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undercoverpena · 19 days

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i’d look for you

din djarin x f!reader | masterlist

summary: din offers you something else in a field of wildflowers

warnings: 18+, allusion to smut ONLY. soft!din. idiots who have feelings but don't know what to do with them. jo's writing din so it gets weirdly poetic again. wordcount: 2k notes: pairing is the same as other din fics by me. but don’t need to read to enjoy. written for @morallyinept's Flora & Fauna Challenge - this fic has made me smile so much, I hope it does the same for you.

“Can you do something for me?”

The question hangs, burns, in the air of his bed. Your eyes blinking awake, having been roused from slumber by his gloved hand on your cheek.

You’re aware he’s waiting, biting the inside of your cheek, as you nod.

Swallowing the longer answer which burns on your tongue, finding it now tastes of acid and wrongness, having been trapped inside for so long, having let it overstay its welcome.

You suspect he knows it all anyway. Likely as easily able to read you, as you are him. Able to hear the words you don’t say, just from the way you stare at him, like a written passage all on its own.

He helps you up, but doesn’t hurry you. You almost smirk at the purposeful, cautious touches on your side, trailing his gloved hand along the curve of your back as he leads you to the refresher, awakening thoughts more sinful than you suspect is his intention.

It’s then he tells you the time, but shares nothing else about why the ship is quiet.

“What about—”

“He’s asleep.”

Your mouth clamps shut, taking the clothes he hands you as you bury the rest of the questions. Each piece you slide on, you don’t shy away as he stands waiting. Letting him stare, letting him take in the sight of you in more light than he can when your bodies usually writhe.

Are you admiring me, Din? you want to ask. Do you feel the invisible string between us too?

Sometimes, you dislike that he told you the shade of his eyes, because you look for them. Peer through the visor with more hope than you’d allowed yourself to have before.

“Can you turn around?”

It should sound like a command, but his tone is softer, more brittle. Something unspoken within it, tightening around each letter, bending and forging with it—likely things he’ll never admit.

Still, you obey. Closing your eyes as you feel him behind you, his presence crowding and looming—recollecting when he’d been barer than he is now, draped over you.

If you will it enough, you swear you can feel his breath fluttering over your shoulder—remembering how he makes you feel full and sated, content and happy. The last time, you’d been in a haze, fucked out, blissfully aware of the naked fingers resting at the base of your neck as you came down and the way he had tilted your head back and swallowed your whine like he knew it belonged to him.

You do, you think, belong to him.

Not because he has taken, but because he has earned—he has proven. A thing which rises to the tip of your tongue and sears alongside the other words which linger and ferment.

“Trust me,” he says.

Not a question, but an ask. And you don’t mean to, but an unintentional gasp escapes at the feel of the soft, smooth fabric when it slides over your eyes. Light fades as though he clicks his fingers, blanketing you in night in the middle of the day as it tightens around your head—rendering you quiet, shyer, almost smaller, as your sense is removed, willingly given but taken all the same.

Then you stand, breath hitching, anticipation threading through your veins as you wait. For him to move, to speak, to do. Each second stretches into eternity, making a protest wish to appear. A change of mind, a declaration of wishing to do something else, than this.

But, you don’t speak it. Instead, dancing your fingers against the tops of your thighs, waiting, not patiently, but not rushing.

“Relax.”

You snort to smother the shiver that darts down your spine at his voice.

Unsure how one does such a thing when you hear the ramp going down, subtly listening to the sound of water running. You feel lost, adrift in a sea of darkness—of nothingness—with every fibre of your being yearning for a familiar anchor, teeth rolling over your bottom lip as you fight the urge to whisper his name into the void, a silent plea for reassurance amidst the engulfing uncertainty.

Din, you think.

Wondering if he can hear his name in your mind. If he’ll come to your calling, hold your hand; allow you to ask if this is necessary, if this—

“Breathe.”

And you do.

Chest filling, lungs flooding—his gloved fingers sliding between your bare ones, rooting you as he repeats it. Calmness spreads through you inch by inch, in the same way he makes pleasure surge through your muscles.

He gives you a minute, a moment. Likely waiting until your head turns in the direction you think he’s in, before he leads, offering stony orders to be careful—one that almost makes you grin until your steps take your soles to meet something softer than his ship.

The smell greets you first. It’s crisp and sweet—unlike anything you’ve encountered. Then the drizzle, how it forces your clothing to bind to your skin in a way that should feel suffocating, but instead feels freeing. Lips beginning to stretch, teeth showing as your cheeks ache with the intensity of your grin.

It’s then you feel him move behind you, the squelch of his boots signifying it. His chest meets your spine, the ghost of his touch along the side of his neck, before you feel the fabric over your eyes, loosen and light begins to seep in.

Then, it goes from nothing to everything. It being almost too much to take in all at once—the unveiled surprise, the thing he’d wanted you to see in its wonder and not in pieces as you descended.

And—

“It’s beautiful.”

It being the delicate blooms that stretch out before you. Each one a mysterious burst of colour against a backdrop of greenery. Vibrant splashes of colour, all wild and free, rising from the ground like the scenes from books you used to read. With each sway and ripple in the breeze, you spot more flowers. All of them stirred by the falling rain, watching each motion, all in awe; lost for words.

Distantly, you become aware that he’s moved to the side of you, but you’re unable to tear your eyes from the world. Not able to take your sight from the striking array of hues, every colour flower you think you could ever imagine swaying. Because there are iridescent blues and purples; there are some that glow with luminous gold and reds that look stained with blood. Shares you can’t even name, but are drawn to, reluctant to steal your gaze until you spot another.

Fingers reaching out, knee bending, you touch one, find it softer, more delicate than you ever thought. Tears springing to your eyes, chest swarmed with warmth as you admire the way the stems twist and spiral in graceful arcs, all beaded with the sparkling mist that continues to fall.

“What do you think?”

“It’s…”

Words fail you, a thing you’re not sure he could ever believe.

The only conscious thought is that you wish to live amongst them. No words exist that can describe how serene you feel; how as wild or as drenched as the petals you admire.

Because it’s then you really notice the rain, coming to sit amongst the living and the flowers. Ground soaked with it, it falling in torrents. Each droplet is a percussion against your skin, seeping through the layers and soaking you to the bone.

It's a different kind of loveliness. It’s all free, raw and unyielding, a mosaic of shades that aren't bowing or converting into a glistening canvas of liquid silver—even if the skies try to.

In truth, you thought you’d seen rain. But this is something different.

It is more akin to the sky having been ripped open, split in two, cracked, all but pouring its tears upon the land in a symphony of water and wind. Your fingers dig into the dirt, feeling his equally soaked thigh press against yours as he joins you, feeling him watching, studying, even if you can't see his eyes.

“My mom used to say that a flower sprouts when a person leaves us,” you say, soft, barely your normal volume. “I always wondered where they did—I guess I know now.”

Shifting, you peel your sight from the flowers to see his legs extended, his body so close to yours. So much so, it would be easy to lean into it. Into him. To press your drenched clothing against his equally drowned frame, seek warmth, and take what he will offer you in the brightness of the day.

“Din,” you continue, tuning in to the gruff noise he makes for you to continue, as you move your shoulder closer.

His head turns, the front of his helmet facing you.

Allowing you to see a bead slide gracefully down the silver, moving like a serene symphony—as others fall, and then another. All being left by the sky above, weaving paths you wish to trace with your fingers.

You shouldn’t, but you want to wipe each away with your touch, rest your palms against the places his cheeks should be and will your hands to remember the warmth you know they can be.

“Can you remember the last time you felt the rain on your bare skin?”

Silence. Rain slides against leaves before rolling down to the soil below. The sound increases and decreases in odd waves as the storm tries to square itself against the sun, against the blossoms which rise like an army unwilling to cower.

“No.”

His reply is rough, croaked out through the modulator—caked in openness you’re not sure he wishes to show.

And, it makes a memory resurface. Sharp and clear. The first time you’d felt him unmasked, the vulnerability etched into his features—frame tense, rigid. Nervousness flowed through him as easily as the blood that races. How you’d kissed him, felt his cracked lips gain confidence against yours as his muscles rippled under your palms.

In a different way than then, you reached out, offered comfort—providing something you’re not sure he easily is given.

“A person could get lost here,” you sigh, the words practically tumbling out.

A stillness follows, one only punctuated by the rain. That is, until he shifts, until you hear him exhale, before adding, “Not you.”

Dragging your eyes from the landscape, you watch as more droplets slide and skate down his helmet, against his armour. Desperate to cling. It’s nothing but mesmerising, making him appear like he’s made of the sky. Reflections of the flowers there, muted shades mirroring.

“No?”

He’s silent for a moment. Just one. “Wouldn’t let you. I’d find you.”

Smirking, you turn back to the view. “You’re good at that—practically a professional.”

He allows a beat, lets your shoulder settle against him—the heels of your boots digging into the ground of this place, hoping a little bit clings on and comes with you.

“I’d look for you.”

Breaking your gaze from the flowers and the falling rain, you rest them on his helmet. On him. On the space you think the brown eyes he’s told you about are currently watching you.

It’s slow to appear, taking its time to spread up into your cheek as the implication of his words ring out. Look, not find; search but not hunt.

“I wouldn’t run to begin with.”

You feel it, the shift, slight tilt of his head at your words.

And you swear you hear him breathe good, light almost airy—before gloved fingers find their way between yours again. Soaked, sodden. But neither moving as seconds become minutes.

“Cyar'ika?”

You hum, preening, almost blooming under the name he’s just begun using. Nestling further against him, watching the flowers sway and turn in the rain before his gloved hands come in front of you—a bunch of flowers held out to you, offered, given.

“My hair is brown too.”

You smile, taking the bunch, bringing them to your nose. “That’s nice to know.”

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fic #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x f!reader #din djarin fanfic #din djarin #din djarin x reader smut #pedro pascal fic #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x f!reader #jettsflora&faunachallenge #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction

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ohbo-ohno · 8 months

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Kinktober Day 2 - Titfucking

Soap x AFAB!Reader - 1.3k (on ao3)

summary: Soap's libido is at it's highest when he first comes home, and you beg for a break after one too many rounds. (Reader POV, second person)

cw: overstimulation, very brief somnophilia (like one line)

Johnny’s always like an animal when he first gets home for his leave. He retains his composure for about as long as it takes for you to drive him from the airport to your flat (and sometimes not even that long), but once your front door is closed behind you all bets are off.

It’s like his stamina never runs out, too. Like all the times he didn’t get to fuck you when he was holed away in some far off country his body remembered the missed orgasms and saved them all for you, right when he gets back.

He fucks you against the door first, your knees locked around his waist, his pace hard and rough. He covers your neck with hickeys, sucks hard enough that you think they might never fade.

Then slow and sweet, missionary, on the couch. He holds your hands, makes out with you tenderly from start to finish, then rolls onto his back and tugs you on top of him like a weighted blanket once you've both gotten off.

He eats you out while you’re making dinner, lifts you by the thighs and sits you right on the counter and ignores your whines about burning the food. You shoo him out of your kitchen after, your cheeks flaming with heat when he doesn't even bother to wipe his chin.

He bends you over the table after you’re done eating, makes a joke about enjoying his dessert that has you rolling your eyes. You whine a little about not being able to come again and he takes it as a personal challenge - gets you off twice with just his tongue.

He fucks you in the shower, your hands pinned by his and your burning cheek pressed against the cool tile. You hardly get to wash your hair, have to speed through your usual process because his cock is rock hard between his thighs when he watches you lather yourself with soap. He's on you the moment the last suds are washed from your body.

