anger. “Ancient history? You sabotaged our film and nearly destroyed my career.”

He shrugged, “Depends on how you look at it. I like to think I added a bit of je ne sais quois.”

“You're unbelievable,” you fumed, turning on your heel and striding to the exit. He didn’t even bother calling after you; his amused silence was just another demonstration of his nonchalance to his actions and their consequences—and it only proved to stoke your anger further.

Finally back at your hotel, in the quiet peace of your suite, you relished in the calm after the storm. You’d slipped off your shoes, enjoying the feel of the plush carpet between your toes, before you collapsed onto the sofa. The London city lights twinkled outside your window. Tiny dots across the horizon, highlighting a busy city still moving despite the late hour. Opening a bottle of iced water you’d retrieved from the fridge you tried to unwind. But the night’s surprise encounter with Dieter replayed incessantly and uninvited in your mind.

Before you could reach for your phone, looking for a distraction in the form of some retail therapy, there was a sharp knock at your door.

Frowning, you glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight and you’d already debriefed with Olivia, she’d wished you a good night. Shuffling across the room, pulling on a cardigan as you went, there came a muffled voice from the other side of the door, “Room service.”

Confusion knitted your brow. “I didn't order anything,” you muttered, approaching the door with caution.

On the balls of your feet, you looked up through the spy hole, and groaned when you saw who it was, “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” you said under your breath exasperated. “Go the fuck away, Dieter.”

“Just give me a minute,” he insisted as you watched him scratch at his beard.

You contemplated ignoring him and returning to your bed, but the thought of him loitering outside your door was enough to convince you against your better judgment. The last thing you needed was someone getting wind of Dieter Bravo making a fuss outside your hotel room in the middle of the night. With a sigh, you unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door just enough so that the chain bar was still in place.

“What could you possibly have to say that hasn't already been said?” you demanded.

Dieter held up a hand, a gesture of peace, “Please.”

You hesitated and argued with yourself, “This is highly inappropriate.”

He met your gaze, his expression surprisingly earnest. “I wanted to apologize.”

You shooed him off as you tried to close the door, “Fine. Apology accepted. Goodnight.”

He shoved his foot between the door and its frame, preventing you from closing it. “Can I come in, please?”

You stared at him incredulously, “Why would I ever let you do that?”

“Because I do owe you an apology,” he said, his tone surprisingly earnest, “and you do love to be proven right,” he smirked, knowing you’d let your guard down when he played to your ego. “Come on, it’ll just be a moment.”

You studied him for a moment, he looked too relaxed for what it was he was asking. The dishevelled hair, the t-shirt that looked like it’d never seen an iron, your exasperation wavered for a moment. “You have some nerve showing up after that shit you pulled on national TV.”

He only smiled wider, and it made you want to slap it off of his face. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that suggested that he was possibly genuine in his ask.

“I know,” his voice was devoid of sarcasm, “which is why I couldn’t leave things as they were.”

You pursed your lips together and gave him one last look of lingering frustration before moving back just enough to open the door, begrudgingly allowing him in against your better judgment.

“You have a knack for poor fucking timing Bravo.”

He offered a half-smile. “Better late than never, am I right?”

You regarded him coolly, “You know you really can't just show up at my hotel room,” you told him. “One minute, that’s all you’ve got.”

The smirk on Dieter’s face telling you he believed he’d already won. He produced a bottle of wine from behind his back,

“Technically, I did announce myself as room service,” he pointed out, holding up the bottle of wine, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he ignored the time limit you’d given him.

“Did you steal that from the green room?”

He didn't answer, but his grin told you everything you needed to know.

“You're unbelievable,” you sighed.

You watched as he took in the expanse of your hotel suite. “Nice place,” he remarked.

“Your time is running out,” you reminded him as you checked your watch.

He turned to face you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for tonight. For everything, really.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That's quite the blanket apology.”

He shrugged innocently. “Fancy a nightcap?”

