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tcfactory · 6 months

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Please consider: Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu role-swap

[LiuJiu, 2300 words]

After the fire, Shen Jiu doesn't sit around, he's aiming straight for Cang Qiong. Wu Yanzi tempts him, but if he is to ever find out what happened to Qi-ge then he can't play around with rogue cultivators, so he ditches the man before Wu Yanzi could take him as a disciple.

He arrives to the sect at a year when they are not doing the disciple selection - the women at the Warm Red Pavilion say it's because the Sect Leader is busy monitoring his cursed head disciple and if the Sect Leader doesn't take part then the rest of the sect has to wait too - but he's tipped off that Bai Zhan is always open to those who are determined enough to climb the mountain and demand admittance.

So that's exactly what he does. The Peak Lord sets him against one of his junior disciples and tells him there are no rules, if he can beat them he's in. It's a test he's not supposed to win, to see his determination and his reaction to failure, as a malnourished slave boy should be no match to someone in good health who has two years of training under his belt. But Shen Jiu doesn't know this, he has come too far to give up now and unlike the scrappy, but well-fed farmer's son he's set up against, he fights dirty.

He sets the basis of his future nickname - The Rabid Wolf of Bai Zhan - that day when he claws the boy's eye out and forces him to yield. His rise among the disciples is almost as meteoric as Yue Qi's and people are on the lookout for when the upstart slave boy will plummet back to the earth, but he never does. When the year is up and the sect is abuzz that Lingxi caves are finally opening again because they are letting the cursed disciple out, he's there in the front row among the curious onlookers and throws himself in his Qi-ge's arms as soon as the other boy steps foot into the light again.

Shen Qingqiu grows up tall and willowy and unpredictable, an unconventional physical cultivator that bends with the wind, but never breaks. With Yue Qingyuan's support as an unshakeable mountain behind his back, he is untouchable. He never bothers to hide what he is, not his scars or his sharp edges or the slave brand burned into the meat of his shoulder, often bared to the world by his choice of outfit; he stands as testament that even the lowest wretches can claw their way up to stand among giants.

Liu Mingqu yields to his rich family and allows himself to be enrolled into Qing Jing. He is not as suited for spiritual cultivation and he has no head for arts, but he is still a prodigy and a really hard working one at that. He learns all there is to learn for a scholar and doesn't rest until he perfects them all - music, calligraphy, painting, poetry - and even if he's ever uninspired about pursuing them, the Peerless Beauty of Qing Jing is a competent teacher who stands head and shoulders over his peers. He masters his temper and his manners and takes to hiding his face behind a fan or sometimes a veil like his sister to discourage people from staring at him.

Their roles may be different, but their nature remains the same. Shen Jiu has always been more clever than he was strong and nothing changed about that now that he's essentially a spiritual cultivator playing at star athlete. He plants a bamboo forest on his mountain - for meditation and ambush practice, he says, but everyone knows he just needed a bubble of calm for himself in the endless war zone of Bai Zhan - and mercilessly beats any disciple who dares to damage the forest. In the serene calm of his little house he hoards books and maps and all the culture he can get his calloused hands on, always thirsty to know more, an endless pit his Qi-ge happily pours obscure knowledge into. He uses the standing feud between Bai Zhan and Qing Jing to spy on them, learn their cultivation methods by sight and listen to the senior disciples do ad hoc concerts, so he can practice music in the brothel or under a silencing array just behind his house.

It's during one of these trips when he discovers Liu Qingge behind the Qing Jing Peak Lord's manor, restlessly shuffling through the steps of a formal dance. Liu Qingge yearns to move, he yearns for the exertion of his wild youth, but there are only so many acceptable options for a scholar and as a cultivator he can't channel his restlessness into hunting or horse riding. That leaves dancing, but Liu Qingge is not a creative person. He sticks to the dances he half-remembers learning as a rich young master and maybe asks his sister for some more, but that's where his resourcefulness runs out on this venture.

Shen Qingqiu watches him go through the steps of the same dozen dances, swap to a few rounds of sword forms - perfectly executed and ethereal, an immortal beauty that earthbound Shen Qingqiu will never be able to replicate - and then swap back to the dances, increasingly frustrated and restless.

"If Peak Lord Qingge wants to learn some better dances, this shidi can introduce you to someone." Liu Qingge startles and almost turns him into a pincushion with a barrage of bamboo leaves.

"What do you want?!" They are secure in their respective positions, but they still don't like each other.

"Peace, shixiong. I'm just looking out for the sect. How would it reflect on me if I let my fellow Peak Lord work himself into a qi deviation and didn't step in?" Shen Qingqiu shrugs and smiles with an easy, predatory grace that makes Liu Qingge wish he had fangs to match the Wolf of Bai Zhan, but there's no malice in the offer. "Come now, shixiong. There's nobody else here. We don't need to do this stupid game of social posturing. Tell you what, as a sign of my goodwill I'm going to teach you a meditation technique to calm your qi after exercise, free of charge."

Almost everything with Shen Qingqiu is a transaction, so Liu Qingge knows better than to pass up the chance to get something from his shidi for free - and the meditation does help settle his roiling qi.

"What do you want in return, then?" It's almost terrifying how intensely Shen Qingqiu's eyes light up.

"That trick with the leaves - teach me how to do it."