You do your skincare routine and he ducks behind you, eats your pussy from the back and moans like he’s tasting the food of the gods. You whine and try to squirm away, but he hooks two fingers inside of you, hits that perfect spot and doesn't relent when you go limp against the vanity.

You’re not sure how his dick hasn’t fallen off by the time you finally fall into bed, the space between your legs already aching in that pleasantly used way. He fucks you to sleep, slow and from the back with nibbling bites up and down the side of your neck. By the time he comes inside of you, you can barely keep your eyes open.

At some point later in the night you wake up to a dark room, flipped onto your stomach and a hard cock rolling thrusts in and out of your heat. You moan, close your eyes, and wait for Johnny to get off, fall asleep when you feel him slam to a stop deep inside of you. He doesn't roll away, but his heavy and warm weight on top of you is a familiar comfort, a satisfying way to remind you that he's here, he's home, and he's not going anywhere (at least for a few weeks, but your sleep-addled brain is far too fuzzy to think about things like that).

The next time you wake up, you’re more aware. You’re tucked under Johnny’s chin now, one leg hiked up around his waist with your arms curled around his neck, and you feel him prodding at your hole. Before you’re fully awake you jerk back, the sharp spike of pain far past pleasure.

“Jo-Johnny,” you gasp, trying to blink heavy eyelids open before giving up and burrowing beneath his chin. “No more, not tonight, baby.”

“Lass,” he whines, and you can feel the tension in his chest. “Please, I’ll be quick, yeah? Just need to come again, fuck, need to come in you, please, need to fuck you so bad-“

“Nooo,” you moan, squeezing your thighs shut around him to try and keep his wiggling fingers out. “Hurts, Johnny.”

He makes a punched out sound, like your pain is his. “‘M sorry, bonnie, so sorry. But I gotta- I need'ta come, my fuckin’ cock aches.”

You make your own little keen, burrow further into him and pull your hips away. “Want me to suck you off?”

“Hah- no, you’re sleepy, love, want you to stay nice and comfy. Just what if… what if I fuck your tits?”

“Hm?” You purr a little, digging your nose further up into his throat. He smells so familiar, so much like Johnny, you're not sure how you survive without him next to you every night.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Johnny’s voice has an air of urgency to it as he pushes you onto your back. You blink bleary eyes open just in time to see him crawl up and straddle your ribs, his cock hard and heavy between your breasts.

Johnny hisses through his teeth at the sight of his cock swallowed by your beautiful chest, lets a little more of his weight rest on your torso. It restricts your breathing just enough for you brain to wake up a little more.

You lift your head enough to look down as he starts thrusting, the smooth slide of skin nothing more than a bit pleasant for you but drawing a long drawn-out moan from your boyfriend.

Johnny falls to a hunch over you, elbows on either side of the bed above you and head hung low so he can stare down at his own motions. His forehead rests on the crown of your head, the sweat on his brow sliding onto your skin.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans. “Press ‘em together for me.”

Had you been more awake you might’ve snipped something about using the magic word, but as it is the combination of Johnny’s weight and the lingering haze of sleep has you barely able to keep your eyes open. You gather enough coordination to do what he says, pressing the side of your tits and pushing them together so he’s got a make-shift hole to fuck.

His moan is nearly pornographic at the sight, fist slamming down into the mattress once as he speeds his thrusting up. He fucks your tits like he had the first time that night, fast and without mercy. You can hear - and feel - his balls slapping against your underboob, can’t help but smile a little bit at the mental image. You're glad you stuck your foot down on him actually fucking you if he's this pent up.

Johnny’s losing his mind above you, panting and moaning as he works with brutal efficiency to get himself off. He seems to fight between squeezing his eyes shut from the pleasure and staring wide-eyed to make sure he doesn't miss a moment of what he's doing. The sight of his leaking tip poking up through your breasts is enough to have a spark of interest lighting up low in your belly, but the sensation isn't nearly pleasurable enough for you to want to act on it.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish, so many orgasms in one night making him quicker to come than usual.

Soon enough, ropes of cum are coating the top of your chest, your neck, and even a bit of your chin. You moan in sync with him at the sensation, the sight of his pleasure enough for you to feel satisfied.

He falls to your side a moment later, lays on his stomach and rests a heavy hand beneath your breasts. His leg lays between yours, ankle tucked beneath yours to try and get as much skin-to-skin contact as possible.

“Grab me a washcloth, baby?” You manage to ask, already eyes already closed and your mind closer to sleep than it is consciousness.

“Nah,” he whispers back. “Lemme leave it for a while, yeah? Look so pretty with a nice pearl necklace.”

#soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #soap cod #soap smut #john mactavish smut #johnny mactavish smut #bo writes #kinktober day 2 #soap mactavish smut #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #kinktober 2023 #soap x reader #kinktober

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artyandink · 23 days

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𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙴𝙳 | bartender!dean winchester

Summary: Dean Winchester needs a job after his little brother left for Stanford, and he’s good at mixing drinks. You happen to work at Harvelle’s Roadhouse, which is the place he chose to work at. He finds a family. He finds a new life. But he also finds you. But you have problems of your own.

A/N - My first reader series, do make sure to comment and/or reblog feedback. Set with S1/2 Dean cause I love our baby boy 😁 and pretend group chats exist on old phones lol

A/N 2 - All the chapters are named after drinks. The intensity of the chapter depends on the drink I chose for the title :) and banners are by @cafekitsune

TW: Alcohol (duh), mentions of drugs, roofies, abuse, mentions of abuse/r@pe, smoking, Ruby (she’s a warning in itself), unhinged group chat (also a warning in itself)

two - daiquiri

Megolodon: Cassieeee

Casanova: What?

Megolodon: You’re late

You: Yeahhhh, we’ve been waiting for weeks

Ben Dover: Sabbatical’s over, brother

Casanova: I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

Ruby-gina George: To hell with fifteen minutes, get your ass over here

Megolodon: Listen to the nice lady

Ruby-gina George: Shut up

Megolodon: Bite me

Ruby-gina George: Keep it up and I just might

Megolodon: I bet you’d like to

bDe: didn’t know you two swung that way

You: Neither did I

Ruby-gina George: WAIT NO

ScarJo: That’s news to me

Ben Dover: News to all of us, darling

Queen B: I leave for FIVE MINUTES and we’re already out of the closet

Ruby-gina George: NO CLOSETS

Ruby-gina George: HELL NO

Ruby-gina George: NO CLOSETS

Megolodon: THAT WASN’T THE MEANING-

ScarJo: We accept you, dw

Ruby-gina George: die in a hole

bDe: sounds like overcompensating

Ruby-gina George: ALL OF YOU DIE IN A HOLE

The clink of glasses filled the atmosphere, along with merry shouts, whistles and cheers as glass after glass slammed down onto the counter. But it wasn’t patrons, no. Afternoons were always chilled out, since not many patrons stopped by. The evenings always got the raunchiest. So here you all were, egging on Castiel and Benny in a shot contest. There were five shots of the Roadhouse’s strongest bottle of hard liquor, and you were all seeing who could down them the fastest. None of the people in the room were lightweights. There were lightweights, heavyweights, and then there were the bartenders at the Roadhouse, who Meg liked to call ‘jumbo-weights’.

“DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!” You were yelling, your voice mixed with those of Dean, Meg, Bela, Ruby and Jo. Benny finished first, slamming down the shot glass and whooping loudly, not even that buzzed while Cas dejectedly sipped his last shot, having missed by the fraction of a second.

“Cassie, sweetie, don’t beat yourself up about it.” Meg purred, gripping Cas’ shoulders tightly from behind. “You’re out of practice.”

“Or maybe I’m just good at throwing ‘em back.” Benny smirked, but then his smile dropped. “That sounded better in my head.”

“Glad we can agree.” You snickered, then cleared up the shot glasses. “C’mon, what next?”

“Meg.” Ruby shot up from her seat, beckoning her over. “You. Me. Shot challenge. Now.”

“So polite.” Meg drawled, but got up anyway, a familiar sultry smile on her lips as she lined up for the competition. “Bring it on, darling, I can do this in my sleep.” Benny racked the shots, a giggle coming from your mouth as Dean awkwardly looked to Castiel.

“I don’t think we’ve met.” Dean smiled, putting his hand out. “Dean. Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak, but everyone calls me Cas.” Cas shook Dean’s hand, finding himself warming up to this stranger.

“Cas.” Dean repeated under his breath, then nodded. “Alright, Cas. Let’s get you some water to wash down that hard liquor.”

“That would be ideal.” Cas nodded, instantly following Dean. In the meantime, Ruby and Meg were slamming back shots, and Ruby was just tagging behind Meg. You were egging them on, but you noticed something. Ruby usually downed shots easy as breathing. Now she wasn’t, which confused you. However, you brushed it off. It couldn’t be something bad. Your resident Regina George always was tough as hell.

Ruby-gina George: Been there, done that messed around

Megolodon: I'm having fun, don't put me down

Ruby-gina George: I'll never let you sweep me off my feet

Megolodon: THIS TIME BABY, I’LL BE BULLETPROOFFFFFF

You: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOUUUUUUU

bDe: *dies of laughter*

ScarJo: I’ve been on a beer run for FIVE MINUTES and y’all go mad

Queen B: Tsk tsk, eyes on the road, hon

ScarJo: Joke’s on you, I’m in the store

Ben Dover: Damn, how’d you get there so fast

ScarJo: I stole the keys to Val

Queen B: explosion incoming-

You: You did WHAT?!

ScarJo: I’M SORRY SHE’S A FAST CAR

You: YOU’RE GONNA PAY

Megolodon: Girlie, it’s just a car

Ruby-gina George: how dare you, Val’s a masterpiece

Megolodon: I mean, she shouldn’t take it that heavily

bDe: no she absolutely should, go to town sweetheart

You: THANK YOU

Ben Dover: Dean, brother, don’t encourage that behaviour

bDe: i will

Ben Dover: What if someone stole your car, then

bDe: murder

ScarJo: oh wow

You: SOMEONE GETS IT

bDe: lots of murder

Ben Dover: Brother-

bDe: torture first

bDe: lots of torture, then a whole lotta murder

ScarJo: Benny, you chose the wrong role models

You: shut up, YOU TOOK VAL

bDe: then more murder, and i’m gonna throw the bodies in a lake, no one will ever know

Ruby-gina George: Hold up, I’m coming with you

You: Jo, I’ve got your gravestone prepped

ScarJo: And you say we’re unhinged

You: Get your ass back to the roadhouse

bDe: i’ll get away with it, I swear

Megolodon: Why am I actually enjoying this

bDe: if I can’t have my baby, no one can

Evenings were always the more raunchy of times at the Roadhouse. The bar was now full of chatting passers-by, girls dressed in skimpy clothes and biker boys with tattoos winding around their necks. The shift today was yours, Ruby’s, Dean’s and Meg’s. There were an overwhelming amount of females working at the Roadhouse, if you were incredibly honest. As for the employees not working behind the bar, they were roughing it up at a booth, hollering and hooting like owls at a baseball game.

“So, darlin’, what do you do in your free time?” Dean asked you, cleaning out a glass with a rag and shooting a wink to a couple of giggling girls nearby. You poured a whiskey for a patron, sliding it across the table.

“Well, I’m a big fan of joyrides.” You answered with a goofy grin. “My Mustang’s always fun to take a spin in.” The mention of your Mustang got Dean’s eyebrows up to his hairline as he pointed out of the window.

