How About Mitch With WEARY

how about mitch with WEARY 🤍

send me a character and a prompt for a scene blurb ~ (2/10)

WEARY : for one muse to wake up after falling asleep on the other.

You hadn’t been rocked to sleep since you were a child; back when innocence was a given and your life didn’t revolve around righting the wrongs of others for the central intelligence agency. Exhaustion was securing around your body like a weighted blanket, and you were craving the comfortability of your single bedroom apartment. You didn’t want to think about travelling abroad for at least a month after your most recent mission, it’s tediousness still digging its claws in your emotional and physical wellbeing. It was oddly consoling, however, to find yourself in deep slumber on the company’s private jet as your cool down from Spain was lulling you to sleep.

You were so spent that you didn’t realise that you lent into the side of your partner, Mitch too tired himself to push you aside - not that he had the heart to do so, anyway, surprised at himself for allowing a soft spot for you to settle quite wholefully in his chest. From day one, the man was strongly opposed to having a field partner; he was convinced that they would get in his way and disagree on tactics and ideas. Mitch Rapp didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else, just to get in and get the job done. He was a closed off individual who only wanted to keep to himself - but it was all thrown into the wind when Irene Kennedy forced your hand into his, and declared you official consorts. 

Not that he minded too much now after having you get under his skin, worming your way into his life to the point where he just gave in and let you. Mitch would never admit it aloud, but he was glad that he had you by his side. That you were there for him. That he could be there for you, too.

Mitch was never able to sleep on airplanes, but it didn’t stop him from making sure that you did as he pulled your cardigan just that little bit tighter around your frame when the air-con kicked in, or how he would move his arm behind your body that you could be tucked in further to his side and nuzzle your weary head into the worn leather of his bomber jacket. It brought the man a sense of accomplishment when a delicate sigh left your parted lips, so he squeezed you, only slightly; not too much to make a difference in your sleepy status, but enough for you to release that gentle sigh once more.

“You’re digging y’self into a hole, Rapp.” A rough voice drifted his way, a magnetised force for his gaze as it landed on Stan Hurley across the aisle. Your handler was hardly looking back, his nose buried in some true crime novel about missing kids turned murderers - or whatever, you were always too turned off to allow him to get further into the details. 

“Dunno what you’re talking about.” Was all that Mitch could reply with, his hand absentmindedly ceasing its little dance between your waist and hip.

Stan chuckled, only loud enough to keep the conversation between himself and Mitch and he shook his greying head, “The more you care, the less control you have. It’ll eat at you. Make you scared. Make you weak.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, sir.” Mitch tried to keep his voice levelled; he didn’t want his pitch to jump at any accusations, to give himself away. He did care, a hell of a lot, but he knew that he shouldn’t. And that’s what made it forbidden fruit - and boy, was Mitch tempted to try some.

Stan tutted, his tongue clicking against his teeth, lips rolling before they pursed outward. He wanted to reprimand Mitch for becoming involved, and surely if it were you in his place then Stran would be giving the same speech, but he knew the trials you’d both been through. He could see the connection, the natural pull between two lost souls becoming one. Maybe it was Stan Hurley who was the weak one in this scenario.

“You know as well as me what distactions do in the field. As soon as your pea brain wanders away from the target, then mistakes are made. People get hurt. The last thing you want is her getting hurt, ammiright?” Stan spoke almost sympathetically, and Mitch could see the sadness in the older man’s eyes.

Before he could reply, with something surely curt and sarcastic, the jet hit turbulence and the cabin shook. It prompted an overhead announcement about securing seatbelts as other agents and faculty held on out of impulse. It made you jolt awake, your body flying to an upright position, and before you could register where you were, Mitch was already securing your belt over your torso.

“How long was I out?” You asked him, knuckles rubbing at your eyes, and he found it strangely endearing to see you in such a state.

“Two, three hours. We’re still over the ocean.” Mitch gestured out the window that was shielded by a blind, one that he dragged down not too long after you dozed off. He watched as you peered out it, humming in acknowledgement before turning back to him with a lazy smile.

You peered to his jacket, a small dribble shining from the cabin’s lights catching your eye, “Shit, I slept with my mouth open.” You grumbled, pulling the sleeve of your shirt down as you dabbed at the material, before sighing in content when it was all fixed up. “I don’t usually drool in my sleep, sorry Mitch...”

