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chronically-ghosted · 8 months

Text

Little Monsters

rating: 18+ Explicit

pairing: dieter x f!reader

word count: 5K

summary: A phone call home to your family has you missing them desperately . . . especially your husband, who always knows exactly what you need.

warnings/tags: pregnancy, Dieter has children and is actually a really good dad, director!reader, 1st half is mind numbing tooth rotting FLUFF, 2nd half is straight filth and dieter has a nasty nasty mouth, masturbation, camera/phone sex, slight breeding kink, one single use of ‘Daddy’, if I had an ounce of shame left in me I would not have posted this

a/n: special shout outs go to @spookyxsam for showing me about how babies work and to @lunapascal and @mysterious-moonstruck-musings for talking me off the daddy dieter ledge. this is my first pregnancy fic and i do not know what came over me (she lied, knowing damn good and well what happened to her brain chemistry)

from @yoursoulsunbreakable 's request: Hello sweetie, congratulations on your milestone <3 Here's my request for the little drabble: 5. “Tell me what you would want to do, if you were here right now.” With our precious Dieter and smutty? Hope it'll inspire you 😘

🤍Masterlist

“Tell me what you would want to do, if you were here right now.”

“Oh, Dieter, I’d – I’d –,”

“Yeah?”

You let out a burst of air from your lips, flopping back against the pillows. “I’d ask you for a foot rub,” you whine into the camera.

He chuckles, the sound a bit garbled through the speakers. He leans forward into the camera, as if trying to see down your body, the angle of the phone against the hotel’s lamp not quite right.

“Is Bravo Baby number three giving you trouble?”

You eye your swelling feet over the steadily swelling bump. Well into your second trimester and the list of shoes in your closet you could still wear is shrinking rapidly. This also happened with your second child and when Dieter made one joke about keeping you barefoot in the kitchen, you nearly threw a butcher’s knife at his head. You stroke the left side of your stomach to preemptively soothe the little brat before they start wailing on that spot all night, sighing into your husband’s sympathetic, pixelated face.

“They’ve been grouchy all day. Tom had to leave me in the car for a bit after we scouted a potential place for the exterior shots to finish taking pictures because somebody was having a grand old time wearing me out.” You narrow your eyes at him through the camera. “As if there was any doubt this was your child.”

This is a constant inside joke between you. Your first kid, a girl, was a beautiful blend of both you and Dieter. His eyes, but your hair, your cheeks, and his nose. He also got to name her – said it came to him after he bought some chocolate and water at the hospital lounge –

“Zelle, Dieter, ‘Zelle’?? Like the money transaction service?”

But you had been too zonked out on painkillers and endorphins to object (you thought it was beautiful at the time), and he signed the papers anyway. Neither of you had come up with a fitting name before then and he swears the instant he held his baby girl in his hands for the first time, it came to him, as if the stars rearranged themselves in the sky with that name. Incurably a romantic at heart – your husband – you found it sweet and also idiotic, but it was too late now.

Your second one, Orion, had his name written down on a post-it note you carried in your purse for months and you made sure to show the nurse when you were admitted. Not that Dieter would intentionally go against the name you had agreed on if the baby was a boy, but there was a slim chance he’d get so caught up in the moment and, with watery eyes, tell the nurse to write something like Mars Bar on the birth certificate.

And, for all that, Orion could have been a carbon copy of you.

The joke started when Dieter picked him up from his crib one night and brought that gurgling little mouth right up to his nose. “Are you sure you didn’t just spontaneously create this one? I don’t see a single hint of me in this little guy.” To which Orion giggled around a drool-damp fist and promptly bopped his father on the nose with it.

“Are you saying you don’t remember what happened the night he was conceived?” You asked with a smirk over your shoulder as you returned some baby bibs to the drawer.

Dieter snorted and slid Orion into the crook of his arm, those onesie-white feet seen kicking over his forearm. “Now Mommy is just being plain silly.”

That was five years ago and you couldn’t exactly deny you were excited for the smell of newborn to be all over your husband again.

“I’ll be glad when we hit the last trimester,” he says, chin propped up on his wrist to stare down at you in his other palm, “so I can wave that doctor’s note in your face when you try to work too hard . . . like you are now.”

You shift onto your side to face him, rolling your eyes. “You only like the third trimester for the sex hormones.”

After spending most of your first pregnancy, and at least half of your second, trying to claw Dieter’s eyes out if he so much as breathed in your direction, he was delighted to find that by month seven, the hellcat who had taken over his wife’s body turned into a needy, whiny little kitten.

Some of the best orgasms of his life come from those months, he swears up and down.

“I’m not going to complain,” he grins, peering down at you from those prescription sunglasses. The Dieter you used to know wore them because he was constantly hungover; your husband wears them because he keeps accidentally misplacing his actual prescription glasses. “All I’m saying is you better be back in time so Daddy can play house with Mommy.”

The shrill cry is heard through the phone, the closed bedroom door, and at least one hallway:

“Is Mommy on the phone?”

Barely a second later, you watch over his shoulder as the door flings open and a wild blur of arms and legs dogpiles Dieter onto the bed. You hear him grunt, the camera flips up to the ceiling, as Zelle and Orion clamor for the phone. Chuckling to yourself, you take up the phone from the bedside table and hold it in your palm as you lean back against the pillows and your children’s faces flash over the small screen.

“Mommy, I made a bug out of noodles and string today.”

“Mommy, I saw a cat that looked like a cow today.”

“Mommy, Daddy’s broccoli tasted funny - you cook it better!”

“Hey!” He lunges for Zelle’s little ankle and pulls her up around her waist as she giggles helplessly.

You can barely see them, Orion’s pudgy little finger over most of the camera, Dieter’s hair and Zelle’s kicking feet visible only in flashes.

“You better go help your sister, Orion!”