“That beaut’s yours?” He exclaimed in disbelief, laughing. “Damn. That’s a serious muscle car.”

“Yeah, my Valkyrie. Val’s my sweetheart, always will be.” You looked up wistfully at the mention of your beloved car. “And your Chevy Impala, she’s absolutely gorgeous. I could listen to her purr all day.”

“That’s my Baby.” He bore the same wistful look you did, then nudged you. “We should take ‘em out for spins. Y’know, joyrides.”

“You sure?” You chuckled, looking up at him. “I don’t drive easy.”

“Even better.” He gave you a little wink paired with a click of his tongue. He flipped a bottle in his hand, pouring a whiskey shot expertly and handing it to you. “Ma’am.”

“Sir.” You took the shot with a chuckle, sending the glass over to the sink. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“You’re very welcome.” He poured himself a shot and downed it, and you couldn’t help but focus slightly on his pouty, pink lips, almost hyper-fixating on them. But you tore your eyes away to serve a customer at the bar, a rather shady-looking guy who had a snake tattoo on his neck. He was also wearing sunglasses inside, which had Dean raising an eyebrow.

“You know who wears sunglasses inside?” He muttered into your ear as the man ordered a glass of Jack Daniel’s with his eyes on Meg. “Blind people… and douchebags.”

“I can’t fault you for that logic.” You laughed, pouring the man a glass and passing it to him as you turned back to Dean. “About that joyride, I’m down.”

His eyes lit up, a puppy-like grin now on his face as he fully faced you, elbow leaning on the counter. You couldn’t help but stare deep into those mossy eyes, mirroring the infectious smile on his face just as Meg stumbled up to you both with a groggy smile on your face, whiskey glass clutched tightly in her hand.

“You t-two look so… cute.” She giggled, leaning heavily on you. You saw the glass cup in her hand, and you caught a whiff of… Jack Daniel’s? “Smilin’ at each other, lovin’ each other, so adorable!” You raised an eyebrow, holding her steady as she continued to ramble. “You should marry each other. Ugh, I feel so… weird.”

“Does Meg usually get this slammed?” Dean whispered, and you shook your head, confused. That’s when Ruby sprang out from behind the bar, grabbing the guy by the scruff of his neck and slamming his head roughly down on the counter. “Woah, damn!”

“Ruby!” You gasped, but she snatched the glass from your hands and showed you the contents. There was a powdery white substance in it that you instantly recognised. “Damn it- she’s been roofied.”

“Bastard thought he was smooth with it.” She growled, holding the guy down. “It takes Meg a lot of strong tequila and a Long Island to make her that slammed.”

“I’m surprised you know that, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’m callin’ the police. Get this jackass locked up.” Dean glared daggers at who could’ve been Meg’s potential assaulter as he dialled the emergency number and explained the situation. Meg clung onto you, and you felt bad for her as you went to haul her off to bed, entertaining her every mindless babble about something or the other.

“You’re pretty.” Meg slurred as she hobbled with you. “You look like Rubes. She’s pretty too. Very pretty.”

“Yeah, she’s gorgeous.” You replied dryly, not out of disdain for Ruby but rather out of extreme concern for your friend. “Absolutely stunning.” Though there was part truth in that. You’d always wanted to be like Ruby- not give much of a damn. Able to speak every weird and/or rude comment that came to her mind and everyone would worship her for it. She could talk openly about where she came from, confidently, with a flick of her blonde hair and my-give-a-hoots-are-on-vacation attitude, but you weren’t inclined to open your mouth about it. “Let’s get you in here.”

You opened the door to your bedroom, limping to the bed and just letting Meg flop- “Wheeeeee!” She squealed as she went, but then was out cold the moment her face hit the mattress. You smiled at her antics despite the seriousness of the situation, drawing up your blanket and tucking her in, staying with her for a bit until you were sure she was ok. Then, as you descended the stairs, you’d found that the gang had cleared out the bar, which was helpful in the current climate. Especially now that the dude had been carted off to the nearest station.

You made eye contact with Ruby, who looked livid, but softened slightly when she saw you. “Is she ok?” She asked expectantly, and the tension seemed to lift a fraction when you nodded.

“We’re gonna have to tell my mom about this.” Jo sighed, drumming her fingers on the table. “She’s gonna be pissed.”

“The dude who tried his luck on Meg?” Dean shrugged, his brow furrowed a tad in concern. “His luck’s gonna say adiós once Ellen gets her hands on him.”

A few days later, you were up early, sat talking to Dean in one of the booths before you went on your joyride. The sun filtered in through rickety blinds, illuminating Dean’s emerald eyes as they gazed at you in a way that would bore through your soul. You hadn’t known Dean for more than a week, but he was such an easy person to be around. He was witty, but sometimes had trouble coming up with comebacks when flustered, had an easy demeanour while also seemingly being kind of lost himself. He was like a walking contradiction, and it intrigued you to no end. He could look like a sharp-jawed, drop dead gorgeous heartbreaker, but in his grey Henley, he just looked soft and innocent. Handsome and sweet.

Though, you knew he was too good for you. What with his smooth words, caring personality and overall just being Dean. You were, if anyone find out where you came from, a personified chessboard. Your entire being was checkered with black and white.

“C’mon.” He stood up, looking to the jukebox on the other side of the room. “Let’s dance.”

“Let’s what, sorry?” Your eyebrows raised slightly as he jogged over to the jukebox, playing Tiny Dancer by Elton John and outstretching his hand for you. “Oh, no, I’m not a dancer.”

“C’mon, don’t leave me hangin’ here.” Dean’s outstretched hand beckoned you over almost like a siren’s call, and what with his boyish grin, the charming sparkle in his eyes and the overall feeling of being wanted got you up with him and taking his calloused hand in your own, skin tingling with the feel of the ring on his finger, his own feeling sparks upon the silver band on your hand pressing against his warm skin. He drew you close, his arm around your waist in a sort of non-pervy way, like he wasn’t trying to force himself on you.

“Warning. I might step on your toes.” You gave him a look which was playfully serious, but Dean just gave you a cocky grin. Damn that smile.

“Just follow me, sweetheart, and you’ll be fine.” He raised the other hand that was already interlocked with his, the low rumble of his voice putting you at ease as he swayed you both from side to side, moving in a circle with a look in his eyes that he couldn’t explain as he gazed down at you. “See? You’re a goddamn natural.”

“Maybe I have a good teacher.” You replied smoothly, which seemed to stroke his ego, as he shot you a wink and a click of his tongue.

“Damn right, you do.” Dean gave you a bashful chuckle, then bit his lip as he smiled, both of you continuing the slow spin in a circle while Elton’s mellow voice hazed the atmosphere. “I’m gonna spin you, ok?”

“Don’t drop me.” You quipped, and he shook his head with a laugh.

“Don’t tempt me, darlin’.” He spun you out and then in, his arms crossed over your front.

“Did you have special dance lessons?” You asked with a giggle, holding his hands, his fingers gently rubbing and playing with yours. “You’re really good at this.”

“Well, my friend Bobby taught me.” Dean sighed into your ear, a low chuckle falling past his lips. “He’s a grouchy ol’ bastard, but I had a prom date that I needed to impress. Sadly, I never got to go with her. I was… sick… on the night of prom.” You brushed off the brief hesitancy, instead enjoying this brief moment of calm. Dean could tell that your nerves were frazzled from the events of Wednesday night. That’s the great thing about Dean. He reads people easily, all for his insistence on having no emotional intelligence whatsoever. You assumed that this was a distraction method.

“Ellen’s always been one for dancing.” You mentioned, shrugging as you rocked from side to side. You saw Ellen as practically a second mom. She took you in, and Benny, when you needed it. But she was lonely, and you were pained to see her like that. “But she hasn’t in a while. Not since she lost her husband.”

“Huh.” Dean’s voice had an intrigued tone to it. Like he had an idea. “We should set ‘em up.”

“Ellen… and this Bobby of yours?”

“Yeah, they’re the same age, both lonely old souls - with all due respect - and they would get along.” He tilted your head with his index so you’d look at him and his charismatic smirk, just begging you to say yes. “Whaddya say we play matchmaker, sweetheart?”

You found yourself conceding quickly to this man’s goddamn charms. “Ok, fine. But if this goes south, you’re to blame.”

“Duly noted.” He laughed, nodding proudly and squeezing your hand. “That deserves another spin.” He spun you again, so then you were facing him. “Y’know, I’m kinda honoured. Pretty lady such as you, dancin’ with a grunt like me… gives a man all sorts of ideas.”

“Are you flirting with me, Dean?” You raised a playful eyebrow, again involuntarily finding yourself giggling like a lovesick schoolgirl at his smooth words.

“Maybe.”

“That’s rather bold.”

“I don’t see you complaining.” You both locked eyes for a moment, then burst out into laughter, his lower register mixing well with yours in the dim, naturally lit room.

You were happy with this man. Really happy, that you’d found a good friend. You found a good friend in Dean Winchester.

And he’d found a new home in you.

The purr of Baby’s engine.

The windows rolled down and blowing through your hair.

Guns ‘n’ Roses’ ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ playing on a cassette tape.

All of it had you hooked on an impossibly addictive high, hopped up on the euphoria of singing the lyrics at the top of your lungs with Dean in the driver’s seat, a grin that could only connote inner nostalgia on his face as you both belted out the words off by heart. The feeling of the wind on your face, the thrill of how fast Baby was speeding down the highway and the sensation of being unchained… it all got you above the altitude of a kite.

Far above.

Dean’s eyes were on you when he wasn’t looking at the road, admiring the way the light hit the curve of your face and illuminated your eyes. He took in your sweet voice, filling him like a warm hug. He’d not known you for long, but to him, you were home. Someone he could turn to.

He found himself hooked on that pretty smile. Your smooth words that contrasted your otherwise humble nature. How one second you could be the calming force and next you’re busting out your wild side like nobody’s business. You seemed so… sure… of who you were. So easy on a misguided soul like him.

After his baby brother went to Stanford, his father didn’t see much point of keeping him there. John was a drunk, and a notoriously violent one at that, and he’d prevented Dean from going to college so he could take care of Sam. But his Sammy was all grown up, and he didn’t need Dean anymore. That broke him in pieces, and made him desperate to find someone to pick them up because he’d lost them.

He turned to you with a wide grin, meeting your eyes as the final chorus blared on the radio. There was no place you two would rather have been right now than here, just letting loose and having fun. Neither of you were allowed to be kids. Sammy was Dean’s reminder, and the ring on your finger was yours.

Painful reminders, but they were both ones you couldn’t let go.

Then Dean switched the cassette tape once the final notes rolled out, Eye of the Tiger playing loud and proud on the speakers.

This was like trying to get Sammy to eat his proteins when he was a kid. Only harder.

“C’mon, Bobby, it’s just a date.” Dean reasoned, chuckling slightly at his surrogate father sat in Baby’s passenger seat and looking rather like a pug with the grumpy face he had on. “You’re gonna sit down, be yourself and everything’ll go smooth like butter.”

Bobby bristled, glaring daggers at Dean, lips pursed. “See, that’s easy to say when you’re not the one on this date, boy. She’s gonna be some classy broad who orders a pinot noir, or a Chateau Margaux or whatever-the-hell, and I’m gonna be stuck wonderin’ what the hell all these fancy names mean.”

“See, you don’t know until you try.”

“Don’t give me that chick flick crap, you idjit.”