Liu Qingge doesn't bother to point out that it's a spiritual technique. It's an unspoken secret that they would be better suited to each other's cultivation styles than that of their own peaks. Shen Qingqiu has a storm of razor sharp leaves dancing in the air before Liu Qingge is even done explaining.

He almost regrets agreeing when Shen Qingqiu takes him down to the brothel, but the women his shidi introduces him to are truly masters of dance - they were stars of an imperial dance troupe before their owner was executed for offending the Emperor and they were sold to the brothel. They take him to the back and teach him dances he could never have imagined, dances that make his heart soar and his blood rush hot in his veins, while Shen Qingqiu lightly dozes among the women in the main reception area, his very presence frightening all but the most unruly patrons into behaving.

Liu Qingge is an honest man and he knows, deep down, that he got much more out of this exchange than his shidi. He’s on the lookout to see how he could repay him, but Shen Qingqiu seems to want for nothing. What he can’t get on his own Yue Qingyuan gifts to him, doting relentlessly on his sharp-edged little brother. So when he hears that Shen Qingqiu is to set out to assist in a night hunt against a particularly dangerous demonic beast that made its way over the to the far shore of the sea, he hops to the opportunity to compile a scroll of all the unspoken rules and etiquette of the island, as well as a short history on the ninja clan that asked for their aid. It’s all information that Shen Qingqiu has no way of learning otherwise, but should ease his time on the hunt.

When he can’t find Shen Qingqiu at the bamboo house he goes looking for him and that’s when he finds the silencing array, that’s when he sees his shidi sitting with his guqin in a clearing, composing music. Liu Qingge’s mouth goes dry, his heart skips a beat - his shidi is like a vision from the heavens and for the first time since he started this scholarly lifestyle, Liu Qingge wants to paint. He wants to etch this scene in his heart and condense it into a poem.

He slinks away before his shidi can notice him and leaves the scroll in the bamboo house. In the three years Shen Qingqiu is gone, hunting that elusive monster that decimates one village after another, he becomes a man possessed - or more accurately, a tender hearted young maiden yearning for her first love. He paints picture after picture, sometimes of a wolf stalking among the bamboo, sometimes of Qingqiu with his guqin as the scene lives in his memory. Rarely he paints his shidi stretched out on a couch in the brothel, languid with feigned sleep and one eye opened a crack as he vigilantly watches over his sisters - he gifts one of those to the brothel, much to the ladies’ delight. He starts writing poetry, yearning, horrible poetry his sister mocks relentlessly, but slowly he finds his words and his latest attempts are almost good. He is the first to hound Zhangmen-shixiong for news on Shen shidi and learns every word of every letter by heart, no matter how short or impersonal the progress reports are.

Liu Qingge knows that his martial siblings are not blind to his obsession - he has caught Shang shidi muttering “bro, really?!” under his breath more than once. He’s not familiar with the expression, but he can understand the sentiment. Yue Qingyuan watches him with patient exasperation, but he knows that the man doesn’t disapprove from the mild comment about how Shen Jiu will need a new ceremonial robe for his return celebration because his old one is ten years out of fashion.

Embroidery is, technically, within the skill set of the Qing Jing Peak Lord. He hounds An Ding until someone supplies him with Shen Qingqiu’s measurements and the finest materials he can bully Shang shidi into acquiring - “That’s the same stuff demon royalty wears, try not to waste it, my contact had to go through the royal seamstress of the northern kingdom to get it in that color.” - and sets to work. Bai Zhan’s color is steel blue, but that never fit his shidi, so he picks greens instead to match his striking green eyes. He creates a design that accentuates the deceptive slimness of Qingqiu, then embroiders the robes with bamboo patterns and a wolf on the hunt and when they are done he crafts a matching fan - Shen shidi hides from nothing and nobody, but Liu Qingge thinks he might enjoy being a little mysterious.

He is daydreaming about his shidi during the next Peak Lord meeting when the Sect Leader breaks the news: the beast has finally been slain and Shen Qingqiu will be on the next ship back home. Liu Qingge stays barely long enough to not be impolite at the end of the meeting before he rushes off to finish the last touches on the robes. He wants to leave it all set out for his shidi in the bamboo house.

In his haste he misses the look Shang Qinghua and Yue Qingyuan exchange behind his back.

“So, about those arrangements we made…”

“Yes, please. Let’s get Xiao Jiu home before Liu-shidi pines himself into a qi deviation.”

“Yeah, he’s down bad isn’t he?”

“Are you certain your prince doesn’t mind? If you are in any danger, shidi…”

“No! It’s fine, I’m fine, he already agreed to it! In fact, my Xuebao likes your brother so much I’m almost a little jealous.”

“Really now?”

“Zhangmen-shixiong, please stop looking like you are plotting murder. It’s not like that. As the Mobei prince, he really doesn’t have a lot of friends. Of course he misses A-Jiu.”

“If you say so, shidi.”

Liu Qingge is all jitters when he walks down the path to the bamboo house. He can’t understand why because Shen Qingiu won’t be back for months, but he still feels like a maiden on her way to ask out her love on the first date.

He almost drops the package with the robes when he opens the door and finds Shen Qingqiu standing there in the sunlit room. His shidi is too solid, too real to be an apparition, his clothes worn from travel, his heavy pack still unpacked by the table. He stands with a letter in one hand - Qingge recognizes his sister’s wobbly, childish handwriting - and with Qingge’s notebook in which he wrote all his stumbling, horrible poetry in the other and Liu Qingge wishes nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“Are those my new robes?” Shen Qingqiu asks, as if they have only met this morning, as if that was a reasonable thing to ask when Qingge’s heart is about to explode from nerves. He can only mutely nod at his shidi. “You know shixiong, I can see that you have put enormous effort into courting me. I would have loved it if it happened when I was here to experience it.”