He cleared his throat, his focus breaking from gazing over you with the type of heart eyes that he hadn’t experienced in five years. He shook his head, “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

Maybe Stan was right, he was caring for you. A little too much.

23 with Mitch!!

send me a character and a prompt for a scene blurb ~ (1/10)

SOOTHE : for one muse to calm the other during a panic attack.

He warned you that it could happen; the sudden jumps during the night, the strangled screams pulling from his throat, the sheen of sweat that drenched his skin. It’d been years since the nightmares refused to leave his darkened mind - grasping at any slither of sanity that he had left. The man would dream of softened sand and how it so quickly was stained red, ricochets of bullets and agonising screams creating notes of heart-wrenching symphonies. He witnessed a massacre and it was ruling his life - even after the miniscule trials of therapies and retribution gained from his CIA pursuits, he still couldn’t forget. Mitch Rapp would never forget. It didn’t make it easier on him when he started seeing your body laying lifeless in his arms and he couldn’t do anything to bring you back to him.

Your heart bounded in your chest as you were pulled sharply from your sleep, the man beside you shaking with ragged breaths. You’d never experienced Mitch when he was in this state but you could tell almost immediately that it wasn’t something that he was going to easily get past. As you turned to face him, his hand shot to his side to feel for you, warm clammy handprints encasing your wrist and he managed somewhat of a sigh when he realised you weren’t gone. It wasn’t enough, though, to settle his erratic heartbeat and panicked features.

“Mitch... Mitch, hey, look at me, Mitch... look at me...” You begged, still half asleep as you tried to maneuver yourself in front of the man. You kneed his legs apart through the sheets and settled between them, your hands cupping the scratchy stubble that covered his jaw. Thumbs ran shakily under his eyes, but it was their incapability to focus that nearly brought tears to your own. They were blown wide - the gentle caramel tone that often sparkled in the sunshine was nowhere to be found as black orbs drowned them out. They were wild and unkept and terrified. They were screaming out for help through silent pleas and you were starting to suddenly feel so small. 

Mitch tried to speak but could only voice fractured syllables, his gasps growing in pitch and urgency for air. It was hard for you not to freeze and stare on in shock, but you knew that he needed you. He needed love. Stability. He needed reassurance and promise. And you could give him that and more.

The hand wrapped around your wrist grew tighter and it broke you from your brief reverie, your free hand falling from his cheek and scavenging for his twitching fingers. You brought them to your chest and laid the palm flat over your sternum - breathing in, and out, slowly. You built a rhythm and forced yourself to keep that steady pace. Your eyes bored into his as you shushed the man with careful lullaby tones; humming soft songs under your breath, your body in control and calm.

“Breathe, Mitch. You’re safe. I’m safe.” You pushed, verbal reminders to settle his damaged soul. The gasps were slowing and you nearly screamed out in happiness when you watched his eyes finally focus on you, his pupils shrinking from their anxious size.

Mitch’s hands shook loose from yours and they were brought up to your own cheeks, his protective hold instantly cradling your face as he cooed at your expression, “Don’t cry, baby. Don’t cry for me.” He said quietly, hardly a whisper, but the proximity of his body to yours allowed you to hear it as clear as day. His thumbs managed to catch stray tears that you didn’t realise even left your eyes, and their silky paths were soon covered in tender pecks from Mitch’s dry lips. 

He settled his forehead against yours and your arms were hastily thrown behind his neck, pulling the man as close to you as humanly possible. It was sluggish, but his arms slipped behind your frame and squeezed you in a needy embrace, your chests flush against the other and your hips thrown against his own. He was crushing you, but you knew that he was reminding himself that this was real. You were real. 

Mitch took a deep breath, one that shook your frame as he exhaled, before his nose dragged over yours, “You saved me.”

“I-I just helped you breathe.” Your reply was quick, modest. You were glad that he couldn’t see your face because it was surely glowing with rosy blush. 

“Not just now, you saved me... from who I was. You brought love back to my life.” His voice was hoarse, and it prompted an absent-minded rub of your delicate fingers down his spine - of which made him melt instantly against you. “I have my demons but you make ‘em go away. You make me better.” 

It was your turn now to squeeze the man, squashing him against you as much as you could, never wanting to let him go. 

STAY | JOEL DAWSON (18+)

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

DAY 3: PRAISE

WARNINGS:

Cockwarming, Praise, Voice Kink and Slight Breeding Kink.

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

CHOKING, PUSSY SLAPPING, MARKING, DOM/SUB DYNAMICS, SUB!SPACE.