“Look, all I’m saying is don’t get too hopped up on the idea of being perfect for Ellen.” Dean shrugged. “Be cool, yeah, and flatter her, give her some compliments and make her feel at home, but don’t go saying things like-”

“This sucks balls.” Bobby grumbled, not at all to Dean’s surprise.

“See? Don’t say that.” He saw Ellen in the rear view mirror, and clapped Bobby’s shoulder. “Ok, Bobby, you’re up. Knock her socks off for me, yeah?”

Bobby had no choice but to get out of the car, hoping that he didn’t look like a fool, or maybe his gelled back hair was neat and didn’t have a dreaded flyaway. That his collar wasn’t popped. That his jeans didn’t have some unexplained stain on them. He stepped to Ellen, who gave him a warm smile. “Balls.” He muttered under his breath. She really did look like a classy lady, which sent his embarrassment into overdrive.

“Hi, I’m Ellen.” She introduced, her voice smooth as honey and making Bobby even more nervous that yes, this woman was definitely far above his league.

“Bobby.” He replied stiffly, but then held out his arm. “Shall we?”

“Guess so.” They linked arms, striding towards the restaurant, where you and Dean had made a reservation. When the two were guided to their table, they were provided with a drinks menu. Ellen didn’t even take one minute scanning it, flicking through at the speed of light and announcing that she knew what she wanted. Bobby, however, was stumped. Wine? Pinot grigio? Champagne? But there were so many options for one champagne. Why couldn’t the damn drink options be more simple? Beer was definitely out of the question, though his mouth watered and taste buds craved for the Heineken embossed in gold on the menu.

But he knew that he wanted the medium rare steak, announcing that to Ellen, who replied that she’d be having sea bass fillets with specialised dressing and garnish which sounded rather fancy. It did nothing to soothe Bobby’s poor nerves. Ellen, meanwhile, was torn between remaining soft spoken with this man or being, y’know, herself. He seemed decent, and considerate, with the way he carefully looked over the drinks and food menus.

“Madam, sir, can I take your order?” A waiter with a flip notebook arrived beside them, and Bobby gestured for Ellen to speak, not wanting to seem overbearing.

“The sea bass fillet with the special dressing and garnish,” Ellen answered smoothly, her eyes flicking to Bobby to gauge his reaction to the next words, “and one Heineken.”

The choice of drink lifted Bobby’s spirits instantly, and that gave him the green light to not strive to impress the beautiful lady across from him. “And I’ll have the steak, medium rare. And as for the drink, I’ll have what the lady’s having.”

“Of course.” The waiter took the menus and left the table, inciting a moment for the two to laugh at their own anxiety.

“You thought I’d be one of those high-horse, classy women, didn’t you?” Ellen guessed, and Bobby nodded bashfully.

“Guilty. I haven’t done this in a long while.” He chuckled, warming up to Ellen quickly. “You’re a woman after my own heart. Always loved a good Heineken.”

“You and me both.”

After they’d had dinner, they exited the restaurant, but instead of parting ways, Bobby offered his arm once more to Ellen. “Mind walking for a while with this ol’ fool?”

“Not at all.”

NEXT UP:

“Jo.” Ruby sat down in front of Jo, who was in animated conversation with Charlie. They both turned to her in surprise and identical raised eyebrows. “And you, Charlie. I need advice.”

Maybe Charlie could help. After all, she was an expert in the field Ruby needed advice on. This was an extremely unfamiliar topic, even though she’d grown up in a family full of suspiciously close women.

Oh, god, this was nerve wracking.

Jo looked concerned, but nodded, and Charlie did the same. “Sure, go ahead.” Jo gestured for Ruby to continue, while Charlie sat eagerly forward in her seat, waiting for Ruby to speak.

“Ok.” She took a deep breath, her eyes briefly flicking to Meg. “What if… what if I…”

TAGLIST:

@hobby27 @jackles010378 @deans-spinster-witch @kr804573 @eexphoria @onlyangel-444 @mxltifxnd0m @iloveyou2mia @snowayumi @itssofiasstuff @yallgotkik @aylacavebear @muhahaha303 @k-slla

Like, reblog, and let me know if you want to join the taglist!

#supernatural #dean winchester #spn #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #spn masterlist

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freyjhasdesiredreality · 1 year

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Schatje and The Lion (Max Verstappen x Reader)

(Credits to GIF owner)

A/N: Hey people! This is the first of my 24-race winners x reader challange. We are starting with Max Verstappen, the winner of Bahrain GP! Hope you enjoy!! (English is not my first language, grammar mistakes are my own and I apologise for them!)

WC: 1000+

Warnings: Childhood friends to lovers, abusive boyfriend (not Max!!), injuries, blood (Let me know if I missed any!!)

Max absolutely hated your boyfriend. It was even beyond hate. If he had a chance he would rip his head off from his shoulders, put you in his wardrobe and never let anyone touch you ever again. You were so precious to him. You opened your eyes to the world together. All he knew was you growing up.

When he won his first race in karting, you were there for him, cheering from the first row with Jos, holding your hand. He still remembers that day, hugging you so tight. He believed you were his lucky charm, so he begged his father to convince your parents to come to his every race.

Years passed, many things changed in both of your lifes. The only thing that didn’t change was your friendship. It grew stronger each day, you were inseparable. You were his comfort zone. Whenever he felt overwhelmed from his world, he took refuge in you. He didn’t want to share you with anyone else but he knew better than that. You were a person too, you had your own life.

When he felt for you, he made a plan to open up to you. He wanted to confess his feelings at his first championship celebration party but things didn’t go as he wished. You brought a guy to his party and introduced him as your boyfriend.

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone, schatje,” he said, eyeing up and down the man next to you. He was challenging him, claiming his place on you. He was unhappy, and he made it very clear to the man. “And I didn’t know, the famous Max Verstappen calls my girlfriend ‘schatje’,” he struck back. It was like a fight between alphas for their only omega.

“Well, since she's been my best friend since the age of 1, I call her whatever I want,” he spitted.

Things were heathen up so you interrupted them but made sure you gave Max a speech to be nice with him.

“He is trying to own you and it’s my fault?” he yelled. “This day was supposed to be about me and he ruined it!”

He regretted his words right after they left his mouth but it was too late. Tears threatened your eyes, you struggled to find words.

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” he wanted to interrupt but you shut him up. “Save it, Max. You’ll call me when you want to apologize.”

He called you the next day to make everything right. He even offered to buy dinner for you and your boyfriend as an apology. When he learned he was a Mercedes fan, he swallowed up his pride and talked with George Russell to get him a paddock pass. You were happy so he was happy too. At least that’s what he thought.

Behind the closed doors, you were constantly abused. When you wanted to break up, he beat you. This became a routine. Every time you found courage to leave, he found a way to keep you in his place. So you covered up. Put on a nice smile for Max. You knew he would lose his mind if he learned. He was fighting for his second championship. He didn’t need a distraction.

Cries of joy could be heard through the closed doors. He was the world champion once again and of course there will be a party. Max wanted to see you with him once again and he made sure you were coming. He booked a car for you, so you didn’t have to take Uber. Your boyfriend didn’t like it. He beat you until he made sure you couldn’t cover up with only makeup so you had to stay.

“Wait here until I come back. I’ll bring food,” he said and left like nothing happened. It was now or never. You listened to his footsteps, took your purse and ran for your life. Luckily, the car that Max hired for you was still waiting after 25 minutes.

“Miss Y/L/N are you sure you don’t want to go to hospital?” the driver kindly asked with concern in his voice. “Just please take me to Max,” you cried. You hated yourself for being so vulnerable. The driver did as you asked, drove you to his hotel. “Mr Verstappen hasn’t left yet, Miss. Room 2501, I’ll inform the reception,” he said.

You thanked him and rushed to Max's room, like you are still being chased. You knocked the door violently. You heard his murmur silently wondering what was so important. He opened the door and froze. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The woman he loved for many years, standing on his door, tears on her eyes and covered up with bruises and blood.

“Y/N?” was all he managed to say. His heart broke when you broke down in tears, begging for his forgiveness that you ignored his judgment and still went for something you wanted. He took you in his arms, “Calm down schatje, it’s not your fault.” He was filled with rage, wanted to go to your hotel and beat the shit out of him like how he did to you.

You hugged him so tight, asked him not to leave you. “I’m sorry, I ruined your day again,” you said can’t look at his face. He gently grabbed your chin and lifted your head, “I don’t want to hear this ever again, liefje, okay? Nothing is more important than you,” he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Let’s clean you up, okay? Your injuries look bad, I don’t want them to get infected.”

During winter break, he absolutely did his best to heal your broken soul. You were finally feeling like before, ready for the world with him on your side and so was he. The season was here and it was already the last lap of the race. He passed the checkered flag, finishing first. You were in the garage, cheering for him with the rest of the team. He met you in the crowd, hugged you so tight. Before he left, he held your cheek and leaned in to kiss. It was a soft, gentle kiss, but it sent sparks flying through both of your bodies.

“I’ve waited for this for a long time,” he said grinning ear to ear. Everyone cheered for you when you both kissed again but this time with more passion. “Go get your cup, my lion.”

Likes and reblogs are appreciated, requests are open for both F1 and Marvel!!

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine

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oonajaeadira · 1 year

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I'll Never Fall In Love Again: Scene 8: The Final Shot

Fandom: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: Angst angst angst. Sex happens, but not explicitly. Casual drug use. Playing fast and loose with: how the film industry works, how the naturalization system works, the shit media personalities can get away with on a red carpet.

A/N: It’s the final chapter. There’s…a lot of ground covered here. I thought about splitting it up, but it needed to go together, needed to pass in a blurry, painful memory. This fic took a total jo-ha-kyū route and I’m not sorry about it. I think I like it that way. Anyway. I’m so happy that I’ve had the chance to write for this disaster pancake. I’ve fallen in love with him so.

Thankfully Dieter always respected personal space. It’s why, the morning after the drunken session on the couch, you’d slunk off to your room in utter humiliation and anxiety about ruining everything–everything! so stupid!--and hoped he’d think you’d just gone out. It’s why you could lay on your bed with the door shut and know he wouldn’t open it if you didn’t answer his knock.

It’s not that you thought he didn’t like you or wasn’t attracted to you.

It was obvious that he absolutely wanted to sleep with you.

But that was the problem. It meant, in the end, you’d be just one of his many flings. You might have some fun–hell, he might even convince himself that he loved you–but surely and eventually it would become monotonous for him and he’d give you the cold shoulder, living up to the image of the commitmentphobe he’d presented to the world.

Curled up on your bed and fighting tears was futile. There you were, playing this wifey role, holding up your end of the deal, hoping to prove to the world that he wasn't that guy…but in no way able to believe it yourself.

It would have been so easy to give into him; surely you weren’t in denial and could admit it’s what you wanted. But there were only a couple of months left in the marriage and then you could let him go back to his feral life. It would pass for both of you. You could remain friends. Keep respect.

Keep your heart from getting broken.

And in one stupid night, you’d rushed past your best judgements and upset the equilibrium. It would be harder now to back away from this brink, because the more you retreated, the more he might be challenged to follow and if he did that…if he was sweet to you…it would be harder to resist….

What a fucking mess.

At some point, you’d fallen back to sleep and woken up in the afternoon feeling even worse. Dehydration demanded you brave the kitchen for some water, take the chance of running into him...

But there was only a note on the fridge, pinned up next to the printout of that photo. The two of you on his opening night. He’d held onto you so tightly….

Flight’s at noon. Sorry I missed you. Good to see you. Wish we’d had more time together. –D.