Shen Qingqiu sets the notebook and the letter down and stalks up to Liu Qingge, his eyes sharp with an emotion he can’t interpret, but it makes Liu Qingge want to bare his throat to his teeth and be devoured.

“So, Liu-shixiong. Are you going to help me try on my new robes?”

#svsss #liu qingge #shen jiu #shen qingqiu #liujiu #tc writes #I'm tempted to draw something for this ngl #not putting this under readmore bc there was no good spot to cut it and it doesn't feel that long...#LQG going 0 to 100 in love like the nerd he is #Bai Zhan SQQ takes a more direct approach to protecting the sect #so of course he found out about Moshang #and beat Mobei's ass when they were still teens for treating hamster-shidi too rough so he got promoted to best friend status #that's just enough context for airplane to remember what he wrote about violent demon bonding #and clean up that no humans don't find physical violence directed at them sexy #mobei is a security risk to the sect but a calculated one #no other sect has a way to go to japan and back in five minutes so he can live for now #they are still pretty young here btw #Mingyuan is just old enough to write #she's old enough to bully her big brother for being a really bad poet though #tough crowd

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pedrito-friskito · 2 years

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it takes two - dieter bravo x fem!reader

summary: dieter gets his second shot, and he’ll be damned if he wastes it.

warnings: no angst here my babies! rejoice! oral (f receiving), unprotected p-in-v, dieter is a soft caring motherfucker, fluff, I love these two so much

a/n: fuck I really broke everyone’s heart with seeing double, huh?? I still don’t know where that bit of heartache came from, but it made for some delicious angst, and putting back together what I broke was a blast!

(also new post format? who is she)

series masterlist / main masterlist

Where is it?

Where is it, where is it, where is it?

You’ve looped your way through your apartment at least seven times now, every basket overturned and rummaged through, every closet and cupboard door flung wide open, every bag you own upended onto the ground.

Where the fuck is it?

It’s here. It has to be here.

Defeated, you lean against the kitchen counter, rubbing a hand over your forehead, sipping the Irish coffee you’d made yourself the moment you stepped through the front door. It has to be here, but now that you think about it, you know exactly where it is.

Fuck.

Dieter.

Of course, you left it at his apartment. Shutting your eyes, you know exactly where it is in his condo, slid onto the lower shelf of his coffee table, your name emblazoned across the front cover, one of your favourite pens tucked in the little flap in the leather. Your precious notebook, the refillable kind that has been your crutch since you broke your way into the world of screenwriting. You have stacks of old notes carefully filed at your desk in your apartment, the pages reverently removed from the book and replaced with fresh ones for every new project. If there’s one thing you’ve always been meticulous with, it’s your notes, and that notebook is a lifeline.

Not to mention the new project you’re working on is supposed to start production early December, and here you are, pacing your apartment, the script sitting on your desk, and you don’t have your fucking notes because you left them at your boyfriend’s house.

Ex-boyfriend?

Fuck.

It’s been a few weeks now, since the fiasco on Halloween. Since the awful encounter with discount James Bond and the horrible ending to what could have been a ridiculously sexy night with your favourite human. You hadn’t counted on any of it, the drunken fight, the screaming at each other on the front lawn, your scared confession — the admission that you didn’t feel ready, that you didn’t feel like you belonged in his world, tiptoeing on the edge as you were. The ride home was the longest cab ride you’ve ever taken, reduced to quiet sobs in the backseat that you stifled enough that the driver only looked at you in the rearview twice.

You couldn’t blame him, it was probably quite the sight - a sobbing girl, dressed like Dieter fucking Bravo, clutching a Mandalorian helmet in her lap.

Once you were back in your own apartment, you completely broke down. You were still wearing his clothes, his sunglasses pushing your hair back over your head, his robe too big and hanging off your shoulders, his t-shirt too soft against your skin. You hadn’t even made it to your bed, stopping short in the living room. You crashed on the couch, throw pillow crushed to your chest, and cried yourself to sleep.

You haven’t called, or texted, and neither has he. There’ve been no updates on his Instagram (you’ve checked) and you’re too much of a chicken to make the first move. What is there to say? How do you politely ask someone to give you another chance when you literally left him bleeding on the sidewalk? When you walked out on him when he had only been trying to defend you?

But he asked. He asked, and it shouldn’t have mattered. That had been the last straw, the thing that sent your mind screaming into a frenzy of I don’t belong here, I shouldn’t be here. “It doesn’t matter,” he’d said, trying to backtrack, but the damage was done. It didn’t matter that you were drunk, or that him launching himself to your defence in the house had been one of the sexier things you’ve ever seen. It didn’t matter.

“If it doesn’t matter, then why the fuck did you ask?”

You scrub a hand over your face, pushing the memories of that night away. At the end of it all, you need your fucking job, and that means you need your fucking notebook. So time to put on your big girl pants and fucking deal with it.

He answers on the third ring. There’s shuffling on the other line, the sound of rustling fabric and his familiar sleepy groan before the sound of his earring clacking against the phone reaches your ears. “Y’okay?” is his first coherent word, and you try to stifle the way your chest gets tight.