Needing no other prompting, he drops the phone against the pillows and leaps onto his father, squealing at the noise Dieter makes. Where Orion got your looks, he had all of his father’s mannerism. You blinked twice when as a toddler Orion’s purposeful pout had looked so similar to his father’s, you wondered if they had practiced it together. Orion is ruthless when it comes to the tickle wars and immediately goes for Dieter’s neck.

“Help!” he chokes, “I’m being overrun by tiny monsters!”

Zelle roars at his hip and Orion howls – he’d be a werewolf for Halloween a third year in a row if the tradition continued. Despite more frequent and loud protests about his poor back, Dieter lunges forward and yanks Zelle under his arm like she’s a football. He does the same to Orion and faceplants with both of them successfully pinned. It’s the oldest trick in the book and you muse what he’s going to do when they are too big to do that to anymore. But, as Dieter likes to say, one colossal nightmare at a time.

“Peace treaty?” His voice is muffled by the blanket.

“Stand and deliver,” they repeat, breathlessly and red faced. He lets them go and the two bodies barely move, grins still plastered to their faces. Cheeks pink, Dieter crawls over and snags the phone.

“See, darling?” he says between heavy breaths, “this parenting stuff is easy.”

“Mommy, when are you coming home?” Zelle pops her head between Dieter and the phone, her cheek pink and her little hands pushing her hair off her face.

“Yeah!” Orion pipes up, crawling over Dieter’s back, hooking his tiny hands over his father’s throat. Dieter’s eyes bug out for a moment before adjusting the five year old’s grip. “Are you done chasing the dragon?”

At that, Dieter snickers and you can’t glare with fire in your eyes like you’d like to so you plaster on an overly sweet smile on your face.

“Rori, we asked you not to say that. It’s a stork, remember?”

Orion frowns into Dieter’s curls. “But I want a baby brother or sister that comes from a dragon’s egg.”

“Yeah, Mom, a dragon baby is way cooler than a stork baby.”

Oh, you are going to kill him.

This was another ongoing joke . . . for Dieter. Orion’s teacher called home one night after Orion proudly announced that his mommy was off chasing the dragon. Understandably concerned about the phrase, she called to make sure everything was alright, only to find out what he meant was that his mother was expecting a new baby and instead of a stork, his father told him that Mommy was going to find a dragon to put a new egg inside her tummy, and then the new baby would eventually pop out from the egg.

This was something you had to relay through the phone to the teacher . . . because Dieter was curled up on the floor, laughing so hard he went mute, tears rolling down red cheeks. This had been his ‘stork’ story for Orion, and apparently unaware of just how impressionable a five-year-old is, told him that Mommy was chasing the dragon for a new egg. Dieter says his greatest regret in his life is that he wasn’t there to see the look on Orion’s teacher’s face.

After that, you (and Dieter once he recovered) tried to alter the story enough so that he wouldn’t accidentally imply his mother was off on a drug binge, but evidently too much stuck.

“I’m meeting with the dragon tomorrow, okay? I’m not chasing after anything. We’re having lunch. Right, Dad?”

“Absolutely.” He nods seriously at Orion and kisses that fat little cheek.

“When is the dragon gonna give you the egg with my baby sister in it?” Zelle asks, matching Dieter on her stomach. Dieter’s confidence manifested perfectly in his daughter; you and him had told her many times that the baby might be a little brother, but she just stuck her nose in the air. “I know it’s a sister,” she said, with a characteristic roll of her eyes.

“A couple more months, baby,” you smile, unconsciously rubbing at your stomach again. Baby Bravo is suspiciously quiet. Not soon enough. “But I’ll be home tomorrow, but you two have to be good for Dad until then, okay?”

Orion nods from Dieter’s shoulder, but Zelle smirks up at her father in a way that is well beyond her six years.

“I promise to eat all of Daddy’s nasty broccoli!”

Dieter’s own impish nature, thrown right back at him. The one solace you found is that your husband might have finally met his match.

He grabs her, flips her on her back, and blows a strawberry on her tummy as she shrieks with glee.

“Alright – that’s it – it’s bath time for all naughty monsters!” He hikes Orion over his shoulder and picks up Zelle by her waist. He glances back over at you, his eyes bright and a giant smile on his face.

You swear every time you see Orion, there’s less and less baby in his pudgy face, his little hands. Zelle is constantly saying and doing things that surprises you with the depth of their awareness and you know it doesn’t all come from you or Dieter.

Your heart actually aches from missing them so much.

“Monsters, say goodnight to Queen Monster–,” more yelling, roaring, “I’ll call you later tonight, okay, baby?”

You nod, your eyes suddenly hot and tight. “O-okay – love you all.”

“LOVE YOU!” The three-headed monster yells in unison as it lumbers out of the bedroom.

You end the call, just before the tears spill. Again on your back, you stare at the ceiling feeling incredibly sorry for yourself when the baby rolls over and kicks you in the ribs.

Hey, I’m here too!

You laugh, a little watery, and you wipe your eyes with your palms. Just get through tonight and you’re home.

“Okay, okay, I’m up. Let’s get ready for bed, would you like that?”

It’s late. You know you should be asleep already, but the shower had taken longer than expected. The phone call with your husband and children lingered in your mind when you turned on the water and stripped down. Your heart was so full to see Orion’s pout and Zelle’s mischievous grin, especially after such a long day on your feet and for all his teasing, Dieter’s own ease and confidence as a father, as well as a husband, left you feeling . . . warm. In fact, your mind’s eye lingers on him in the memory of the call: his beautiful, rich curls – those square black glasses that made him look annoyingly mysterious and so goddamn hot – his biceps flexing as he throws around his children with ease, his shoulders broad and straining against his shirt — his bulging forearm making his triangle tattoo pop – his wedding ring that replaced all the other rings –

The good news is the baby was almost here. The bad news is that you’re suddenly irrationally horny and your all-too-eager husband was a plane ride away.