You let out a dry laugh. “ You think a bottle of stolen wine and a poor attempt at an apology will fix everything?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye as he spied the wine glasses on the table. “It is a very good wine.”

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at the corners of your mouth. “You're absurd.”

“So I've been told,” he said, handing you a generously filled glass.

You clinked yours against his reluctantly. “To better judgment,” you countered dryly.

Dropping onto the sofa, you both sipped in silence for a moment. The wine was rich and full-bodied, warming you from the inside out.

“So, was antagonizing me on live television part of your grand plan?” you finally asked, breaking the silence.

He sighed, swirling the wine in his glass. “Believe it or not, I didn't know you'd be there tonight.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you replied skeptically.

He met your gaze. “It's true. I really was a last-minute addition. Didn’t know I’d be on until half an hour before.”

Silence enveloped the room again, but this time it felt more contemplative than awkward.

“Why are you here, Dieter?” you asked quietly.

He took a deep breath. “I really do want to apologize.”

“She’s in town isn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes as the realization settled in, you pointed a finger around your wine glass at him, “She turned you down so you’re on my doorstep.” Dieter didn’t say anything, but instead inspected the contents of his wine glass, “Hah, I knew it.”

Dieter’s tumultuous relationships were nothing short of front-page news and he was never short on supplying exploits for further column inches on the topic. However, his hang-up on this particular ex seemed to haunt him more than any of the others. You’d even worked with her once or twice before. A script for a project she was working on was on your desk back home in preparation for auditions the following month. You had no clue how someone so together had ever been with someone like Dieter if you were entirely honest.

You watched him now, with amusement, noting the way his jaw tensed at your accusation.

He narrowed his eyes at you, “She’s got nothing to do with this and I was actually sorry, though very much reconsidering it now,” he grumbled.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “You're unbelievable, you know that? Classic Dieter Bravo—gets rejected and runs to stir up chaos wherever he can.”

“It's not like that,” he said defensively, though his tone lacked any serious conviction.

You laughed, “Oh please, Dieter. Unfortunately I know you too well. This isn’t about me, it’s about your bruised ego,” you challenged, crossing your arms as you leaned back into the sofa.

He leaned back himself, eyeing you with a mixture of amusement and irritation. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”

“A moment?” you scoffed, “is that what you call this?”

He smirked, “Would you prefer I call it foreplay?”

You nearly choked on your wine, “You’re unrepentant. I can see why she turned you down.”

“Part of my charm,” he winked, though the smile he plastered on his face didn’t meet his eyes.

You took another drink from your glass, it was truly frustrating how this man could occupy so much space in a room, and in your thoughts, without even trying.

“You should go,” you said, dropping your glass to the coffee table with a bit more force than you intended. “I don’t have time for your games tonight Dieter, I have an early flight.”

He reached for his wine glass, draining it, “In that case, I’ll take my leave.”

You raised an eyebrow, this you hadn’t expected, the Dieter you knew would be begging or leaning into some cocky, insufferable line that would make you want to slap him—or kiss him—depending on the day. You watched him gather himself, however he made no move to leave.

A silent impasse passed between the two of you, you bit your lip—you were the first to break, “There’s nothing between us except years of bad history and a mutual inability to get along.”

He tilted his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Sure about that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Positive,” you replied, with more conviction than you actually felt.

But he sat there, his presence electric, and it was pissing you off how much you didn’t want him to leave.

Dieter turned towards you, his voice low and coaxing. “You could kick me out,” he said, closing the distance between you both on the sofa, “but you know I’ll always come back.”

“Ever think I don’t want you to?” you shot back, ignoring the waver in your voice.

He leaned in, and you swallowed hard, “Then why am I still here?”

You weighed up your options. There was going to be nothing between the two of you, aside from this bitter back and forth—which if you were honest, was getting rather tiresome as the man was never going to admit true fault. However, you would be a liar if you denied he was handsome, and the idea of getting some satisfaction out of this situation would be appreciated given it had been a while since the last time you’d had sex, let alone sex that was worth remembering. And there he was, sitting on your couch like he owned the place, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of his chest.