I am not responsible for your media consumption. Please read the warnings. By reading more, you are confirming you are 18+.

you lay against joel's chest in his bunker, just underneath the covers as he toyed with you. you sat on his cock as his tender hands gently caressed your hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the flesh. his hips jumped up every minute or so as you clenched around him. one thrust had you mewling backwards into his shoulder as his hand crept down rubbing slow, teasing circles into your clit.

you sighed quietly as you heard him grunt into your ear, trying to hold himself back from fucking up into you. tiny bursts of pleasure jumped through your body as he pressed down on your nub harder, teasing and pinching at it as your hole squeezed his cock. he feared he was getting close to cumming before you, hearing him try to steady his breathing and breathe deeply into your ear as his other hand gripped your flesh tightly.

you moaned as his hand came up to gently squeeze your throat pushing your head back to lay on his shoulder, his hot breath panting just above your ear. he pushed your hipbone down onto him, forcing his cock inside of you deeper as you stretched around him.

"such a good girl, sweetheart. taking my cock so well. m'good girl.”

your cunt throbbed around him. your skin heating up at his praise filled words. he knew how to get you there faster. his gruff voice mixed in with his words, your slick seeping out around his cock. he grunted into your neck, kissing it sweetly, as he slowed his thrust. a sharp sudden slap to your clit had you bouncing in his grip. your hips shot up as he pushed your hips higher pulling you back down. on him, his fingers leaving dents and marks into your flesh.

the hand around your throat tightened every few seconds teasing your airway as it pushed you closer. his tongue licked out sucking deep purple bruises into your neck as the wet muscle left goosebumps in its wake. you could feel his sack tightening underneath you as you ground down on top of him, his fingers rubbing faster and a sharp pain had you hissing and jerking in his grasp as he pinched it.

he turned your face towards him, capturing your lips in a heated kiss, nipping at your bottom lip as you moaned into his mouth. "joel, joel..." you murmured, dizzily repeating yourself as you tried to warn him of your oncoming orgasm. slowly he pulled away as he thrusted up fast, catching onto your subby state, as he fucked up, balls slapping against your cunt as felt your walls tighten and your warm juices splatter around his length.

the heat became unbearable as he groaned, trying to prolong both your orgasms as his cum shot out, deep inside you. you both settled into each other, soaking up the love and settling from your previous highs. slowly your body's slumped into each other, his cock softening still inside you as you fell asleep into each other's arms.

🎃 KINKTOBER TAGLIST: @angelofthetrenchcoats @cvrliie @flowercrowns3438 @heyauntieeee @newgirl2 @stilessbaseballbat @taurusvic

Your writing has such a gorgeous quality to it, a pleasure to read! I have a little request, dylan has one of his zoom interviews coming up I’m thinking the buzzed hair/facial hair navy blue shirt when he’s on the couch… anyway you two are hanging out before it just on the couch and Dylan is feeling needy, wants to eat you out and make you cum as much as he can, not caring he has an interview coming up he wants this before anything else 🥰 all good is this isn’t your thing x

Dylan O'Brien x reader

Babe this is EXACTLY my thing <3 I hope u enjoy!

1.3k words

Dylan kisses your neck. His beard tickles the sensitive skin, and you reflexively tense up, shoulder bouncing to your cheek.

"Babe," you admonish, squeezing his thigh. "Pay attention to the show."

He pouts. "I know what happens. I'm in it."

"You were in two episodes. In a different season. You can't possibly know what's going on at this point in the story."

His arm slinks around your waist, hand splayed over your lower belly. One by one, his fingers slip under the hem of your sweatpants, caressing further and further down like he's testing how far you'll let him go. You relax into the warm touch, legs parting.

"I know it isn't as fun as this." He thumbs your clit.

"Dylan," escapes you like a needy moan rather than the reprimand you intended. You're too wound up to pull the brakes. "Fuck, keep going."

He presses his open mouth to your shoulder, and this time your head tilts away, offering your throat to him. Slow and slovenly, his lips follow your pulse to your ear. He nibbles the lobe, tugging it gently between his teeth, an unmatched distraction from the dramatic cliffhanger on screen.

The credits roll, and a pop-up counts down to the next episode. Dylan uses the spare seconds to check on the zoom call, which is still pitch black with the message "The event hasn't started yet." A glance at the clock: less than half an hour before the interview.