Entirely naked besides the white hotel robe around your shoulders, you sternly ignore the plush tingling between your legs and try to focus on rubbing in lotion into your legs, your hips, over the old and new stretch marks over your stomach. Your fingers rub underneath the curve of your stomach and accidentally brush the damp curls, sending tiny shock waves up your pelvis. You gasp lowly, freezing, eyes tightly shut, fighting back that wave of arousal.

Goddamn it.

At first you think the ringing is between your ears, your blood rushing hard and fast, and then you realize it’s actually your phone going off.

Daddy Dieter, the screen reads.

You frown at the clock – if it’s late for you, then it’s very late for him. When he said he’d call you later, you didn’t think he meant literally later tonight. Still frowning, you put down the bottle of lotion and answer the phone.

“Dieter?”

“Hey, baby. How’s your night?”

He pulls back the phone and your mouth flushes with spit. He’s shirtless, sunglasses replaced with his actual glasses, that silver earring glinting in the low light. In the center of your bed, he’s propped up on several pillows with his arm tucked behind his head. He has thickened over the years, his chest and shoulders taking on a new weight as if he physically grew into fatherhood — and God, if his bicep was bulging before –

“Dieter –,” your voice is hoarse at first and you have to clear your throat to get anything out of your mouth that isn’t a whine. “Dieter, what are you doing up?”

He shrugs like he’s just been bored at home. “Bath time was easy. Orion wanted just one story and Zelle didn’t put up a fight when I told her it was bedtime and she had to put away the crayons.”

You narrow your eyes. “Did you slip them Benadryl?”

“Wow! No! Did you ever think that maybe I’m just that good of a dad?” He scoffs, mildly offended. And then he smirks. “I told them you’d come home sooner if they were good.”

“Ah, the old Santa Claus trick.” You nod sagely and sit down on the edge of the bed, the movement tugging the robe slightly. “Always a classic.”

“Yeah, I –,” Dieter’s eyes widen, edges going dark. “Are you naked?”

You swallow, his sudden shift in tone causing your thighs to clench. You cross your legs as tightly as your belly will allow, your chin held high.

“I’m in a robe, Dieter. Took a long shower.”

His eyes glitter with interest, the tip of his tongue running on the edge of his bottom lip. “How long?”

Feeling hot and swollen for months now, you flush pink, an overripe peach beneath the slightest pressure of his thumb.

“Dieter–,” it’s a whine but you shake your head. “Please don’t tease. I’m so . . . sensitive right now, and I won’t be home until tomorrow and–,”

“Baby, baby, breathe. I know it hurts.” He sits up, his eyes big and dark. “I remember how wet you get around now.”

Your cunt drools onto the robe below you, thighs sticky, his words ringing in your ears.

“Dieter, don’t –,”

“I know I can’t help you but what if I showed you how to help yourself?”

You whimper, arousal now hot and warm in the pit of your stomach. The strength of it makes your pelvis ache. You know it won’t be the same as him, but his voice, it might be enough. You nod, your heart pounding, hand holding the phone shaking.

“Then lie back, baby.” Dieter purrs and it’s almost like he’s pushing you back with his hands. You shift up the bed, careful to not step on your robe with your heels as you center yourself in the covers. But Dieter’s moving, off the bed, and he’s adjusting something behind his phone.

The baby inside you can feel your heartbeat racing and they turn, uneasy. You soothe them with small circles just above your hips, your lips between your teeth. But that touch on your skin, the look in Dieter’s eyes, you brush lower on your skin and immediately you shudder.

“Baby, please, hurry, whatever you’re doing, hurry –,”

You drop your fingers over your thighs, curling and uncurling, drawing imaginary lines like he does in the mornings against your shoulders and back.

“Just a second, sorry, almost got it.”

Then he steps back, the phone hovering in the air. Dieter sits on the bed and the camera holds the entire bed in view. Dieter is nothing if not a performer, bringing a tripod into the bedroom when he knows you need him the most. He’s so fucking hot.

“Can you see me, baby?”

You nod stiffly. “How do you want me?”

“Whatever way is comfortable,” he smiles and it’s almost as hot as his smirk. Fuck, he loves you so much. You slide the robe off your shoulders, exposing the tops of your breasts as best you can and still keeping your phone up. “Perfect, baby, that’s perfect.”

Your hand drops to your thigh again, dragging your nails up under the swell of your belly and you twitch.

“T-tell me what you would want to do,” you begin, your voice shaking, arousal smooth as it licks up your spine, “if you were here right now.” You feel warm all over, the sheets cool against your calves.

This far away, you can’t see his eyes clear enough to watch them darken entirely, but his low grunt is enough. It’s time for him to perform for his pregnant and insatiable wife.

He slips his glasses off and tosses them onto the bedside table, where they land with a clatter. You can’t even think of scolding him when he lifts his hips and yanks his gray sweatpants down his knees, then to the floor. He’s half-hard as he shuffles back to the pillows, nearly in the same position you are. You shift to match him entirely, needing the immersion to be total and complete. You’d cry if he could actually touch you.

“Are you comfortable?”

You nod again. But Dieter shakes his head, his fingers digging into his thighs. “I can’t see you this far away, baby. I need you to say it. Talk to me.”

He was usually the one vocal enough for both of you, any coherent language impossible with the mess he makes out of you. You can’t imagine what you’re going to sound like, not when you’re this needy and desperate already.

“O-okay, Dieter, I’ll try.”

“Good girl.” You whimper again, trying to restrain from touching yourself before he tells you to. But you’re throbbing, the heat blooming from your cunt rushing to the rest of your body, the baby in you restless. As if mother and child can only be soothed by their father. “Now, breathe, darling, you’re flushed.”

You inhale, the air notching on every bone in your spine, and exhale, your lungs shuddering, eyes shut. “Dieter, please, tell me what you’d –,”

“I’d touch your thighs,” he says with such immediacy, your eyes spring open. He’s got the knee farthest from you bent up, as if putting himself on display, turning his hips towards the camera slightly. His other leg is stretched out long beside him and his left hand strokes his cock. Hair and shoulders backlit from the far lamp, the image of him like this alone — just for you — has your cunt clenching, a moan spilling from your lips. “Touch your thighs, baby.”