The wine had warmed you and softened the edges of your irritation and as much as you hated to admit it (and you’d never speak it out loud, his ego was big enough as it was), there was something about Dieter Bravo that made it hard to look away.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath and before you could allow any reason to enter your mind you pulled him by the shirt, your lips crashing with his, his just as hungry as yours. The kiss was urgent, messy and a collision of years of pent-up frustration.

His wine glass slipped from his hand, forgotten, as he leaned into you, his hands finding your waist, “Finally,” he murmured against your mouth, smugness dripping from him.

“Don’t ruin it,” you warned, nipping at his bottom lip to shut him up.

Dieter groaned into your mouth as your fingers dove into his hair, his curls twisting around your fingers and you couldn’t help but tug at them, tilting his head to give you better access. He obliged, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap.

“Dieter,” you murmured, the name tasting strange on your lips.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, laced with amusement.

You didn’t have time to argue with him—not when his hands were tugging at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one swift motion. You didn’t protest when he discarded it onto the floor, his eyes raking over you with an intensity that made you shiver.

“I still fucking hate you,” you hissed, your lips felt bruised and yet you wanted more of it.

He smiled, “I know, sweetheart. That's what I love about you."

You shook your head, a wry smile breaking through against your better judgment. “You're insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, his eyes never leaving yours.

“One night,” you said firmly. “This doesn't change anything.”

He nodded. “Understood.”

You took his hand, pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. “Come on, before I change my mind.”

The bed creaked under your weight as you fell onto it, his body pressing against yours. His mouth trailed kisses along your collarbone before finding its way back to yours. You gasped as he nibbled on your bottom lip; a mixture of pleasure and frustration surged through you. He tasted like wine and the stubble from his unshaven beard felt deliciously rough against your skin.

Your hands fought with his to unbutton his pants and pull them down, him pulling away momentarily to strip himself of the remainder of his clothes. He crawled back up the bed, his hair an unruly mess—more so than usual—and his smirk firmly in place, as if he had all the time in the world and you weren’t lying there, aflamed and impatient. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at him, instead grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him closer.

“Stop dragging this out,” you snapped, your voice low and breathless.

“Impatient now?” he teased, he leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Say please.”

You glared at him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him even closer. “If you don’t shut up and do something useful—”

His mouth silenced you, crashing into yours with a ferocity that made your head spin. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and dip and you couldn’t deny how good it felt—how he seemed to know exactly where to touch to make your breath hitch or your back arch.

“You’re so bossy,” he murmured against your skin as he kissed down the column of your neck, his stubble leaving a trail of delicious friction in its wake. “Kinda sexy.”

“Dieter,” you warned as you lifted your hips for him to rid you of the rest of your clothes.

He hummed, a low gravelly sound as he obliged you, his fingers surprisingly deft as they worked on the clasp of your bra. It too joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. His hands cupped your breasts, he groaned in delight, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and you had to bite back a moan, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

But when his mouth soon followed, you couldn’t help the sound that escaped your lips. His tongue circled the peak of your nipple, his lips closing around it—with just the right amount of pressure. You fisted his hair, pulling him closer, arching your hips up off of the bed and he chuckled, the vibrations sending a shiver through you.

“Still hate me?” he asked, lifting his head to meet your gaze, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“More than ever,” you lied.

In no time, his clothes were added to the heap on the floor. You pulled him in as he knelt on the bed above you, your legs spread, and ankles hooked around the back of his knees.

He smirked, his hands sliding down to your hips, his fingers digging into you as he pulled you closer, “Sure about that?”

Before you could answer, he was there, pressing against you, the heat of him searing and teasing. You gasped, aching to take him, and he groaned, the sound raw and unfiltered. He nudged his hips, teasing your entrance and it sent a spark of heat up your spine that had you throwing your head back in frustration.