"We don't have time for another episode," he says, cursor hovering over the pause button. He looks at you for confirmation to switch it off, his smile as radiant and impish as the one that convinced you to say yes.

Two can play that game.

Simpering sweetly, demure, you straddle his lap and cling to his neck. Scraping the base of his skull, eyelashes fluttering, sigh fanning his lips. "Then what do we have time for, honey?"

"I can think of a few things," he all but growls. Hands on your waist, he licks his lips, staring at yours. "But right now I just wanna taste you, maybe see how many times I can make you come with my mouth."

"Are twenty minutes enough?" You grind down on the hard bulge in his pants. Sucking in a breath, Dylan throws you on the sofa, and you arch into the cushions with a giggly gasp.

"Why don't we find out?"

Hasty, he pulls your sweatpants to your ankles and lifts your legs over his shoulders. His beard scratches the tender flesh of your inner thigh. You lightly squeeze his head, nudging him down, and he kisses your pussy through your underwear.

"Aw, princess, the strawberry panties? Really?" He grins up at you, devilish. You want to buck into his mouth, to find friction against his tongue — but he holds your waist down, controlling the slightest twitch of your hips.

"What can I say," you sigh, much too needy and weak for how little he's actually done to you. "I know how mad you go for them."

He hums against your core. "Yeah, they're so cute. Wouldn't wanna ruin 'em."

Biting the strip of red coton, he swiftly slides it out of his way, your folds red and puffy for him to admire. Slick glistens at your entrance.

"God, you're already so wet, so pretty for me."

Dylan nuzzles between your thighs, nose pressed to your hip bone. You feel his tongue drag down, roaming tentatively along your pussy, grazing your clit; he knows each inch of you, has learnt exactly which spots to tease or lick or rub or prod.

The first time he ate you out, it was a true feast, a banquet of exciting novelties. All over the place, without any skill or method, experimental. He tried out different forces, rhythms, depths — shifting from one to the next at your cue. At this stage, the challenge isn't so much making you climax as it is how fast or how slowly he can bring about your blissful undoing.

His tongue strokes languid circles over your clit. He can't draw it out too much — deadline and all — but he'll be damned if he doesn't make even a quick and dirty rush feel like heaven itself.

When he picks up the pace, your bud gorging in desire, you toss your head back with a keen moan. "Fuck, Dyl, faster. Right here."

You try to roll your hips into his face, but he's got you pinned at his mercy. He answers with less contrarian rebellion than dreaded; teasing and licking around your clit, but never leaving you bereft. A final stroke of the flat of his tongue sends you over the edge.

"Good girl," he growls, and the vibration adds to the jolts of pleasure shaking your body. "That's it, come for me. Let me taste how good I worked you up."

Your come coats your walls and gushes onto his tongue. He laps at it hungrily, carefully nipping your folds as if it might draw out more of your sweet juices. With each touch, you quiver, thighs clenched on his head, vision black and star-burst.

As you float down from your high, you sigh in delight, "God, Dylan, you're so fucking good. That was amazing."

"That's one."

You make a little noise, neither quite a hum or a question.

"That's just the first," he says. His hooded gaze bores through you from beneath dark lashes. "You keep count for me, yeah, princess?"

This noise is very distinctly a whine. Needy and excited, but a whine all the same. You don't dare, don't want, to ask for a break, no matter how much your spent body demands it.

"Words, baby." He pinches your clit and you cry out. "Can you keep count?"

"Yes, yes, I will. We're at one."

"Good."

His mouth envelopes your oversensitive pussy and he hums your name lowly, then lower, then lower, as you arch off the sofa. The sucking and the trembling and the flicking of his tongue coax long mewls from your breathless lungs. Instinctively, you try to tangle your fingers through his hair, scraping his skull through the buzzcut.

You can't help observing him like he's on stage. Despite your weakened muscles, you crane your neck to admire his face, his glistening lips, his eyes so focused on your pleasure. You swear he never looks better than he does now.

He twirls his tongue in quick circles, and your legs clench against your will, heels kneading the dip of his back like a cat in heat. Gripping your ankles, he folds you up in half, knees on each side of your chest. When he licks your cunt again, reaching new nerves at this exposed angle, your head falls back into the cushions with a hoarse moan.

"Fuck, that's— that's it," you stammer, breaths ragged. "I'm — again — fuck, Dylan, I'm gonna come."

"So soon? You're making this too easy." He punctuates the taunt by trailing his thumb up your slit. "If you're already so wound up, maybe I shouldn't use my fingers. That would be cheating, don't you think?"