It was impossible to know his mind from the note. Was he sincere? Was he hurt? Maybe he was indifferent. No big deal. Like he could care less, a blip in the friendship, it happens. Or was it written in anger when you didn’t answer his knock but were so obviously at home?

The note and the picture couldn’t stay on the fridge. But you couldn’t throw them away either.

It seemed appropriate at the time to just…shut them in the freezer.

________

He was the first to break the silence about ten days later, a goofy shot of him on a camel. Sunnies on. Windblown and tanned. And you put a heart on it.

Things were a little easier past that. He wasn’t able to call as much, and when he could, you were either sleeping or working. He left messages, none of them threatening to talk about what went down that night, so after a few weeks, he finally called in the morning again.

“Hey, D. Nice camel.”

“What? Oh that. That asshole spit in my hair. Camel’s don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. Dromedaries are the Karens of the animal kingdom.” When that earned him a laugh, you could hear him smiling back at you. “If you get a break in your schedule, you should come out. I’ll fly you out and teach you to ride one of these monsters. It’s a good skill to have. You never know when they’re gonna remake Lawrence of Arabia.”

Trying to skirt the offer, you poked, “Wait. I thought that was what you were doing out there.”

“Ha ha.” But he wasn’t giving up. “I mean it, Cakes. Get your ass out here. It’s a free ride to a place that’s almost impossible to get to and you won’t get food like this in your life. The hash is pretty good too…. I could show you around…. I’d…like you to see this.”

There it was. A hesitation at the end of every sentence. What he meant was “I want to see you. I miss you.” But couldn’t say it. It only proved what you thought to be true, that he’d never really get there. Another win on the side of shutting that shit down.

“Yeah. Great. What I want is to sweat to death and get sand in my asscrack and camel spit in my hair. No thank you.”

The huff he made was probably meant to be a laugh. Would have been, if it hadn’t been shuttered by restrained disappointment. “I guess I can’t blame you there.”

“It’s fine,” you pushed on, cheery, “Thankfully, I can live vicariously through you! How’re the dailies? Did they finally get you a better assistant?”

And he took the hint and moved on.

Things mainly went back to normal after that. More mornings than not, you’d start your day with him as he ended his with you, and when he signed off with a quiet “have a good day, Cakes, miss your face,” you smiled sincerely and told him, “no need, we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

It was the best you could do. For both of you.

________

Dieter’s trials and tribulations on location came to an end a couple of weeks shy of the Oscars and suddenly, he was home. There wasn’t much time to hang out; once he touched down in L.A. it seemed everyone who wrote for a magazine, blog, podcast, entertainment website–not to mention friends and agents–all wanted a piece of him. And that was for the best.

Because from the moment he walked in the door, from the way you both froze in place–several body lengths apart, judging the distance, trying to quickly work out the fraction of space it would be appropriate to cross, or wait for him to cross, or wished he’d cross, strategizing where arms and hands and lips would land–it was less awkward than you ever could have expected and more…

…magnetic.

From the moment you let out a breath and raised a hand in what you hoped was a casual welcome home and he gave a half-smile and let his shoulders drop, it was easy enough to fall back into housemates and let him lift you in a squeeze–the little punch you gave to his arm and peck you left on his cheek said you were glad he was back–it was all meant to be breezy and friendly and laid-back but was uncomfortably more…

…yearning.

All the work you’d put into keeping your heart at arm’s length during all those calls, you realized in a flash that it had only created a greater ease between you, a natural partnership…

…a home.

And so you kept busy as much as you could. Because if you two should find yourself on the couch together again, that ease would be unbalanced. You’d find yourself fighting any urges to curl into him, becoming stiff with the effort to avoid touching or laughing or letting him catch your eye. You were barely keeping it together when you ran into him here and there, staying on your feet and always keeping a piece of furniture between you to allow smiles and eye contact, but had a physical disrupter to the rails that threatened to pull you in.

A stylist was hired. You were wrapped in matching Versace. He looked gorgeous in a black tux–with a shirt vibrantly pattered in colors chosen to pick up the nuances in your dress–except for his hair which had been styled back, but that he vehemently defied in favor for scrubbing his scalp with his thick hands and letting the curls stand where they may.

Your fingers itched to fix him–or to mess him up more–and you might have done, except that the limo had arrived with Davey and Mark inside.

The ride to the ceremony was joyous. Until the coke came out. Then you just let the boys have their fun and stared out the window.

There were enough personalities on the carpet to focus on, allowing you to split from Dieter and make your own way through the gauntlet, stopping to hug industry friends and chat with a few people along the ropes, all the things Dieter had taught you to do at Cannes and Seattle, his tutelage making the night and its blaring camera lights so much easier.

At least until you got to the ETalk media press point.

“Your breakout role as the soothsayer in Fall of Timon has you nominated for an Oscar tonight!”

“Yeah! I was completely bowled over by the announcement. I know everyone always says it, but I feel like that was the real moment, getting the nomination. It was the cake.”

“And now you’re looking for the Oscar icing!”

“That would be nice, but the cake’s still good without the icing.”

“Speaking of icing, has the temperature been cold at home with your husband nominated for his role in Hunger Strike alongside your category-mate Chelsea Seagate?”

It was still a struggle to keep composure in the face of questions meant to throw you off, meant to get a glitch reaction out of you, meant to dig in and hurt.

“Of course not. We support each other thoroughly. And I think Chelsea has earned every right to win that award. But speaking of my husband, I should go make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“Well good luck with that. We’re all pulling for you. And for the Oscar too.”

After that interaction, a blur. More lights, more plastered smiles and aching cheeks. All the same questions about the nomination, the competition, and the not-so-sly segways into how it affected your marriage.

But at the end of the carpet, Dieter was waiting. Dutifully. Smiling proudly as he watched you hold your own. He reached out to take your hand and lead you into the theater. And you let him.

Once inside though, it was easy to feign distraction–needing both hands to address a catch on your skirt or give someone a hug–conveniently having reason to ignore his waiting hand as you took in your first view of the Dolby Theater and the gold-and-crystal stage design for the ceremony, following the usher to your assigned seats.

You thought you were smooth, that he wouldn’t notice any avoidance on your part.

It was an odd set up, but one specifically put into place for Dieter. Because of course they had to seat him close to the Hunger Strike group, but knew you’d need to be with the Timon team, and yet they also wanted to keep you together. Your seats were on the aisle in the row of the Timon producers and the film’s composer and costuming team, with the Timon cast in the row behind (Davey sitting on the end behind Dieter as the main hopeful acting win for the production) and cast and producers of Hunger Strike taking up the row ahead.

Including the shining, platinum and perfectly-coiled coif of Chelsea Seagate.

Who stood up to hug Dieter.

And Dieter hugged her back.

For a long time.

She chattered excitedly in his ear as you sat next to the composer and tried not to notice how Dieter’s hand subconsciously slid down the curve of Chelsea’s lower back.

When she finally came away, she had the audacity to boop his nose.

She booped. His nose.

Then twiddled her fingers at you, “Hiiiii!!!” and sat back down without another word.

Well. Without another word to you. Because there were plenty more words for Dieter. She purposely turned her chin over her shoulder to make comments during the preshow–and throughout much of the program itself–speaking quietly enough so he would have to lean forward and she could repeat herself next to his ear.

Cameras swooped in to catch their chatter here or there, leaving you in the far shot to act as if you were fine with their friendship and just concentrating on the ceremony.

You may have laughed a little too enthusiastically. Smiled a little more brightly. Reacted a bit more theatrically.

To the Academy’s credit, it was an exciting ceremony and Timon was winning all its technical awards, putting you on your feet often enough to let people through the row, giving congratulatory backpats between bouts of clapping your hands clean off your wrists.

But soon enough, it was time to announce the win for supporting actress. And again, you let Dieter coil his fingers into yours.

Something shifted. In all the nominations being read and applause happening, the center of the world suddenly seemed to exist on the armrest between you. His hand was warm. Sturdy. Grounding. A reminder of all you had been through together to be there. For one moment, all the other tangled feelings fell away to reveal the core of your friendship, how he had singled you out, supported you, walked you through this sudden onslaught of media attention. And here he was again, your unerring, never hesitating, main support. Here to usher you through this new first.

One last time.

But he only needed one hand to hold yours. The other reached forward to Chelsea’s bare shoulder. And squeezed.

Soon enough that support was ripped away and he was standing, pulling Chelsea into a congratulatory hug while she began to cry and kiss your husband on the cheek.

There was a touch on your own shoulder. And though it wasn’t the one you wanted, you still turned to smile at Davey and let him know you were okay.

Suddenly, the award didn’t seem so important anymore.

Soon enough, it was your turn to lean back over the seat and take Davey’s hand in solidarity when Dieter’s name was called.

It wasn’t lost on you that Dieter hadn’t at least kissed you for the cameras. Hadn’t sought your praise. Had enough drugs in his system to go off book and use his acceptance speech to wax poetic about the little gold man in his hand but thank none of the people who helped put him on that stage by the time the orchestra started up and drowned him out.

And, of course, he never acknowledged Fall of Timon. Or Davey. Or you.

His award was given out near the end of the night, so he never returned to his seat. Neither did Chelsea. Most likely they were fielding press questions together.

An indie film took best picture, leaving you without the chance to take the stage with everyone… without the hope to be reunited with Dieter.

Davey and Mark took possession of you, glued themselves to your side as you spent the next hour making your way out of the Dolby, chatting with industry friends, giving the obligatory “it’s an honor to be nominated” to a few microphones, and saying “I’m so proud of him” enough times that you were happy to find that it was never a lie.

Of course you were proud of him.

You loved him.

You were the stupidest, saddest, most pathetic girl in the room and surely everyone could see it.

There must have been press photos for all the winners. A junket. That’s why he was taking so long to return to you. You finally began to feel faint, needing food and getting tired of waiting and the boys whisked you away to the afterparty you’d all agreed to meet at. Surely Dieter would catch up with you there.

But he never showed.

And the blur continued, having to pretend to be exuberant, to fake-the-good-time-in-order-to-make-the good-time…trying not to bring down all your friends. There was still your nomination and production wins to celebrate after all.

Even though you were aching inside.

Even though you were sure you had ruined everything in all the ways you wish you hadn’t.

Later, Davey and Mark would turn in and you would stay behind to wait.

At least until the limo returned.

And then you took the ride back home.

Alone.

In the morning, Morgan called, telling you to sift through all the notifications on your phone–Oscars, Fall of Timon, your name–until you got to the trending topic of Dieter Bravo. The most surprising thing about all the pictures of him leaving Chelsea’s home was not that he had gone home with her, but how numb you felt scrolling through them.

No. Not numb. Validated.

And you stayed in your room. And ignored the knock that finally came.

The next few days carried the theme of avoidance. The paparazzi. The questions they shouted out at you about your cheating husband. You closed up your wounds so their salt couldn’t get in, packed up your essentials and moved back into the apartment he’d paid to keep for you all this time so you’d have a place to go if you needed.

Well, you needed.

On your way out, it was easy to ignore the envelope laying on the kitchen counter with your name on it, just like you had ignored all the texts and the voicemails. It was, however, a convenient spot to lay a sparkling gem–one that had caught the light so brilliantly a year ago–after you’d slipped it off your finger and given it a kiss goodbye.

________

Notice came in the mail of your citizenship a month later.

Dieter had done the interviews, answered all the questions, signed all the documents, kept your separation a secret.

He didn’t have to do that.

But he did.

You picked up the phone and dialed.

It barely rang once. “Hey. Hey. How are you? Are you okay? Can we talk?”