“I’m fine,” you reply, propping your phone between your shoulder and your head, knotting your fingers together. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“S’late,” he slurs. He’s not drunk, you know that much; probably stoned, but dead tired. Then you remember: he was in London for a week and a half after Halloween. You were supposed to go with him for part of the trip, but after that night, you’d cancelled your ticket. He’s jet-lagged. “Didn’t expect you to call me.”

“It’s not late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “I’m guessing you’re still on London time.”

“Mmm.”

You chew your lip, foot tapping against the floor. “Listen, I’ll cut to the chase. I left my notebook at your place, the one I use for work. And that new movie I’m working on starts production in a week and I got my script and I really need the note—”

“I’ll be there in forty-five minutes,” Dieter declares, cutting you off, and you nearly choke on your own tongue. “You want Chinese? I’m dying for wonton soup.”

Before you can even protest, the line goes dead.

The next forty-three minutes are spent sprinting around your apartment, cleaning up the empty take-out containers and pizza boxes, evidence if your weepy nights spent watching romcoms on your couch. There are tissues stuffed between the couch cushions, and you’re shoving the lid on the garbage can down when there’s a knock on your door. Every nerve in your body zips to attention, a chill shooting down your spine as you steel yourself, glancing in the mirror beside the front door and fixing your hair before you’re reaching for the knob.

“You’re two minutes early,” you say by way of greeting, door swinging inward to reveal Dieter fucking Bravo.

Of course, he looks fucking delectable. Dressed in that awful brown fuzzy coat that you thrifted for him — you’d been terrified of his reaction when you told him it was secondhand but he told you bluntly that he didn’t fucking care it’s fucking beautiful — and a cream-coloured button up. His throat bobs as he looks you over same as you’re doing to him, and you’ve got half a mind to hook your fingers in his collar and yank him into your bedroom, but you stuff your hands in the back pockets of your jeans instead.

“Traffic was surprisingly non-existent,” he tells you, and your heart is in your throat as he brandishes your notebook towards you, offering it first. You snatch it out of his hand, crushing it to your chest as you step out of the way so he can step inside, spotting the tied white bag of Chinese take-out in his other hand. You just watch as he heads into your kitchen, stepping out of his shoes. “I went to that place you like, near the laundromat?” He chuckles, setting the bag on your kitchen counter. “They remembered our order.”

You can’t help yourself. “Extra egg rolls?”

He scrunches his brow at you, nearly rolling his eyes as he shrugs out of his jacket. “Obviously. Fortune cookies too.”

God, I love you, is what you nearly say.

“You didn’t have to bring food, D,” is what comes out of your mouth instead, but he just waves you off. “Thank you, for the notebook. I could have come to get it.”

He’s rummaging through your cupboards, finding plates and cutlery. Should you be mad, that he just invited himself over like this? Maybe, but you can’t find it in you. You’re too happy to see him, and the feeling sits on your chest like a little ball of sunshine, warm and bright.

“S’okay,” he says, getting himself a glass of water. “I needed a reason to get out of bed.”

“Jet-lag that bad?”

He groans loudly, head dropping back on his shoulders. “London was hell, babe,” he tells you, the pet name rolling off his tongue so easily your stomach does a backflip. He pauses, sets his glass on the counter, wipes his hand on his jeans. “I missed you, wished you were there.”

You chew your lip, leaning against the kitchen doorway. “Me too.”

“Let’s eat,” he declares, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “and I…I have something I need to tell you.”

You just nod. “I have wine.”

His head snaps up, eyes widening slightly. “Wine would be good.”

You nod again in agreement, turning to the cupboard that holds the glasses. You don’t miss the way Dieter’s eyes linger on you as you reach up to the second shelf, your sweater riding up in the process. By the time you sink back down onto your toes, he’s clearing his throat and turning towards the kitchen table.

Healthy amounts of wine are poured, and you’re both quiet for a few minutes as you eat. You can’t stop yourself from glancing at him every so often. He looks…different, but the same. It’s only been a few weeks, and his beard has mostly grown back from when he’d trimmed it for Halloween, his hair a bit more wayward. There are dark circles under his eyes, which you know can be partially blamed on the jet-lag and the travelling, but something tells you you are also the reason.

Dieter’s cleared his plate, and you’re twirling noodles on your fork when he speaks, his voice so clear it startles you. He’s got his elbows braced on the table, hands curled around his biceps.

“I love you,” he states, the words casual, simple, like he’s telling you his favourite colour. He hasn’t said them out loud before. Your McDonald’s napkin confession is still pressed between a book in your bedroom. “I’m in love with you, and I’ve been in love with you for a long fucking time now, and if I’m totally honest with you, baby, I still don’t totally know what I did that night that made you so upset, but I know I’m gonna regret it for the rest of my life if it means I’m losing you because of it.”

You lean back in your chair, fork clattering to your plate, noodles discarded. It’s a long moment before you find the courage to look at him, reaching for your wine glass and draining the dregs before you can say anything.

“We were drunk,” you start, and he just nods, his head dipping slightly, eyes removed from your face, focused on his empty plate. “And after that guy threw himself at me, I just…” You shake your head. “I just wanted to go home, and then you asked me if I kissed him and—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupts, and you lift a hand for a moment before letting it rest on the table between you.

“But you asked. You asked, and I just wanted to go home and forget about it, but you kept pushing, D, and it hurt. It hurt a lot, and my drunk brain wanted out.”