You can’t grab as much skin as he does, but you try. You lift your knees, and massage the backs of your thighs, then up to your knees, and back down. You can almost feel his breath on your calves and you shudder. “What else? W-where else?”

“I’ve been thinking about your tits for days,” he groans, the sound strangled, his cock now fully-hard and red. He cups himself, twisting as slow as he can take it. “Tell me what your tits feel like.”

“Sensitive,” you gasp as you draw two fingers across your nipple and squeeze gently. Dieter only uses his mouth now on them, so you wet them with yours and return them to your swollen bud, slowly twisting and pulling.

He’s watching you through the camera, eyes wide, breath sharp when you suck your fingers into your mouth. “Fuck, yeah, that’s right. Get them wet. What are you thinking about?”

“You. Your lips around my nipple, under my breast. Your teeth. They’re so heavy, Dieter.”

His hips jerk under his hand, his fingers moving faster now. You can’t quite hear what he’s muttering, but you catch weak mumblings, “gonna feed our baby”, “yeah, your tits”, the baby” —

“Dieter, please–,”

“Touch yourself with your fingers wet from your mouth. T-t-tell me what it feels like.”

With a relieved cry, you slide your hand down from your tits, over the swell of your belly, and in between your thighs. Wetness clings to the curls, to the curve of your ass, your body so ready to take him, and it locks up when you slip a finger inside.

“So wet. Warm. How many fingers can I put in?”

“One, but – can you already do two?”

You nod, the huff arching into a whine. “Yeah, baby. You have no idea how wet I am. I can slip in two with no resistance.”

“Jesus,” he pants and slows down, his hips rocking of their own accord. “You’ve got me so hard.”

You curl your fingers inside of you, searching for that spot made and found and praised by him. Your folds plump and achy, you twist your wrist, scissor your fingers, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same as his three fingers plugging you up, readying you to take so much of him, it’s enough to ease the sharp ache for a bit. You moan, fucking yourself more. He hears it, sees it, and grunts.

“You can come wherever you want, baby,” he murmurs, his own hand hesitant to match your speed. He tugs on his balls and his toes curl, his neck long and tense. “Fuck, I need your hands.”

“Me too,” you sob, real tears pricking the corners of your eyes. It feels good but it’s not the relief you need. It’s pathetic but you don’t want to stop. You can’t get in deep enough, even if you could get around your big belly. “Dieter, I can’t reach. It’s – I’m –,”

“Breathe, love, it’s okay.” His voice is soothing, calming. The same one he uses when you’re in labor and the sweet honey warmth of it sinks into your bones, easing the panic. You slow, gasping, tears pooling down your temple. Your orgasm is harsh, sunken in the dark, waiting for you to draw it out.

“What can you reach?”

“My clit.”

“Then touch that. Can I see?”

You nod, angle the phone down as you rub that electric nub.

“Oh, fuck, baby. I know it’s frustrating and I know it hurts, but you look so fucking good. So wet for me. Your pussy is perfect, pink, just how I like her.”

“Yeah?” you spin your fingers faster. That hot arousal returns steadily, melting back the resentment towards your own body the longer he praises.

“Oh yeah.” You can hear the slap of skin on the other end of the phone and you can picture Dieter flat on his back jerking himself off to your pulsating cunt and you moan, loudly, tension evaporating from your body. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Tight. I just need a bit more.”

“Me too. Let me see your face, pretty girl.” You turn the camera and gape at the sight on the screen.

Precum drips out of his now-purple cock, his chest flushed and neck sweaty. He’s twirling the head around with his thumb at the pace you’ve set with your fingers against your clit.

“Look at what you’ve done to me. You’re so fucking gorgeous. Can’t wait for you to be home so I can eat you out for hours.”

“I want your cock in me, Dieter,” you gasp, furiously rubbing on your clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you. Your cunt clenches in time with your thudding heartbeat. “You’re so thick. I wanna feel the stretch.”

“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you hard.” The confession is a low snarl, a promise made between the ridges of his teeth. He fucks his fist faster, the noise over his labored breathing obscene. “Gonna put your hands on the headboard, your pussy in my lap and I’m gonna fuck up into you until I fill you full again. Wanna make you pregnant twice.”

Arousal floods your veins, your thighs a gooey mess. You toss your head back, back arching, and you moan as loud as you can.

“Oh– shit, oh, oh, shit–,”

“You’re gonna leak all over my thighs and when you’re done coming so hard you can’t see straight, I’m gonna lick it up all off you, my wife. Mine. My baby. Mine. Fuck, you look so good full of me.”

He’s never this possessive, never angry that he can’t have you but he sounds livid. He fucks his fist, his hips bucking into nothing, his other hand squeezing his thigh so hard his knuckles go white.

You circle your clit one more time and finally — your orgasm crests, your body locking up, your cunt gushing – and it leaves your mouth before you can stop it –

“Oh, Daddy–,”

You hear him gasp as if electrocuted, and you have to drop your phone to steady yourself as the weight of white-hot pleasure explodes across your body. You rock, breath gone from your lungs, mouth open in a silent scream, and everything slams back into you and you gasp, high and loud, every inch of your skin hot and trembling. You don’t realize you’re sweating until you feel it drip off your neck.

All you can hear is Dieter panting from your phone amongst the covers, the sound muffled. Your eyes flutter as the warm waves languish, then curl, and finally, you sigh as the last waves drain out of your body. If you weren’t lying down you’re sure you’d be dizzy.

“Oh my god,” you mutter breathlessly to no one in particular.

“B-baby, you still there?”

You blindly feel around for your phone, arm so weak it’s trembling as you pull the camera towards your face

Dieter looks about as fucked out as you feel. Cock limp and still dribbling, his stomach and chest are covered in cum. He pushes his damp hair off his forehead, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling.