One long breath. Made him wait. “Can I just say what I need to say?”

“Yes. Please. Ladybug. Anything you want. You got it.”

Taking one last look at your heart, you tucked it away, out of sight, though hardly out of mind. And with a practiced vocal poise, you began.

“I just got my green card. And I want to thank you so much for this. You’ve been such a help to me since the moment I met you and I couldn’t have gotten through this last year without you. I want you to know that.”

“Cakes–”

“I’m not done. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that with everything going on you still did this for me. I want you to understand that this is going to help me succeed here. And you did that for me. I will always cherish you for what you’ve done for me.”

“Cakes, I’m so sorry. I haven’t held up my end of the bargain. I didn’t–we didn’t–”

“It’s okay. I can handle myself and anything lobbed my way. You taught me well. And you held up the important part. The citizenship was the main trade off, remember? If there’s ever anything I can do for you in thanks, just let me know, okay?”

“Come home.”

It was the break in his voice that gave you pause. But the mental image of him in his battered Versace with the tie undone on the steps of the Silver Lake home was what pushed you on. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“I really thought you might love me.”

“I…I can’t.” Not a complete lie.

“I love you…so fucking much.”

You’d let it go on too long. It was starting to hurt. You preferred numbness. You preferred validation.

“No. You don’t. You think you do. But you don’t. You’ll get over it. It’ll be okay. Congratulations on the Oscar, D. You deserve every ounce of it. Really.”

“I need to talk to you–”

“There’s nothing to say, D.”

And you hung up, letting the last words hang there between you. Unraveled. Severed. The end.

The phone rang. It would ring on and off for hours.

You didn’t allow yourself to cry until it finally stopped.

________

The next few months were a mess, avoiding press questions, reminding yourself to stop reading stories about his more frequent temper tantrums and drug-fueled fan interactions. The paparazzi pictures of him and Chelsea out at that coffee shop signaled that it was time.

An envelope arrived in the mail a week after you sent him the divorce papers, and you frowned at its thinness, its lightness, its not-hefty-enough-to-be-countersigned-legal-forms-ness.

The paper inside was warped, as if it had been frozen and thawed, which you knew it had.

Scrawled across the photo of him hugging you like his life depended on it were seven words.

I need more time. Wait for me.

It hurt too much to keep.

It hurt too much to throw away.

Into the freezer it went.

For two years. Until the day of the first read for your current film, when he brought you coffee from the Farmer’s Market. Then it came out of the freezer and was pinned to your fridge.

A reminder, you told yourself, that you were once at least friends. And maybe could be again.

________

On set, it isn’t unusual to break for lunch and walk out from behind the bright lights to find him sitting behind Annie, watching you work, even on days he isn’t called. It helps him get a better sense of your character and why his might be drawn to yours so intensely, he says. You both acknowledge its truth, but only by half.

In front of the camera he is giving and fierce like you remember him to be, dropping the character easily between takes, keeping you entertained with the same stupid conversations you used to have at home, cracking the same sarcastic jokes, negotiating the beats of the upcoming exchanges.

Overall, it’s been an amazing shoot. Time has smoothed the edges off the knife he’d put into your heart so long ago but it sealed the fissure clumsily. It’s been easier than you’d expected to just fall back into comfortable companionship, even with the lobbed grenades of his sporadic flirting.

But his confessions in the restaurant booth found purchase in that fissure, began trickling through and loosening the seal so that by the time you were riding his lap for the cameras, there was no stopping the flow of all the yearning that had been dammed up since the night on the couch.

It feels different than it had back then though.

It…it feels better. Wanted. Open. Like it should have been.

Like it should be. Maybe still could be.

Fuck. What fools you’ve been.

________

“Tell me what you want, Cakes. Tell me what you need me to do to you.” He pleads, desperate. Breathless. Painfully horny. Thrusting and causing the trailer to rock, probably signaling to everyone what was going on inside.

Fuck ‘em. They probably all have bets going anyway. Might as well help make it rain.

“Gladly,” you kiss him, laughing at his transparent neediness, “But what about what you want?”

“I don’t want anything. Or I want everything. I don’t fucking care. I want you to come. How do I make you come? I’m begging here…”

Dieter’s eager in bed, eager to go, eager to please, likes being told what to do without having to ask, answers in reverential tones, yes ma’am, no ma’am, please and thank you ma’am, runs his mouth, pretty much gets off without having to do much at all other than to know he’s the one that made you feel good.

Not just good. Glorious.

But afterward? He calls the shots. And what he wants is to hold on tight and not let go. The man turns into a weighted blanket, a sloth on a tree, he’s the stripes and you’re the candy cane and any move to extricate yourself turns him into a moaning toddler.

“But I’ve got to pee, Dieter. We’ve been at this two hours straight.”

“No!” he barks reflexively before unhinging his arms with a whining, overly dramatic groan that doesn’t quite end until you’ve done your business and crawl back into bed and then he’s pulling you in and digging his nose and forehead into your neck with a sigh that signals relief for the oh so tortured soul.

“Oh you poor thing,” you laugh and comb through his sweaty curls, kissing his scalp, a tiny yelp popping out of your throat as his arms tighten around you–boy doesn’t know his own strength–”were you really that lost without me?”

He nods into your neck. “I love you.” It’s aching. And pathetic. And adorable.

And breaks through the very last of your defenses.

It doesn’t matter if he’s talking about missing you for two years or just the time you were using the toilet. Tilting your head up to staunch any surprise tears, it takes a moment for your throat to clear. “I know.”

Giving you the puppy eyes and ducking to nibble at your collarbone, the request for reciprocation comes out coy and sweet, “Do you…love me?”

You can’t stop smiling at the big dope, running your fingertips around the bare patch in his beard and whispering, “Yeah. I can’t help it. Look at you. If I don’t, who will?”

Nose to nose on the pillow, love dumb and staring, the two of you silently weigh the events of the past. Compare it to this present. Regret what you could have had this whole time. What that might mean for the future.

“I thought you didn’t want me, missus.”

“I thought the same.”

“What? You broke my fucking heart.”

“Well then, we’re even. I’m here now though. Feel better?”

“I dunno. You gonna come back now?”

Fingers that are stronger than he realizes subtly grip your back a little firmer, big arms pulling you in slowly…as if he can get you any closer than you are plastered against him. It doesn’t matter if you say yes or no; either in celebration or to beg you to stay, he’s preparing to hold on tight and never let go.

The smart answer is that it’s too soon. But you don’t want to give him the smart answer. “Can I ask you a question?”

His pout relays his disappointment. He wanted a dumb answer. “You’re gonna anyway.”

“Why didn’t you want to bang me that night on the couch?”

He blinks. You watch his brain rolodex flipping back to that night and he gives a sheepish smile. “Jet-lag. And…drugs. Knew the jet-pack wouldn’t fire up.”

“Jet-pack–? Uh…oh. Oh. Your penis. Nice. Is that a name I should be using?”

Concern creeps over his face as he makes an uncharacteristically quick detection of your forced humor, realizing what you were really asking him, the pain you’re carrying and that you just revealed the real moment back then where everything went wrong. “And you were drunk, ladybug… I just didn’t want to, I dunno, take advantage. Spoil it.”

“It?”

Quickly grasping the gravity of the conversation, he props himself up on an elbow, pulling the bedcovers up around you in comfort as if performing triage for a past hurt. His hand smooths warm and heavy over your jaw, “The moment. Our juju. Any trust or good opinion you had of me.”

“I see. I was just so embarrassed that I’d thrown myself at you–”

“I wanted to. Cakes. You gotta know I wanted you to.”

He must smooth your hair and trace your cheekbone a hundred times in the silence that follows; continuing as long as it takes for you to believe him. To believe in him…that he was as capable of sincerity then as he is now. That you misjudged him. It isn’t hard to do so, you can see that now. But after so long flexing the blame muscles, it takes some effort to let them fully relax.

The time for apologies has passed. There’s only so many times someone can say they’re sorry out loud before you can learn to read it written on their very skin. A list two years long.

And you take your time kissing every passage.

He soaks in each drop of affection you give, completely, blissfully grateful, melting to goo under your forgiveness. “Fuck, Cakes. I reeeeeeeeally fucking wanted to.”

“Seems like you want to do that with a lot of people.” Smiling with your lips against his cheek, you reach down to give him a gentle, playful tug that makes him wake up again with a jump.

“Yeah, but like, that’s just pump and dump stuff, scratching an itch. You’re like, the cure to the underlying cause of the itch. You don’t just feel good for now. You’re like a big bathtub full of yogurt.”

You dodge his incoming, lovelorn kiss. “Excuse me, what?”

“Look, I’m better now!” he wines in mock dismay. “You made me better!”

Allowing your laughter to fade out, you finally give in to the chase and kiss him back. “No. You made you better. And I’m glad you did. And I guess I’ll take it.”

“Wait. Do you mean–? Really? Really??” He tumbles you onto your back, cupping your face in his big hands, forcing you to look at him, searching your eyes eagerly for veritas as if he can’t believe you of all people are giving him the dumb answer. “You gonna come home?”

“Yes, D, really. But truthfully? I can tell how sore I’m gonna be tomorrow. Right now I just wanna fill a tub with yogurt. That sounds amazing.”

With wide, eager eyes and a wild, punctuating wag of his head, he insists, “I know a guy at Fage! It’s done!”

“Well I’ll be damned. Is that a promise, you weirdo?”

Sighing down at you, he softens. “Every fucking word, missus.”

________

“One more time, please? Let’s mark so she can see the shot.”

Back on set, Annie’s request drives the crew to motion, prompting you to turn your back to the camera. When the go is called, you give it a couple of beats. “Now turn,” she directs, and you do. “Good, focus on the box, focus on the box, then lift the lid, good, steady, process what’s inside, the note and the key, this is the cue that you’ve missed your chance, it’s bittersweet, look up into the camera, dear… Yes. Good. Hold. Come here, darling.”

Without looking up from her monitor, Annie raises a tiny hand and curls her fingers, beckoning you near. She takes the time to show you the rate of zoom, how close the frame is, what they’ll enhance in post, and what the final edit should be.

“Think you can nail this in one?”

“She can do it.” Dieter’s voice slides out of the darkness, somewhere over near the craft services. They brought in cupcakes today. He’s not gonna pass that up.

You smile much more easily now near the end of filming than you did when you started. “Maybe. All I can do is try, right?”

“Atta girl,” Annie says, slapping you on the shoulder and calling out for a final set.

While costume and stylists come to make final fine adjustments, Dieter moves closer to watch over the rim of his sunglasses, standing near the camera, one hand shoved in the pocket of his lounge pants, the other holding a ridiculously large chocolate cupcake–pink frosting, sprinkles–which he’s devouring devoid of any subtlety or grace. As props swaps out the box and hands you the on screen one–presumably with the prop key inside, judging by the metallic rattle–Dieter casually slides his sunglasses off, folding them and hanging them from his stretched-out tshirt collar and gives you a wink before taking another enormous bite of the cupcake.

“Okay, darling,” Annie coos from the void behind the lights. “Take the time you need, let us know when you’re ready.”

Turning your back to the camera once more, you close your eyes, manifesting the layercake of emotions that will play out as the camera zooms in tight to only your face. Grief, regret, but also love and release. The final shot. The culmination of all your character’s journey.

“Ready.”

“Okay, Darling. Let’s roll.”

Letting your heart drop, you wait for the cue to slowly turn, keeping your focus on the beautiful wooden box in your hands. Once you’re flush to camera, there’s another cue to open it.