Your pussy flutters, walls clenching around nothing. You feel achingly empty, all of a sudden, desperate to be touched and filled by his slender digits.

"No, please, I need it," you whimper. "Need more of you."

"Just what I thought, you're such a needy little girl."

Despite his words, he slides two fingers within your core. You're so wet it's effortless, smooth, the pressure just right. He stretches you out and curls against your walls. Precise touches, thrusting and rubbing against that sweet spot, hot nerves coiling in you like wires waiting for that spark to light everything up.

His mouth and hands work together, their rhythms perfectly complementary. You cry and mewl incoherently, a mess of pleas, and he does everything you beg for like he reads your mind. You feel him wholly, in and out of you, pushing your senses deeper into rapture.

Your brain is so blissed out you miss the computer announcing the beginning of the interview. Dylan does hear it, however, and withdraws from you reluctantly.

"We'll finish this later, yeah?"

Night Fever

Dylan O’Brien x Black Reader

Summary: Dancing the night away with your favorite person and being a tease while you’re at it

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, mentions of alcohol, established relationship, smut: fingering, praise kink, voice kink, unprotected sex, light hair pulling, creampie  

Word Count: 2.3k

The cool nighttime breeze was welcome on your skin as your body swayed to the bass of the music filling the air, the hum of bodies around you making the space feel alive, vibrant. 

Condensation from the drink in your hand dripped down to your wrist but you didn’t mind, because the way a pair of hands gripped your waist was more than enough to keep your thoughts preoccupied on the man you were here with tonight, Dylan.

Keep reading

FEEL IT | DYLAN O’BRIEN (18+)

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

DAY 9: EDGING

WARNINGS:

Edging, Degradation and Marking.

your back arched from the bed continuously as dylan laid between your legs. his cold, rough hands smoothed up the skin of your stomach, as your body shivered with pleasure. right now, he was kneeled between both your thighs, your eyes were blindfolded with the black tie form his fitted suit. the bed creaked again as he kneeled closer to you, feeling his soft breath on your face as he gave your lips a tender peck.

you could feels the tips of his padded fingers, slowly glide up, just underneath the band of your bra. he looked up at your face as you breathed unsteadily already worn out from his edging, your throat raspy and tight as you lay in anticipation. he pulled each cup down over your nipples, he grasped at them gently, smiling at the soft sigh you elicited.

he pulled the garment over your shoulders and down your arms, trailing his fingers over your hands as he threw it to the floor. he pulled back giving you another tender kiss, his lips were stuck to the skin of your neck as he sucked at your flesh lightly. you were surprised by how much time he took for everything, giving you all his attention, after your begging.

his lips softly crashed onto yours as he nipped at your bottom lip. you sucked on his, making him groan, giving you deeper access to his mouth. he swiped his tongue along the side of yours, and just as you were about to deepen the kiss further, he pulled away teasingly, leaning down and kissing your jaw once again. his hands gripped onto your thighs keeping them spread for him as they shook, leaving small hand shaped bruises onto your skin.

you could feel his presence move back between your thighs again as your breath hitched. his fingers trailing up, teasing over the place you really needed him. his thumb rubbing circles around your clit but never really touching it. your needy whines started up again as he lapped up the sounds you made. you felt dazed ready to cum form just his teasing.

your slick was spread all across your skin, splattered across your this and all over his hands as he constantly denied you pleasure. suddenly, the stretch of his fingers filled you as you clenched around him, your body begging for release. your moans hitched up, his thumb rubbing down on your clit pushing you closer to the edge.

you couldn’t speak, trying your best to squeak out, begging him to cum. a muttered ‘please’ you could utter but his fingers never slowed and his thumb only pushed down harder and rubbed faster. your back began to arch up of the bed again, your slick pumping out as your orgasm grew, at its peak. but it left pleasure stopped as soon as you were about to cum, his fingers halted, pulled form you once again.

you were being punished and that’s what you get for ‘being a brat.’

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DYLAN O’BRIEN TAGLIST: @bxrbie1 @greengarsstuff @hessafeelsfordayss @idylio24 @luhh-snow @oh-kurva @ohwowimlonley @queen-eleven @screambih @taurusvic @whoaskedgabby24 @xo-circe @yktfv18poisonlvy @5lutfordylanobrien @its-carlerrr @queenofmisc @steadygoopangelhairdo @carrot-shavings @midnight-star47