“Holy shit, baby, that was …”

“Yeah,” you nod, swallowing your dry tongue, wishing again he was here so he could get you a glass of water. “I hope that wasn’t all of it because I really want you to say all of those things again tomorrow when you’re inside me.”

He groans and adjusts his limp cock. “You say that now but wait until Baby Bravo kicks you in the kidneys. You’ll be feeling a lot less generous towards this,” he gestures aimlessly to his naked body, “then.”

You chuckle. “Let’s just hope for the best. Besides,” you say, groaning a bit as you sit up to wipe the sweat off your neck with the robe, “I’m pretty sure I can have you eating out of the palm of my hand. Now that I know your secret . . . Daddy.”

Dieter groans as you laugh. He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be so surprised by now when you make me discover new kinks.”

“Mhmm hmm.”

He rolls his eyes as he gets up and picks the phone off the tripod. Holding the phone to his face, he wipes the cum off with his sweatpants before turning his attention back to you.

“How are you? Feel better?”

“Much better.” You stretch and lean back in the bed. If he was here, you’d probably be asking to eat you out, but at least the knife’s edge of desire has dulled. You can at least wait until nap time to jump your husband’s bones.

“Good,” Dieter sighs, satisfied. “I’ll be there to pick you up from the airport tomorrow, okay?”

He always gets like this the nearer the due date comes, as if he can’t stand to see you lift a finger unnecessarily. You smile and nod, never wanting it to be any other way.

“I’ll text you when I land.”

“Okay. Good night, my biggest love. I love you, so much.”

“I love you too, Dieter.” Goddamn hormones, making you cry again.

“Now lemme say goodbye to our little traveler.”

You wipe your eyes with your thumb as you tilt the phone to your swollen belly.

“Good night, Baby Bravo. Can’t wait to have you around.”

And, at the sound of their father’s voice, they stir. Not kick or hurt. Just a tiny foot against your tight skin.

You are officially crying now.

“They said hi, didn’t they?”

You’re nodding, crying, and he can’t see a damn thing. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “They said good night, Dad.”

He’s patient with you as you wipe your eyes, cheeks flushed again.

“Baby, don’t cry, you’re breaking my heart.”

“You’re just a really good dad. And I’m so lucky,” you blubber. “This is it! I’m never leaving to go scouting again. I can’t take it.”

“Mhmm. Let’s revisit that when you’re about two months postpartum and clawing at the walls.”

You laugh with him, your own sticky and goopy. “Fine.”

“Go to bed, love, and for the record, I’m the lucky one. Don’t forget that. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night.” You blow a kiss and he catches it. You roll your eyes. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You stay like that for a bit, cradled by the pillows, and your phone on your chest, thinking about everything from Dieter to the next school picture day, to the next family vacation, and of course, the zillion things you have to get done with work before the baby comes — hopefully all from the home office.

She kicks.

You smile, wondering how you and Zelle both just know it’s a girl. Dieter has his own suspicions, he says, but he’s saving them. Orion would probably be thrilled to have a dragon in the family. You snort, hand over the place where she put her little foot.

“I miss them too, sweetie. And once you’re here, we’ll outnumber those silly boys. Maybe we’ll have to get a dog. You’ll like dogs.”

She’s silent, maybe sleeping, maybe thinking about what the heck a dog is. You smile, turn off the lamp, and peel back the covers. The sheets are cool and soft.

You fall asleep, dreaming of little feet, and hands, and wedding rings.

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zillasvilla · 11 days

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❤️‍🔥 Welcome to Akhara’s PlayHouse ❤️‍🔥

❤️‍🔥more playboys coming soon||spam account: akharareblogs

Introduction: Akhara’s playhouse is a male centered fictional world, where they all fight for the attention of the writer. Akhara. Yup, that’s me.

Each play boy is unique in their own way, all expressing different ranges of emotion and skills. However boys will be boys, and Akhara is only one woman.

This is an eighteen plus blog containing: Mature themes, Rated-R content and pure filth. I reserved all rights to block anyone under the age of eighteen.

Roman Reigns:

Rebellion in the Shadows: Joseph Anoai replaces his father as Matai Joseph , and must now navigate his new role as chief, while wondering if his reign could match that of his father’s.

Averi makes a narrowing escape from some dangerous people. She finds her self saved by a mysterious man. Still, she keeps her walls up.

One : Two

Samuelu Island

Jey Uso:

Beyond the Lights: Soraya is a well known artist in the music industry, and her accolades reflect that. While her career may be thriving and successful. She still has a lot to learn as she faces the trials and tribulations that come with the fame.

zero : one : two : three : four : five : six : seven

Nap time

Randy Orton:

Mayhem: A planned feud goes a bit too far when two sisters pitch a story line that shifts the trajectory of the women’s division. co-written with: @keyaho

preview

Micheal B. Jordan:

Dadmonger Series: Erik and his wife are parents to ten-year old twin boys. Come along with them and their little family as they navigate their lives as parents.

winter party : not my sons : school bullies Mistletoe Clean up woman I wish you would He wasn’t man enough for me

Winston Duke:

International Studies Wedding Day

Chadwick Boseman:

Berlin

Trevante Rhodes: Coming Soon Cody Rhodes: Coming Soon Triple H: Coming Soon Pablo Schreiber: Coming Soon

Akhara’s Patrons: If you would like to be added, please comment on the master list. I will try to frequently update it as much as I can.

@justazzi @yana3sworld @wrestlingprincess80 @abadbitchblogs @paigereeder @kill-the-artiste @destinio1 @kill-the-artiste @reci1996 @mindairy @jatriciablog @alichesmi @jstarr86 @minsheyaish @wonderingfashion @whatdoeseverybodywant @jeysbvck @jeysbaby @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @keyaho @chaneajoyyy @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @empressdede @southerngirl41 @alyyaanna @pimptressss

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spoiledskullz · 7 months

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Happy Halloween the first

They're walking through a haunt

#May or may not be based on real events #knuckles the echidna #boom knuckles #sonic fan character #welkin the wolf #knuckles x welkin #spoiled art #sonic oc #oc x canon #The sketch looked nicer as it always does

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p1nkc4lyps0 · 26 days

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sorry about that bro totally spilled my pack bonding instinct there

time taken: 8 hours 20 mins

reblogs > likes

Close ups

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neonpinkfeels · 6 months

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Chapter 8 Part 2 - The End!