There’s a flicker of confusion when you find not a key inside, but a ring.

A familiar ring.

One that once belonged to Dieter’s grandmother. One with a huge stone that once caught the light filtering down into the Farmer’s Market. One that you haven’t seen since you left it on your husband’s kitchen counter.

There is a note inside as well.

“Looks like maybe your first wedding was THE wedding after all.”

When you’re prompted to raise your eyes to the camera–Dieter standing beside it with hands in pockets, wearing a sly grin and frosting on his nose–you’re not quite sure what your face is doing, but your eyes are certainly in danger of spilling over.

“That's it,” Annie says. “That’s the shot.”

________

“And here we have the star of Annie Devereaux’s latest film, nominated for Best Actress and–”

“Hi!,” you chuckle as you keep yourself from tripping on your gown a year later on the red carpet leading up to the Dolby Theater. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. This dress! I’m afraid it’s far too elegant for me!”

The correspondent from ETalk reaches out to steady you and joins in your good-humored self-deprecation. “Are you sure it’s you in charge and not the gown? It’s beautiful though. YSL?”

“Yes.” Trying to do your formal wear sponsor proud, you smooth down the skirt of the champagne satin and turn so that the on-loan $43,000 South Sea pearl necklace you’re so nervous about wearing can catch the camera lights. “It’s actually a matching set. Dieter has the… Dieter?”

Ducking your head below the light glare, a search finds him two media stalls down, marinating in some praise he’s getting there.

“Speaking of your famous husband and co-star, you famously remarried shortly after working on this film. He’s up for a supporting role award tonight. Is it all or nothing tonight? Does he know who he’s going home with?”

As she swings the microphone around to you with a crooked eyebrow, you do your best to school your face into an expression of humor and grace as you try to make light of her impossibly rude question. You know what she’s asking. The whole world knows what happened the last time you and Dieter attended the Oscars together.

Laughing brightly, you assure her with the kindest, most sincere purr you have, “No matter who wins tonight, I’m so proud of him. Dieter’s amazing and I’m sure you’ll see that when you get your chance to speak with him. Here he comes; I’ll let him show you himself. And I’ll be watching from right over there. And if you insult my husband again, I’ll put one of these $6000 heels in your ass.”

Waving sweetly at the camera, you side-step the gawking reporter, finding your grace as you make way for your man.

________

“What did you say to her? She looked like I was going to eat her alive.” Dieter unbuttons his patterned velvet jacket as he takes a seat next to you in the auditorium behind Annie and her partner.

Kissing his cheek, you make a nod to his wild curls. “I told her your hair gets that height because you use your own spunk as product.”

“What? No you fucking didn’t!!”

“Shhhh. It’s starting.”

You wrap the lie in a wicked grin. If he believes you and the real footage drops, then all the notifications you’ll wade through later tonight will seem to be a much lighter irritation.

He’s taught you so well.

Award after award comes and goes. You’re on your feet often, applauding and making way for your film’s writer, cinematographer, and editing team to walk the aisle as almost every other envelope contains a member of your party.

As the presenters take the stage to announce supporting actor, your arm weaves its way through Dieter’s. When the award goes to someone else, you move to hug and comfort him, but he’s dragging you to your feet and applauding wildly….

How poetic that this year it’s Davey’s turn to win over Dieter.

There’s going to be ribbing at the party tonight. And by the wide smile on Dieter’s face, he’ll gladly take the consolation.

The best actress category is stacked this year, all of them truly amazing performances from some women you’ve looked up to for most of your life. You’ve gone back and forth between hoping for a win and feeling completely embarrassed to think you even stand a chance against them.

But when last year’s winner approaches the microphone with an envelope in hand, all you feel is white hot anticipation and dread.

“The roles represented for this year’s leading actress category run the gamut from war criminal to libertine, from a teacher trying to prove her innocence to a witch that is trying to prove her guilt, and someone who is battling both for and against a love so fiercely that she never finds it again. The nominees for best actress in a feature film are…”

Five short scenes roll across the monitor above the stage–yours among them t inhat iconic, final shot–accompanied by the recorded announcement of names and films.

And heavy waves of applause.

As the final scene plays, you lower your gaze back to the stage, only to find Annie turned and leaning on the back of her seat, chin on her hands, eyes shining. Smiling at you. Confident. Assured.

And once again, the beating heart of the world lays on your lap. On Dieter’s hand. Covered by your own.

“And the Oscar goes to…” Opening the envelope and nodding her head, confirming her guess, the presenter announces, “Another win for I’ll Never Fall In Love Again–”

Your name is drowned out under the roar of applause and your vision is momentarily cut off as Dieter crushes you against himself, lifting you to your feet, howling like a deranged sports fan, spinning you toward the aisle, and sending you off with a swift, loving slap to your ass.

There are so many hands clapping. So many smiles. And you walk in the wake of a camera, toward the light, toward the stage bedecked in silver and gold and shine and gleam, riding a swell of music and a gasp of air.

Somehow you make it up the stairs to the microphone.

You do not trip on your gown.

You do not drop the statuette.

You do consider both of these acts to be major successes.

________

“Did I remember to thank Annie?” Near the bar at the afterparty, Dieter rocks you back and forth, wrapped around you from behind. Davey does his best to hand you a drink while Mark makes your Oscars kiss. “I mean, I hugged her when we were all on stage for best picture, but fuck I hope I said it out loud–”

“Yes, you did just beautifully, kitten,” Davey assures, wrapping your hand around the glass to make sure you’re actually holding it before reaching for his own.

The nickname reminds you. “Morgan! Oh shit! Did I thank Morgan?”

“Yeeeees,” a happy, sloppy baritone grumbles in your ear. “You checked off all the boxes, ladybug.”

“And you? Did I remember to thank you?”

Swiveling to catch Dieter’s eye, you watch his face transform into something teasing. Playful. Dangerous. “You suuuure did. You reeeeeeeally love me, don’t you.”

“Oh no. Oh no! Did I gush? Did I say something–? What did I say???”

Davey delivers two light slaps: one to Mark as he rescues your statuette from its romantic puppet show, and one to Dieter as he hands it over to you. “Don’t freak her out, you asshole. You were resplendent, lady, poised and adorable and modest and perfect. You’ll watch it tomorrow and kick this guy in the balls for getting your knickers in a twist.”

“An eye for an eye,” Dieter jeers, referencing the lie you told him about the rude reporter earlier. “And I’ll have you know she likes it when I twist her knickers.”

Drinks. Photos. Smiles. Hugs. Annie holds you in frank conversation about a possible upcoming project. Dieter is the perfect purse husband, holding your award when you run to the restroom or chat with someone privately. He hands it back upon your return, freeing up his hands and arms to hold onto his wife instead.

There’s no guessing the time when Davey’s kissing your cheek goodbye and Dieter’s off talking to the valet.

There’s still half a drink left and a handful of people you should say goodnight to, but your husband catches you by the hand and pulls you in close.

“I’m tired and I need my beauty sleep.” His thumb slides over the ring on your finger.

“Oh. That’s too bad. You going home?”

“Sorry. Misspoke. I need my beauty…to sleep. You think I’d let you ever go home alone again? Like, ever???”

“So because you’re tired, I have to stop partying.”

“I mean. We don’t have to stop partying just because we’ll be at home.”

“You said beauty sleep–”

Throwing his head back and whipping it side to side like a frustrated toddler, he growls through his teeth, “I am trying! To woo you! Can we just go home so I can show you how fucking proud of you I am?”

A kiss easily puts a stop to his flailing and he eagerly receives it, breaking it only to nip the tip of your nose and rest his forehead against yours.

“I promised you we’d have fun, didn’t I, Cakes.”

“Yeah, you did.” With your award in one hand and his arm in another, you let him lead you toward the door.

“Hey. Do you wanna get stoned and watch porn?”

By the look on the young valet’s face as you approach, Dieter’s question did not go unheard.

Not that he didn’t do it on purpose.

So you wait to answer until you’re just passing the poor boy.

“I mean. It is Sunday. Why deviate from the norm?”

With his hand on your back and a goofy grin on his face, Dieter ushers you out into the night, chest puffed with pride. And contentment. And glowing adoration.

Tomorrow’s gossip columns are gonna be wild.

________

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

A/N: Thank you so so much for reading my gooey romantic bullhonkey. When The Bubble first came out, I had so much heart eyes for Javi (still do) that I couldn’t imagine falling for this bozo. But something inside him asked to be loved and I was hooked. I think maybe it was the goat pictures. That heartbreak comes from somewhere and maybe it was from Cakes leaving him. Maybe that’s why Darren’s comment hurt him. So I gave him the alternative and sent him to rehab instead of CB6. I like this story better for him. Thank you for reading it.

Artwork for this chapter commissioned from @miranhas-art:

#i'll never fall in love again #the bubble fanfiction #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x cakes

219 notes · View notes

scuderiahoney · 3 days

Note

IN MOTION P7 BABY LETS GO

LEE THIS GOT SO LONG HOLY SHIT IM SO SORRY 😭😭 ITS LIKE 35 POINTS

1. in motion alex and lily ( and alex and lily in general) have to be roman empire cuz THEYRE LITERALLY SO CUTE I CANT

2. they called bunny first omg shut up.

3. have you watched red white and royal blue? cuz the 'osc' and the relived bunny is so alex and henry saying "alex" "baby" coded

4. oh i just know sebs gonna be kicking his feet and shit (figuratively) when he finds out about bunny and osc

5. rip bunny and lily you would love taylor swift

6. Oooh back story time.

7. "ive always got time for you" SCREAMING. CRYING.

8. well thats a traumatic backstory. Im sad now, and oscar's response??? Its not giving unwanted pity or sympathy and its not completely dismissive because she has "gotten over it", because you don't really get over that you know. And he's reassuring her not in a way that feels like pity but empathy

9. OSCAR PIASTRI HAS 3 BRAIN CELLS 1 is for his chosen sport, one is for his sense of humour, one is for emotional intelligence.

10. He's so real for the max comment 😭😭 reminds of that vid where max goes "my dad did that a mechanic once witha fork" and daniel just goes😃🧍wut

11. oscar encouraging bunny to try football (I can't use soccer for the LIFE of me lee im SORRY thats just not right) makes me so SOFTTTT

12. Lily and alex stop being couple goals challenge FAILED

13. i mean bunny its not really that hard figure it out unless you're max and lando (completely fuckin oblivious)

14. I have no clue how hockey works BUT AHHHH THEY WON AHHHH

15. one more game. One last data point. what if i cry huh? What then?

16. List of things to hold against lee 1) lando's plot line in motion 2) strawberry wine chap 3. 3) the CHARLES APOCALYPSE FIC (basically any angst cuz im a wittle baby)

17. Stairs why stairs huh what. OH HI OSCAR (its 2 am forgive me)

19. Carlos oscar beef persists in every universe (except in that one fic cait wrote.. but that was also sorta beefy with sexual tension)

20. MAX YOU BETTER GET YOUR ASS TO THE HAIR COLOUR AISLE AND BUY THAT BLUE DYE. Oscar is about to dye laughing (get it) his zendaya laugh when he finds this lore

21. DID NO ONE BET ON THEM? i was expecting a "you owe me a twenty" somewhere

22. Lando you stupid stupid fool,(yes sir id like this one for my self please)

23. "Eachother apparently" lee i love the way you write stories but i lOVE your dialogues even more 😭😭😭

24. Imagine oscar being like "charles. YOU NEED to switch seats with me." esp if he's sitting in the dead centre between max and lando

25. Honestly i totally get bunny cuz i was crying all over when out volleyball team one the state level and this is like NATIONALS

26. logan 😭😭

27. nooo max, pookie noo (this is me adding to this after monaco., it was indeed pookie no but osc podium charles win yay!)