His brow hardens, and slowly, he walks his hand towards yours, fingers tiptoeing across the table until they’re curled around your knuckles. “I’m sorry, baby.” He clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking a lot, about what you said that night. That you’re not…built for it, the cameras and the parties and well, me, and I just—”

“I didn’t mean you,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “I never meant you.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Good to know. But the paparazzi and the parties and all the bullshit, I know it’s a lot, baby. I do. I hate it. You don’t know how many times I wish I could just turn it off. And you were right, you never asked for any of this, and if you wanted to walk away from that, I wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t stop you either.”

His eyes flick to yours, and you stare at each other for a long moment, the air growing thick with tension. He’s offering you an out, specifically, explicitly. If you wanted to walk away from that.

If you wanted to walk away from him.

Slowly, you start to shake your head. His brow twitches before it lifts in question. “I can’t walk away from you, Bravo. Not in a million years.”

Dieter smiles as you push your chair back, getting up and stepping towards him. He moves his own chair back, opening his arms to you as you slide into his lap. His hair is silk beneath your fingers, and you don’t give a fuck about the weird Chinese-and-wine taste on his lips as you kiss him.

“Baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, the word reverent as hell, the closest thing to a prayer you think you’ll get out of Dieter Bravo. He slides one hand up the back of your sweater, palm skimming along warm skin, and your back arches into his touch, familiar and fiery.

Your free hand fists in the front of his shirt, and for a moment, you forget about all of it. The party and the fight and the screaming and all of it. It doesn’t matter — it truly does not fucking matter — and you’ll be damned if you let it get in the way of being with him. Being with your best friend.

His curls wrap around your knuckles as you drag your mouth down, kissing the bare patches in his beard. Lashes fluttering, his head tips back when you tug lightly on his hair, his other hand slipping down to cup your ass through your jeans. “My pretty fucking baby.”

“You’re mine too,” you say into his collar, the words spoken into his skin as you graze your teeth over the thin skin, stifling a moan as he rolls his hips up, chasing yours, the layers of denim between you creating a teasing sort of friction. “You’re my pretty baby too.”

You can feel his grin as you mouth moves back up to his, another kiss pressed to the bare spot along his jaw before you take his bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling lightly, pulling back slightly before you release it. He groans, the hand under your sweater curled around your ribs. You’re not wearing a bra underneath, and it would be all too easy for him to—

“Dieter,” you breathe out as his hand scoops around, deft fingers squeezing your breast, rolling your nipple between his knuckles.

“Tell me, honey,” he nearly purrs, and now it’s his mouth dragging down your jaw, aquiline nose sliding against your throat as your body reacts to his touches. “Tell me what you want.”

“Do you wanna have sex with me?” you ask, the words nearly slurred, accompanied by an erratic roll of your hips.

He kisses your pulse. “Only if that’s what you want.”

“It is, D,” you answer, your voice almost frantic now. “Please, it is, I promise. I want you.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders, keeping him close, tugging at his hair until he tilts his face back up to you. “Always.”

You’ve never seen him smile like this, all crinkly-eyed and beaming, and you swear those brown eyes go shiny before he pulls you back in for a kiss. He’s got both hands on your ass now, and with a grunt, he lifts you up and onto the table, blindly moving the plates and glasses out of the way once you’re seated.

It’s a mad scramble after that, your legs hitched around his hips. Your sweater is yanked over your head, your fingers fumbling around his buttons until his shirt hangs open. He lays you back gently, one hand beneath your head, and you choke on a gasp as he leans over you, lowering his head to your chest and sucking on your nipple. You thread your fingers in his hair again, holding him in place while he slides his other hand beneath the waist of your jeans, straight past your underwear, two fingers finding your clit with expert precision as he lets his teeth scrape a little.

“Fuck.”

“Y’know, I musta got myself off twenty times just thinking about the noises you make,” he grumbles, still attached to your chest, pushing at your jeans. “Fuckin’ brain doesn’t do you justice, baby.”

You start to giggle, but it drags into a gasp when he gives you more teeth, getting your jeans undone and tapping your hip.

“Lift,” he commands, and you do, long enough for him to yank the material down your legs, your underwear gone with them.. His mouth leaves your chest only then, laving a path of wet kisses down your stomach. He bites at your hipbone and you keen, his name echoing through the kitchen. “Pretty baby,” he nearly growls, pushing your legs wide, wasting no time spreading your pussy and dragging his tongue through your folds. “Beautiful fucking girl.”

You let out a whimper that sounds pitiful as all hell to your ears, but it sets Dieter off. He sinks to his knees right there on the kitchen floor, both hands hooking around your thighs, sliding your legs over his shoulders as he devours you. He’s relentless, loud with it, slurping at you, sucking at your clit and shoving his tongue as deep as he can. It’s anything and everything, it’s far too fucking much and not nearly enough all at once.

You can feel your orgasm barrelling towards you like a freight train already, and your hand slaps hard against the wood of the table, nails scratching at the surface, other hand knotted in his hair. “D, please,” you groan out, one heel sliding between his shoulder blades. “Ohmigod, fuck, please, please, please.”

“Use your words, baby,” he murmurs into your thighs. “C’mon, don’t be shy.”

“I need your cock, Dieter,” you spit out, his name more like a shout. “Fuck, please, baby.”