Previous chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 part 1

The big finale!

Alright let's see if I can tag everyone in order of appearance:

Elena - @thecrazyashley-blog

Emilio - @seanettlles

Maria - @dororoxpenana

Coco - @coco_zz

Diana - @leggyegg

Noelle - @noellemadrigal

Angela - @overly-dramatic-artist

Nuria - @lord_madmyth

Armida - @pepa-brainrot

Karina - @unorthodoxtexan

Enrique - @teews_01

Ari - @inthishousewestanspiderpunk

Rosa - @rosa_santos928

Efi - @ursakursa

Elena - @prophetic-hijinks

Diego @redcookies-bestcookies

Claudia - @greenvillainredemption

Daniela - @kay_in_pigtails

Itzel - @meepxii

Javier - @sionnach

Victoria - @butterflygirl386

This closes the story my dears. It has been awesome to participate and to join the discussions on the forum. I will now disappear for a bit while I prepare my original story. If you want to know more just head over to @heyheynebula on instagram or tumblr.

#encanto #bruno madrigal #bruno madrigal x oc #encanto original character #encanto oc challenge #encancomics #encanto fanart #encanto oc #encanto oc event #encanto oc appreciation #la familia madrigal #camilo madrigal #pepa madrigal #felix madrigal #alma madrigal #julieta madrigal #mirabel madrigal #dolores madrigal

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meepxii · 7 months

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week 1: introduction

Background

Her full name is Verónica Itzel Fontana Aguilar, she's a mexican-colombian girl. Her parents arrived at El Encanto when they were kids with the group of people in which Pedro and Alma were. Her father's family, the Fontanas, are horsemen from Sinaloa, and fled Mexico during the Porfiriato. Her mother is from Yucatan, and unfortunately, was orphaned shortly before arriving in town, and she and her younger sister were adopted by the Fontana family. They work raising horses and selling them. Their business is well established in the town, and they're one of the most important families in there. Anyways, they're not friends with the Madrigals, and only interact with them whenever they need something. Itzel is the eldest of two children in the Fontana-Aguilar family.

Despite having a normal childhood, Itzel was a lonely child. Her father worked all day in the stables, so he didn't spend time with her; her mother only worked until noon 'cause she's a teacher, but she just couldn't stand her own child, and sent her to her room to keep her away from her. Itzel was a restless and energetic girl, so this affected her a lot, making her look outside her family circle for the attention that she wasn't given at home.

Itzel's parents in their twenties.

Personality

Itzel is a kind person and has good feelings, but she's very disconnected from her own emotions and her environment, which makes her quite impulsive. Even so, the emotions Itzel feels are very intense, and is a hopeless romantic. She collapses easily, and crying is her way of channeling her anger, happiness, or sadness. She's also a theater kid, and tends to unconsciously create her own problems by believing herself to be the protagonist of her own soap opera/novela. She really likes to grab the spotlight, and knows she's pretty, so she takes advantage of this to get what she wants. Sometimes this attitude of hers gets her into trouble.

Her savior complex and her lack of judgment when in love always make her get into toxic relationships.

Her theme song:

Occupation

Since she was a child, Itzel showed special interest in art and knew she definitely wanted to be an artist. When she expressed her desire of devoting her life to art, her parents objected, arguing that a woman couldn't choose that occupation. However, they didn't stop her either, she did what she wanted, and fulfilled her dream anyway. She is the town muralist, and makes oil paintings as well. Her parents began to support her when they saw that she could actually make a living from it.

Outfits

Age progression

i'm super late for week one 😭 i had to fix some things on her character sheet, but here she is!

@encanto-extended-edition

#encanto #encanto oc appreciation #encanto oc #encanto oc event #oc x canon #bruno x oc #itzel fontana #original character

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evermorethecrow · 2 months

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plantchu beach episode

#non canon canon events #plant shop au #the womans names etsuko ill mention her later #shes super nice #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd art #my corrupt art #chuuyabsd #bungo stray dogs manga #chuuya #i love him #chuuya au #bsd chuuya #chuuya bsd #bsd oc #oc #oc x character

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nono-uwu · 3 months

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First oc post i am shaking crying throwing up for multiple reasons and also anxious as hell- anyways, meet the man, the failure disaster gay, the forever doomed ginger(derogatory/lh)

I forgot to add his birthday omg, it's march 13th

Lore utc (i wrote a lot lmao), the uh post ch 134 stuff will be elaborated on later (or if asked. Actually, ask me anything about him. And my other oc's once they're posted. Please. I will answer in great detail. I also need a distraction. Pls.)

So basically, among the first few vampires (a 4th progenitor to be percise) turned by Shikama was a woman who showed great potential for spells and magic. She had a loving husband and child which she tragically lost in an accident. Upon turning into a vampire, her family was still the only thing on her mind. She accepted to help Shikama in his endeavors to revive Mikaela since she hoped she could revive her own family in the proccess. Unfortunately it didn't work. Disillusioned, she abandoned vampire kind and started searching for the possible reincarnation of her beloved husband, whom she may be able to have a child with and have family again.