“Dieter,” you breathed out as you looked up at him, a smug smile plastered across his face, you reached up and grabbed the mess of curls at the nap of his neck, “how about instead of running your mouth,” you pulled him down, “you put that mouth to better use?”

The glint in Dieter’s eyes at not only the challenge issued, but the act of you taking charge of the moment from him lit up his face. Needing no direction, he took his tongue and trailed a blazing hot path from your breasts to your navel. His hands were everywhere, just as chaotic as him, mapping your body in a way that made you wonder if he’d been planning this for years. You hated how good it felt, how your body betrayed you by responding so quickly to his touch, so eager. But you couldn’t deny it—Dieter Bravo knew exactly what he was doing.

His mouth reached the apex of your thighs, and you tensed, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a smirk playing on his lips as he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue sent a jolt through you, and you bit back a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as if anchoring yourself to reality. He hummed, a low, approving sound, and the vibration sent a ripple of pleasure through you. You hated that he was good at this, hated that you couldn’t pretend it wasn’t affecting you.

“Stop being stubborn and let go,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can feel how much you want this.”

“You’re impossible,” you ground out, your hips shifting involuntarily against his mouth, your body already deciding whose side it was on.

He laughed, a rough, delicious sound, and continued his relentless assault on your senses. Your resolve crumbled piece by piece, each touch, each kiss, each expert flick of his tongue pulling you under. Your breath came quick and shallow as heat coiled inside you, tighter and tighter.

“Dieter—” This time it was a plea.

“There she is,” he said, a dark chuckle rolling off his lips as he went back to work with renewed vigour.

You gasped as his fingers slid inside you, working in tandem with his tongue, stroking that sensitive spot inside you that made your toes curl. When you finally came, it was with a cry that surprised even you, your body arching off the bed as pleasure coursed through you like a storm.

Dieter crawled back up, his face gleaming with satisfaction, and you pulled him into a kiss that was as much about reclaiming control as it was about desire. He obliged, his lips meeting yours with a hunger that matched your own. You could taste yourself on him, a dizzying reminder of what he’d just done, and yet it only made you want more.

“Say it,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “Say you want me.”

“You’re insufferable,” you hissed, your nails digging into his back.

He laughed, low and rough. With one thrust, he filled you completely. You cried out, the sound muffled by his shoulder as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden fullness.

“Not so bad, is it?” he murmured, his voice laced with smugness.

You glared at him, but before you could respond, he moved, pulling back—so far back he teased you with the tip and between clouded thoughts of pleasure you were impressed with his ability to hold himself there. He hovered, teasing your entrance, taunting you with the promise of more. But then he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke.

“You're so tight,” he breathed, his voice low and rough with restraint. “I could stay right here forever.”

However it was short-lived, he soon picked up the pace, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall as he drove into you with increased urgency with a rhythm that left you breathless. His hands were everywhere, his mouth everywhere, and you couldn’t keep up with the sensations. The room was filled with your mingled moans and gasps echoing off the walls.

You hated him. You hated how he made you feel, how he could reduce you to this—this messy, desperate, undeniable need. But more than that, you hated how good it felt, how right it felt, how it seemed like he was made to fit you.

“Dieter,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, his pace faltering for just a moment.

“Don’t stop.”

He laughed again, the sound wild and raw, and obliged, driving into you with a rhythm that left you clawing at the sheets, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.

You were a mess of contradictions—hate and desire, frustration and pleasure, all tangled together in a knot you couldn’t untangle. But at that moment, you didn’t care. All you cared about was the release building inside you, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped, sending you soaring.

He followed you over the edge, his body tensing as he buried his face in your neck, his groan muffled against your skin. You both lay there, Dieter’s weight settled on top of you, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel the hammering of his heartbeat gradually slowing against your chest.

Finally, he pushed himself up, his eyes locking with yours. “Still hate me?” he asked, his voice rough and laced with amusement.

You glared at him, your chest still heaving. “More than ever.”

He smirked, rolling off you and onto his back. “Good. I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

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