Normally, he’d make you work for it. You’ve been in this situation before, his face buried between your thighs and you begging for his cock. Usually, he’d yank another orgasm or two out of you, leaving you dripping and aching to be filled, maybe tease you with a finger or two before he carried you to his bed or yours, before he gave you what you really needed.

This time, there’s none of that. There’s a feral, almost desperate look on his face as he pulls himself back up to stand, hastily undoing his jeans and freeing himself. He’s hard as a rock, stroking himself as he makes a home between your legs. You push up on your elbows, legs hitching over his hips again as he drags the tip of his cock through your soaked pussy. You can’t hold back the mewling noise that falls out of you when he taps himself against your clit, drags himself back down, notched at your entrance and—

—just stands there. Frozen. One hand on his cock, the other splayed on the table beside you, he leans in until his nose is just brushing yours. “Look at me, baby,” he says, his voice soft. “I wanna watch your face while I fuck you, okay? Wanna see that pretty face come undone.”

His words send a zap through you and as he pushes inside you, filling you completely, his hand moves to your throat, fingers wrapped around and squeezing ever so slightly.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice still so soft, but husky and gravelly. “There’s my pretty baby. I fill you up so perfectly, don’t I?” Your eyes flutter shut, and he squeezes your throat, prompting you to answer. “Don’t I?’

“Uh-huh,” you mewl, leaning up into his touch. You pull yourself closer, burying his cock deeper inside you as you inch towards him. Reaching back to grab a handful of his ass, you tilting your face towards his, feeling his fingers twitch up your jaw. “So fucking good.”

“Missed you so much, baby,” he grits, and slowly, starts to move, dragging himself out of you almost completely before he’s sliding back in, gliding easily thanks to how fucking wet you are. “Missed your pretty face and the way you laugh and your touch and your kisses and your pussy and you.” He’s babbling, and his pace starts to pick up as he speaks, hand moving higher up your face until his grip is more on your jaw than your throat. “Don’t ever wanna lose you again, baby,” he whispers, kissing you hard. “Never.”

You shake your head, lips brushing his, pulling him into you. “Never.”

The intensity is next level, and you can feel it, the way words seem to lose their meaning. He’s still talking, you think, but you can barely understand the consonants and vowels he strings together, your eyes glued to his lips, his face, those dark eyes pouring into yours as he holds you at the very edge of the table.

Your orgasm comes out of nowhere, the pleasure ramped up enough as it is, but Dieter moves his hands from your jaw around to the back of your head, tugging your hair until you tilt your head back and he can lick a stripe up your throat. It makes you mewl, but coupled with his husky I love you so fucking much, you’re a goner.

Yeah, you heard that.

White noise fills your head, drowning out any other words, any other noise. You nearly slide off the table, your legs twitching hard as your pussy clamps down on him hard. You’re vaguely aware of his grip changing, both his arms wrapping around your torso, holding you as close as he can. Your knees slide up his ribs as he drives forward, and after a low noise you barely make out, there’s a familiar warmth between your legs, his head dropped onto your shoulder, hot breath spilling across your bare chest.

After a few minutes, after your nerves have returned to a normal frequency and your breathing isn’t as heavy, you slump back on the table, and Dieter goes with you. You’re both sweaty messes, his hair plastered to his forehead and you can feel the droplets on your back.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out, head against your collar, one hand roaming your side. You hum, amused, and he lifts his head slowly. “You good, baby?”

“Mmm,” you nod, reaching out to card your fingers through his hair. “Sooooooo good.”

He laughs, a genuine sound that zips through his features, eyes crinkling with mirth, and he drops his head to kiss your sternum. “How’s about I take you to bed?” he murmurs into your skin, curls flopping back across his forehead and skimming your skin. “Gotta make up for lost time, hmm?”

By way of answer, you lean up slow, the pair of you disentangling from each other, whimpering when your bodies are no longer joined together. He folds himself around you once you’re standing, and you shriek when he sweeps an arm behind your knees, lifting you into his arms and nearly sprinting from your kitchen.

Your back hits the bed a second later, and Dieter steps out of his undone jeans, shrugs off his open shirt. He crawls over you then, caging you in with his arms, and even exhausted and pleasure-soaked as your body is, you still find yourself keening up into his touch, lips chasing his. Your arms slide beneath his, fingertips skating up his ribs and towards his spine, roaming his skin as he leans down to kiss you.

“You don’t have plans this weekend, do you?” he whispers against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. You shake your head. “Good, cuz I don’t plan on letting you out of this bed.”

“Oh, shit!”

You nearly shout the words, and Dieter jumps, eyes going wide as you start kicking back blankets, pulling yourself out of his arms. He protests at first, a whine rising in the back of his throat, refusing to let you go, and it makes you giggle, turning to peck his cheek. “I’ll be right back,” you tell him, another peck to his nose, then his lips. “Promise.”

Reluctantly, he releases you, pouting as you scramble off the bed and pad towards your closet.

“What are you doing?” he asks, reaching for the bottle of water balanced on the nightstand. “You’re not getting dressed, are you?”

“Why, so you can just get me naked again?” you quip, lifting a brow as you reach for the doorknob. “No, I have something for you.”

Dieter lets his eyes rake over your body, your top half covered by his button-up, though none of the buttons are done up, and your bare legs, looking miles long as you pull the closet door open and disappear behind it.

“Can I guess?” he calls, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Is it…edibles? A pony? That really good bourbon we had at that one bar in LA where the bartender tried to take you home?”