Fast forward a a lot, and I mean a lot, of years and she arrived in 60s japan. None of the people she had hope for turned out to be the reincarnation of her late husband until that fateful day. She encountered a (rather pathetic may I add) man in his late 20s and it was like a miracle. The woman cornered the man in disbelief and from this awkward first meeting blossomed true love. Then everything went to shit lmaooo

The first problem was that the mans family didn't approve of the woman. Tough this didn't stop their love. Next was the issue of bearing a child, something that a vampire simply can't do. Well, an ordinary one but this woman was anything but ordinary. By some impossible miracle she bore a child. A biological child. (GIRL HOW?? We will never know and frankly, i don't want to think about it💀)

The child was, as expected tbh, kind of a disaster. Already born with pointy ears and sharp fangs. The child needed both human food and blood to properly sustain themselves. Drinking blood outside of their family would permanently stop their aging. Despite this, the couple was overjoyed. (And then named their child "mistake" bc that would help /s.) They named him "Machigai". Why tho?? I dunno man something along the lines of "a mistake but the best mistake of their life" bruh

So after Machigai was old enough to walk, but not old enough to remember, the mother diappeared, leaving father and child behind. The father did his best to raise such an... extraordinary child but it was understandably kind of impossible. Machigai grew up alone and isolated from his peers. He was always wearing a hood of some kind and rarley opened his mouth to talk. In high school, he met a girl who he became good friends with but she is another oc I'll post about sometime adlf,wpl.

Anyways! Come Machigai's high school graduation and 18th birthday, his father... disappeared. All he left was a note saying, that Machigai now owned the apartment and that there is enough blood in the fridge to sustain Machigai's thrist while he could grow and mature. To an already depressed and disillusioned Machigai this obviously didn't help. Throughout the next years he became a shut in, who only left the house if absolutely necessary. All he did all day was play video games, watch tv and later be on the internet. Once he ran out of his fathers blood was when things changed. He had to go out and actually find a new source of blood. Welp, sorry to unlucky bastards who went into dark alleyways at night bc these types of people became Machigai's source of blood. (That's when he stopped aging)

On one of these nightly escapades, Machigai was greeted by a large man in a neat black suit who called himself "Saito". Saito claimed to have known Machigai's mother and offered a deal: Machigai would offer up his unique constitution to the Hyakuya sect's research and in turn get a well paying job and a guaranteed source of blood. He agreed. "Welcome to the Hyakuya sect. I look forward to your performance"

Machigai was practically a lab rat for the development of cursed gear. Thanks to his half-n-half physiology he could tank wounds from cursed gear/magic n shit while still providing useful data to how effective it is. During this time Machigai aquired knowledge of vampire culture(?), became familiar with magic and it's quirks and learned how to perform simple spells and whatnot.

Around 2011, when the internet was already fairly well used, Machigai came across a forum dedicated to paranormal sightings. Various users claimed that a secluded spot in Kyoto was home to vampires. (Ferid was the one spreading these rumors btw) Most would have dissmissed this as someone wanting attention, yet Machigai was intrigued. He was well aware that vampires existed across the world but he mever knew how to actually contact them. Perhaps out of morbid curiosity, perhaps out of a genuine want for connection with people like him, he went to check out the spot. There, he met none other than the eccentric Ferid Bathory who specifically manufactured the rumor to meet Machigai (extra much?). He was well aware of Machigai's work for Rígr "Saito" Stafford and was trying to one up his father by stealing his most prized lab-rat. Machigai declined, not trusting a single thing out of that vampires mouth. Ferid left, already proclaiming that one day Machigai would be working for him.

Machigai stuck around that area as it was already well into the night and public transport wouldn't start up until the early morning. There he met another vampire: Crowley Eusford. Their meeting wasn't planned or meticulously calculated, it was actually rather awkward. Their chat was meaningless and short but in the end leagues above whatever Ferid likes to plan. Crolwey has already unwillingly heard about this curious being from Ferid and seeing Machigai himself left him wanting to learn more about him. Machigai was left a little hopeful, that perhaps it's not too late for him to look for connections.

So the apocalypse rolls around-

Machigai makes a deal with Saito that in exchange for his freedom (*eagle screech*) he would keep his mouth shut about anything the Hyakuya sect discovered while Machigai was there.

Machigai seeks out the Demon Army where he successfully keeps his half vampire identity a secert until someone on his squad gets blackmailed into revealing it. Before that, he gets a cursed weapon, a pair of daggers. And lo and behold, the demon possessing the daggers is his own mother. Unfortunately since the now demonic mother didn't witness Machigai growing up, she falsey believes to be able to still shape Machiagi to her will. After getting locked up by the army, Machigai completley gives up, only wishing for his miserable existence to end (spoiler: It won't! Ever. :) ). He ultimately loses any and all trust he has in humanity or just anything in general.

After about half a year of grueling torture and some experimentation, Machigai gets freed (kidnapped) by Ferid and promptly brought to Kyoto Sangiuem. Krul Tepes, finding Machigai to be useful in her fake-ish war against humanity and whatever she's planning with Yuu and Mika, lets him be part of the japanese vampires under Ferids faction. Ferid found himself unwilling to deal with the often uncooperative and irritated new "recruit" so he did what he does best and made it Crowley's problem.

After a rather agressive and disrespectful first impression, Machigai was officially a... coworker? of Crowley and thus also Chess and Horn in Nagoya. The three got the additional task by Ferid to somehow domesticate this feral and angry stray animal and get him to open up. At least that's how Ferids orders were phrased. Shenanigans, Drama and FeelingsTM ensue.

(How did I write so much??)

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yanderehsr · 6 months

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Time for the second reward for 1k followers, it's an event

OC X Character Event

Here are the rules

1. Do not send in the OC as an anonymous, the reason why will be explained in number two

2. Each person may only get one OC written about, you can send in multiple but I will only write for one per person

3. You will have to explain some things about your OC, such as looks, Personality and a bit of backstory, even if you have a link please write this in your request.

4. The OC will NOT be the yandere

5. You can pick if you wanna choose the yanderes or if I will choose them for you, either one works for me

6. How long will this go on? Until the 1 december you will be able to send in requests, any OC requests afterwards will be deleted, if you have written a request before the deadline but I still haven't written about them until after the deadline, I will still post that one.