28. jos verstappen couldn't be half the person max is.

29. Hey Mr. bartender? can i get two "your happiness is more important than some stupid trophy." With some extra unconditional love on top thanks.

30. lee a question why is max doing "sappy stuff later, we should celebrate", "angry on bunnys bf later, we should celebrate" . Like i get half of the reason but their seems something a lot more deeper than just wanting to celebrate hardwork and "last time" thing

31. Max and lando are so done w their bullshit (they only know a few hours) and charles is done w max and landos bs cuz he's known MUCH longer and HE ISNT COMPLAINING AS MUCH AS THEM

32. Bunny the mother hen ahhh

33. SHE REALLY CAME FOR SEBS NECK 😭😭

34. oh they remember the kiss, i thought they would be hungover enough to forget all the best osc bby

35. I TOLD YOU. SEBS KICKING HIS FEET AND GIGGLING.

36. Long live carcar beef 🫶

-😴

DONT APOLOGIZE I LOVE YOU FOR THIS. my response got long so it’s under the read more:

1. Alex & Lily guest starring in every fic bc they are the blueprint

3. i have not but i did read the book & yeah. That’s the energy.

7. it’s all i want tbh why can’t i find a guy like the fictional ones i write

8 & 9. emotionally intelligent osc my beloved!!!

11. you should see the arguments cece and i have had while i was asking for help workshopping this fic. there’s a lot of *soccer *football. i still have not convinced her but in my defense they’re at an American uni they would call it soccer

16. i will NEVER escape the wrath of strawberry wine part 3 no matter how much fluff i write. still in @theemporium ‘s doghouse months later

17. oh hiiiiii osc!!

19. omg @leclerced ‘s carcar fic my beloved 😵‍💫 ty for the reminder i should rlly go reread it

20. Oscar just wakes up to blue haired bunny & nearly died of shock

21. tbh i just didn’t think of it but George and Alex definitely did!! they’ve had a running bet going since before spring break i feel like.

23. THANK YOUUUUU dialogue is so hard to get right so i am kicking my feet over this

24. 👀👀👀

27. biiiiiig mood

29. hi bartender me too pls

30. i think i get what you’re saying but it’s really not meant to be him avoiding it or anything- he just knows they have a flight home to bug Oscar and a few weeks left to be sad about things ending, and events that they’ll get to be sentimental at. but this is the only chance they have to be at a bar after they win the championship so he wants them to have fun!! (and then he himself gets sad but. he’s trying to make sure they all have a good time)

31. Charles is so so over it he’s caught them making out already, this is old news to him. max & lando are scandalized

34. poor oscar. godspeed dude.

35. supportive seb!!!

36. carcar beef always & forever

thank you SO much for reading & letting me know what you thought ily!!

#box box #anon #😴 anon

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idontplaytrack · 2 months

Note

Could I possibly request a smut fic with Jos Cleary-Lopez where reader makes her squirt for the 1st time?

Soaked

Jos Cleary-Lopez x fem! reader

Warnings: MDNI, smut. Oral, fingering, toy use, pet names, spanking(Jos receiving), mentions of masturbation(reader)

In which the weather’s warm and reader finds Jos’ outfit too tempting

“Hey, babe?” Jos called out for you.

You hear her shut the front door and lock it, followed by the sound of her backpack hit the floor with a thud. You didn't respond, though. "Babe, are you alright?" You hear footsteps approach your bedroom, then the door opens. Jos peeked inside, "Hey, you left school early. Are you sick?"

"No. I just couldn't take it anymore."

"What?" She looked at you, confused.

"Uh, okay." You shrug, "Your outfit...started driving me a little crazy." "My outfit? Is driving you crazy? It's not my first time wearing a crop top, y/n." She laughs, "The weather's ridiculously hot right now."

"So are you." You scoffed. She sits down beside you, looking right into your eyes while holding your chin. "Really? You think so?" The eye contact alone was enough to make you flustered. "Are you kidding?" You stifle a laugh, trying to look away. "You are so fucking gorgeous."

She smiles, leaning forward to kiss you, "You are a damn stunner, y/n. You're freaking beautiful inside and out." The sweet kisses turn into a little heated make-out, but soon, you were itching to strip her of her clothes. She broke away from the kiss, cupping your cheek, "You wanna-"

"Oh, yeah. Hell yeah." You nodded eagerly, just slightly out of breath from the make-out sesh.

"Let's switch things up a bit, why don't we? Why don't you...try to make me...squirt?"

"Uh..." You let out a strained laugh. "You know, I uh was-"

"Was what?" She asks lowly.

Oh, boy...that was a stupid thing to start saying. What were you thinking?

"Thinking of you while I was...pleasuring myself...? I'm sorry, that was- uck." You ramble, cringing at the end.

"Well, I'm not. I think that's hot." Jos shrugs, completely unfazed. She continues kissing you before you could talk again. Pretty soon, the two of you were laid down in your bed, legs tangled together without breaking away from each other’s lips. You weren’t sure what exactly came over to you but you helped yourself onto Jos, literally straddling her. “Damn, hello to you.” She laughs, pulling back down to capture your lips in her own, hungry for more.

————

“Give me a sec.” You carefully manoeuvred yourself off of her and went over to your nightstand to grab a vibrator. You turned it on and its low hum filled the room. You see her squirming when she recognised that sound, asking you get back to her. Shrugging, you climbed back into bed and slid off her cargo pants then pressed the vibrator to her clit. Jos yelps, to your surprise. You chuckle, “Wow, babe. Didn’t know it was so easy to make you so noisy.”

She laughs, propping herself up to sit. “Fuck, kiss me, babe.” She whispered, her breathing heavy. You gave in for a short while, but pulled away before you wanted to see her face while you stimulated her clit with the vibe.

It worked her up pretty good, seeing that her slick was now dripping onto the bed. You slid a finger down her front and dipped it inside her, fucking her with it. Jos bites back a moan, her eyes screwing shut. “That’s not gonna work, hun.” You grinned, biting onto your lower lip while you pressed the object harder against her. A high-pitched moan gets forced out of her throat. “That’s my girl.” You chuckle, finger curling up to poke her sensitive spot. Her hips begin to buck upward, moving in sync with your fingers. Each time you two moved, she moaned only motivating you to go faster to achieve her goal. But, also because of that goal- or challenge she gave you, you decided to take your time to build up her pleasure to the brink.

“Fuck, that feels so good, y/n.” She was leaned back, supporting herself up with her palms. “Oh~”

Hearing her reactions, you couldn’t get that grin off your face. “I wanna keep hearing you. You don’t get to keep quiet just because you feel like it, but have me literally crying for you all the time.”

She scoffs, “Please. I don’t-” You took the vibrator away. Jos seethes, she was damn near throwing a fit. “You gonna finish that sentence or not? Choose wisely.” You looked at her playfully, cupping her cheek and the finger inside her exits too. Jos whines into the kiss, “No. No, I’m not gonna- y/n, I need- I need it.”

“Say please.” You stuck your tongue into her mouth, your teeth then grazing against her lower lips, giving it a tug, “I’m gonna need to hear it.”

“Where is this attitude coming from? The weather?” Jos broke away from the closeness. It was like on reflex, but you smacked her cunt, causing her to glare at you in shock while a whimper falls from her lips. As if having an intense desire to hear more of that, you continued smacking her to draw the sounds out - she was still holding back. “Jos.” You say, holding up the vibrator, “I have all the time in world to edge you till you wail. Do you want to come or not? Oh, sorry. Squirt.”

She was doing it on purpose though. Unlike you, she usually had no issues practically waking up the neighbours. “Please, okay, I’m sorry, honey.” Jos pleaded, “I need you, y/n. I need you.”

“Good girl.” You squeezed her inner thigh, attaching your mouth onto her pussy. She gasped, “Oh, fuck! y/n, what the fuck, oh- oh, shit. Yeah, just like that. Fuck—”

“Now you know what you do to me.” You smirked, holding onto her lower lips with your mouth and pulling them. Your breath fanned against her sensitive area, making her squirm and cry out. But still, your tongue kept going and going, up and down her folds, lapping up her slick. You knowingly pulled away from her with an obscene ‘pop’ sound, bringing your thumb back onto her clit to rub it to the point where you saw her entire body trembling.

“Ah-” She seethed over and over, swallowing thickly as chuckles of disbelief that were caught in her throat, erupted, “Shit! How are you so good at this, baby?”

“Learnt from you.” You said and she squirms, “And you seem to have forgotten one very important thing- I’m a squirter. You aren’t.”

She whines, because you stopped your movements and she felt herself right at the edge. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. y/n, I’m so close, bunny. Please, please, please.” She begged desperately.

“Be patient.” Your hand ghosts her apex, grabbing the wand again to return it to her clit but at a low setting. Jos lets out a pained cry, “Babe, please…”

“Don’t cry, honey…you’re doing so freaking well…” You pulled her closer for a kiss, “So well. Just a bit more, alright?”

Jos obediently nodded in agreement, “Mmm.” She exhales sharply, “Okay, okay. Yeah, yeah—”

You turned up the speed, moving it in fast-paced rhythmic circles while your two fingers rammed themselves into her cunt and pulls out constantly. Jos’ noises became more high-pitched as you went longer, giving you a loud and clear sign that she was close. When you finally felt her walls clenching around your fingers, you fucked her even faster making her toes curl and her back arched.

“Fuck- babe, I’m gonna come— bunny, I’m gonna—” She panted, “Oh, holy, shit. Shit.”

You took that as you cue to remove the wand and your fingers, replacing them both with your mouth again, sucking and circling her clit like your life depends on it. Jos unravels instantly into your mouth but you kept lapping her up anyway and adding hands back into the mix, harshly assaulted her clit.

“Ohh, what the fuck- what the fuck— fuck! y/n!” She whined, almost helplessly as you feel her unravel again. Knowing what was going to happen, you moved your face out of the way and the slick gushes out of her before a clear stream came out of her pulsing cunt. Admiring your work for a few seconds, you were snapped out of it but you heard her cry. You patted her cunt, saying, “You’re alright, baby. You’re alright. Look at me, Jos. You’re okay, I got you, I got you.”

After a little bit, she broke the silence, “That was— I honestly thought couldn’t do that. I’ve never been able to-”

“Now you know you can.” You pecked her on the lips then got up to go wash your hands off and get necessary items to clean her up.

“You are so good at this.” She commented, turning her head to look at you while she was laid on her back, in bed.

Chuckling you said back, “I did try pretty hard.”

“I knew you could do it.” She grins, “You wanna have your turn?”

“I’m gonna give you a minute.” You laugh, “You sire you can get up now?”

Jos snorted, laughing, “Maybe in a few.”

“Good choice.” You walked back out to her, sitting down.

“Maybe the shower will be a good location change. The weather is insane- I actually feel like it’s so stuffy, I can’t breathe.”

“I’ll uh- hold you to that.” You nod, “But first, let me clean you up, yeah, babe?”

“Okay.” She agrees, looking at you lovingly, “You’re so pretty, baby.”

A smile crept onto your face and you blushed, “I love you, gorgeous.”

#auli’i cravalho #jos cleary-lopez #the power(2023)#the power amazon prime #wlw #wlw smut #wlw ns/fw #queer fiction #lgbtqia #reader insert #x reader #female reader

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