You poke your head back out, brow still raised. “And I threw said bourbon in his face? No. You’re not even close, Bravo.”

You disappear again, and Dieter chuckles to himself. The tightness in his chest is gone, the lurking anxiety that had riddled his body in the weeks since Halloween mostly dissolved. Ever since that night, he’d been going over it in his head again and again, everything he’d said, everything you’d said. It played on a seemingly endless loop, and he’d paced his apartment for hours, did the same in London, trying to come up with something to say to you, the right way to broach the silence that had formed between you.

He’d lost you. The one thing he’d tried his hardest to steer clear of, he’d managed to sprint headlong into.

If he closes his eyes, he can still hear it perfectly, the way your voice had cracked when he asked if you’d kissed that fuckwad at the party, the tears that had followed when he’d finally forced himself to look at you. It didn’t matter — it still doesn’t matter — and yet, he’d persisted. His drunken brain had refused to let it go, demanded to know, demanded to get an answer. It had all spiralled out from there, you’d admitted fears he didn’t realize you had, and before he knew it, he was trudging home in the dark, breaking down in the elevator and whipping that little velvet box into the back of his closet as hard as he could. It’s still sitting there on the floor, buried amongst the pieces of his Mandalorian armour, save for the helmet, which he doubts he’ll ever see again.

He wasn’t lying; London had been hell. He’d dragged himself through the early morning call times and let the jet-lag eat him alive, drinking and smoking himself into a stupor each night before filling his veins with caffeine come morning. He’d basically abandoned his phone for most of the trip. Every time he looked at the screen, his fingers itched to call you, text you, send you a fucking DM on Instagram. Or he’d flip through the photos on his phone, the candids and the few professional shots of you he’d gotten from his agent, your red carpet debut at the awards show so many months ago, that fateful night where he’d asked you to stay after you fucked each other senseless, and by some stroke of luck, you’d said yes.

Coming home, he’d tried to come up with some semblance of a plan. Maybe dinner, maybe lunch, maybe a simple coffee at that one café you both loved. He wasn’t sure where, but he had a laundry list of things to say, a million ways he hoped to prove himself, to win you back. He was deciding between texting or calling to ask you to meet him when his phone rang, and your face lit up his screen. A silly little candid photo from that drunken night, when you’d dragged him into McDonald’s and he’d drawn your portrait in on a napkin. Your fingers are curled around the pen he’d used in the photo, the end tucked between your teeth, a cheeky grin on your red-stained lips.

You’d called.

He’d planned a whole speech, and it didn’t start with the love confession. He’d get there, to be sure, but originally, he’d wanted to give you the out to begin with. If you wanted to walk away, he wouldn’t stop you. It would hurt like hell, to be sure, but Dieter couldn’t let himself keep you roped into a life that even got the better of him sometimes. It wasn’t fair. To either of you, but the fame was his burden to bear, mostly, and if you didn’t want a part in it, he wouldn’t force it. He couldn’t do that to you.

But even now, your answer rings out clear in his head.

I can’t walk away from you, Bravo. Not in a million years.

“Close your eyes!” you call, your voice slightly muffled. Dieter cocks a brow, but does as you say, palms pressed to his eyelids. “Are they closed?”

“Either that or it just got really fucking dark in here.”

“Smart ass.”

He grins. “You love me.”

“You’re damn right I do.” His cheeks heat. “Keep them closed.”

He hears the creak of the door, and drags his hands down slightly, keeping his knuckles together to block his view. “Can I open them?”

“Not yet!” you squeak, and he can feel the bed shift as you climb back on the foot. The soft skin of your legs brushes his, and he tries not to moan at the warmth between your thighs as you settle onto him. A pause, and he makes a questioning noise. “Okay, now!”

He spreads his fingers, cracking one at you, and promptly bursts into laughter.

You’re wearing the helmet.

You’re wearing the helmet, and his shirt, and nothing else. The image is both the absurdest and sexiest thing he’s ever seen, but he’s laughing so hard his ribs start to hurt. You sit there triumphantly, astride his lap, your hands on your hips, chest puffed.

“You left it at Sean’s,” you say, your voice muffled by the metal, “and…I liked the costume, okay?” You lift the helmet slightly as Dieter’s hands find your hips, revealing your bitten lips and sparkly eyes. “I liked it a lot.”

His laughing abates slightly at the tone in your voice. He pulls you close by the waist, shifting until your hips slide over his. “I liked yours, too.” Dieter leans up, presses his mouth to the underside of your jaw, feeling the quiet sigh that slides from your throat. “Although I’m probably a bit biased.” He nips at your skin. “I’ve always loved the look of you in my clothes.”

“D,” you breathe out, and his grip on you tightens, mouth moving up to yours as you pull the helmet all the way off, letting it fall onto the bed beside you. Your arms are around his neck a second later, pulling yourself impossibly closer to him, closing whatever distance has formed between you. He inhales deeply, drinking in the sweet scent of your skin, his hands guiding your hips over his. It’s such a familiar feeling, teasing and warm, and Dieter leans back, taking you with him.

There’s a quick shuffle of bodies and fabric, legs adjusted and the blankets pushed off his hips, freeing his hard cock. You gasp as it smacks against your ass, grinding down into him as he continues to litter your jaw and throat with kisses. There’s no barrier between you, no silk or lace for him to hook to the side, and you’re warm and wet and wanting as your knees widen around his hips, opening you up to him. It’s a slick slide inside, your fist thumping into the pillow beside his head.

“How’s it feel, baby?” he grunts into your jugular, arms moving to wrap around your torso, keeping you pinned against him as he kicks the blankets back further, planting his feet and thrusting up into you. You make a choked noise, like the air has been punched from your lungs, one of those little noises he loves so much following close behind. “Always so fucking tight for me.”

You thread one hand in his hair, holding him close, while the other reaches behind you, palm skimming his thigh. “Go slow, D, yeah?”

There’s a strain in your voice he’s never heard before, and he freezes. “You okay?”

You nod, chin hitting the top of his head. “I’m good. Just a bit sore.”

“Sore?” he repeats, detaching his lips from your throat to pull back so he can see your face. It’s a familiar sight, your features screwed up in pleasure, but there’s a pinch to your brows that makes him wary. “We don’t have to, baby. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“But I want to,” you whine, your hips moving over his slower than molasses. It makes his cock drag through you deep, and he bites back his own moan, but you make a little noise he knows is a whimper of pain, not pleasure, and he can’t.

“Baby,” Dieter says, the pet name terse on his lips. “It’s hurting you.”

Before you can bite back any further protest, he’s rolling you, cock slipping out of you in the process. The movement makes you gasp, your back hitting the mattress, hair splaying across the pillows. It makes him stop for a moment, the look of you beneath him, the almost dazed look in your eye. But then your eyes catch on his, locking together, so bright and full of trust his heart aches, and the image of that little black box slides into his brain.

Not yet, something in him says. You just got her back. Do it right. Not yet.

“Hey,” you murmur, fingers catching on his chin, nail scratching at his scruff. “Love you.”

He beams back at you, returning the words, and dives in. You squeal as he grabs at your sides, ticklish fingers against your ribs, your thighs hooked over his as he kisses your lips, cheeks, neck, collarbone. He pushes away the fabric of his shirt on your body, nips at your tits, sucks your nipples between his teeth each in turn, giving each of them equal attention. Your hands find his hair again, and he silently wishes they’d never leave as his tongue swipes against the underside of your breast, teeth scraping the pillowy flesh. You’re so soft, and you react to each of his touches.

When he drops a wet kiss to the little tattoo on your hip, you yank lightly at his hair. He lifts his head. “Wha—?”

“Nothing,” you reply, chewing your lip. “You just look really good like this.”

“About to devour my baby’s pussy?” he quips, and he can see the shiver run through you, your head tipping back against the pillows as he moves lower. “I fuckin’ better.” He dips his head again, plants a kiss on the inside of your thigh. “Gonna make you cum now, baby, okay?”

He thinks you nod, hears you make one of those tiny noises again, and seals his mouth over you. You’ve never tasted better to him, and some debauched part of his brain realizes that you taste like the both of you, the evidence of your reunion sharp on his tongue, the multiple rounds that had followed seeping out of your pussy as he pushes his tongue inside. Your noises are music to his ears, not a single bit of strain in your voice as you lift your hips against his mouth. He hooks both arms around your thighs, keeps you tight against him, locks his hands over your stomach. You claw at him, back arching, tits bouncing, and his eyes rake over you.

My baby, my pretty baby, my perfect fucking baby.

He hums against you, nearly growling as he feels your pussy clench against his tongue, pulls back only enough to wrap his lips around your clit, sucking hard until your thighs go tight around his ears. You’re chanting his name, tugging at his hair hard, and it just spurs him on.

He’s hard as a rock, rolling his hips into the mattress with every lick he gives you. He can feel his own orgasm sitting at the base of his spine, curled around his nerves like a snake. He’s gonna make a mess, he already knows, and part of him is trying to hold it at bay, but then you start to cum, nearly shouting with the force of it, your head tossed back, hands holding him close as possible, and he loses it. He can’t hold it back.

“Dieter,” you breathe out, your back arched so hard he’s almost worried, but you’re clenched around him so tight, thighs a vice around his head, hands locked in his hair. He’s twitching against the blanket, cock emptying into the fabric, and he moans into you.

He loses track of time, laid there between your legs, cock pulsing against the sheets, the taste of you heavy on his tongue. He waits for you to catch your breath, busies himself with kissing every inch below your waist, hands still locked together on your stomach. You make a pleased little noise as he gives you gentle kisses, nose dragging along your skin as he goes.

“Hey,” you murmur again, fingers soft in his hair now, brushing wayward curls from his forehead. He lifts a brow, mouth still pressed to your skin. “How about you come kiss my mouth instead?”

He groan as he moves onto his knees, and glances between his legs, the wet spot on the blanket underneath him. Heat rises in his face as he looks back at you. “I made a mess.”

Your lips part, something flaring in your eyes, and you’re grabbing at his shoulders, hauling him up and over you. “I don’t care. That’s so fucking hot.”

Dieter chuckles into your mouth, kissing you soundly. He knows you don’t care about the taste of yourself on his lips, sighs when your tongue pushes past his teeth.

Baby, baby, baby, baby, baaaaaaaaaby.

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. Breathed into your mouth.

“Move in with me.”

You inhale sharply, pulling back slightly, and that same flare is still in your bright eyes. Your grip on him adjusts, one hand in his hair, the other wrapped around his chin. His stomach fills with regret instantly, the silence that stretches on as you stare at him making him wish he could time travel or some shit, go back thirty seconds and—

“Yes.”

—————

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