7. Have fun ^^

Masterlist:

OC: Lukyan Yandere: Childe

OC: Eclipsa Yandere: Furina, Raiden Ei, Nahida and Venti

OC: Aleron Yandere: Venti and Guinaifen

OC: Cyrus Yandere: Welt

OC: Noriku Yandere: Hu Tao and Barbara

OC: Elyna Yandere: Neuvillette

OC: Rosemary Yandere: Blade and Yoimiya

OC: Buraku Yandere: Scaramouche

OC: Shari Yandere: Kaveh

OC: Tobi Yandere: Lumine

OC: Hikaru Yandere: Zhongli

OC: Atalai Yandere: Diluc and Ningguang

OC: Puji Yandere: Topaz and Herta

OC: Marcel Yandere: Jing Yuan, Blade and Huohuo

OC: Isabella Yandere: Xiao

#yandere #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere danganronpa #yandere fire emblem: three houses #yandere fe3h #yandere male #yandere female #oc #1000 followers #event #oc x canon #oc x character event

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hershelwidget · 4 months

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yeah this is exactly the difference between the three crews. Alternate Crew is depressed and bargaining with Inkling to let them go back to the Octopod safely, Beta Crew out here living their best lives before they inevitably implode, and Player Crew can’t go 5 minutes without the Cha Cha Slide

#misery x cpr x reese's puffs #i might make a full vid about this concept but for now… alas #giggles as i tag the available characters #octonauts #captain barnacles #shellington octonauts #professor inkling #hershel’s octonauts au #……..#deltarune k k #yeah. yeah that funky fellar is here #other ocs #three generations of octonauts and they just get wackier than the last #i love how the first gen is pretty normal (beta) then the second is knowing the ropes (alternate)#second gen does go downhill quite a few times but they’re holding up #third gen is a MESS and i mean that in a loving way (player)#also Cha Cha Slide here usually refers to a event in which manual control goes haywire and throws everyone around #here i’m using it as a broader term for Chaos which happens. every hosting now :) i love it here

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chronically-ghosted · 7 months

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can you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills?

rating: T (this is the tamest thing I’ve written in years)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a year into secretly dating, you are overwhelmed by your feelings for Dieter Bravo, confident and resigned to the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way. But on Oscar’s night, drunk on sparkling wine and a terrific win, Dieter gives you a reason to doubt your fears.

warnings/tags: age gap, self-aggrandizing rumination on our public vs private personas, a stupid amount of kissing, angst but soft angst, angst that is resolved, this is very different from anything i’ve done recently, and there’s no smut? just kisses? What have you become Taylor? one very very very soft Dieter, waxing shamelessly poetic about being in love and being loved by Dieter Bravo

a/n: this comes from the same request by two of my LOVELY followers ( @tvversionperson and @bitchwitch1981) from my 100 followers event: “I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?” “You’re not doing anything.” “But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?” with Dieter Bravo. this is so wildly different from anything i've done before, i'm flinging this into the internet like a goddamn trapshooter of emotional angst

shout out to @iamdesibell for the visuals of Dieter at the party. She spoils me with all of her incredible Dieter artwork.

🤍Masterlist

Every artist knows it's about the looks. The aesthetics of it all, the internet’s new favorite buzzword. Increasingly too often, the merit of the artwork is equated to the moral merit of the artist; it’s not so much about selling the image you create, it’s about selling the image of yourself. Does the artist fit into the image of what the masses imagine when they hear what the artist offers? Can the artist balance both the expectations and provide something new? When is the right time to break the mold, and be different, or when is it best to follow the crowd? Keep your head down and make more content than art. When does the aesthetics of a thing matter more than the thing itself?

For Oscar’s night, often there is nothing more important than the look of things. The elegance. The allure but approachability of the stars. Beautiful but obtainable. Handsome but effortless. But beneath all the veneer, all the lights, and gold and glitz, there is a yearning, an animalistic hunger, for a quite literal shiny object waved in their faces to clamor and push and shove for. The beauty is a mask that covers fragility and fear and anticipation – and that mask must remain firmly in place, no matter the outcome. Remember, they’re watching, always watching, and you cannot want a thing too much, lest you become conceited or conniving. You cannot love in a way that scares them.

And sometimes, you think you love him in a way that scares yourself.

His warm palm grips yours over your knee. He, along with the other nominees, wait patiently as the names are read allowed from the gilded stage. His face, a mask – of curiosity, of wonder – but only you, perhaps because you are so close to him, can see the fraught want in his eyes. You know how much he wants this, how much you want this for him. He wants it so much he’s trembling. Microscopically. Barely at all, barely a flinch of genuine human emotion, it makes you sick. Because Dieter, the Dieter you’ve come to know in the past year, is so wonderfully unpolished, such a sterling testament to the beauty in the raw, it makes a spot behind your sternum ache to watch him hold himself back.

You want to give him a smile of encouragement, to kiss his knuckles and soothe his hammering pulse with your thumb, but you can’t. You can’t even look at him, any movement immediately flagged by the cameras. Always watching.

But behind the rows of seats, they can’t see your clasped hands. Can’t see his tapping foot. They can’t see how much he wants, how much he loves. As the names are read aloud for the category of Best Actor, you lift your thumbnail to the meat of his palm, between his own thumb and index finger. Gently, softly, quietly, so as not to startle the molecules of air around you, you draw a heart in his skin.

But by his rigid posture, you’re not sure he registers it. You can’t tell if he knows you’re there at all.

It began a year ago.

After a truly spectacular break up that left you bereft and aimless, you decided to quit. Quit it all. Quit and start over doing the one thing you actually had passion for: screenwriting. Was it risky and dumb as hell at your age? Absolutely. But it didn’t matter if you never ended up writing for a big Hollywood film, you told yourself, as long as you were writing, that’s all that mattered.

So you quit writing articles about car insurance, packed up everything, and moved to the City of Angels.

Two years later, you were still earning your dues. Still working from the bottom of the barrel up, climbing through muck and verbal abuse and emotional exploitation and the very dredges of the industry.

You tried to focus on your craft, on getting more than just getting coffee for the actual writers, but after multiple days spending nineteen hours on your feet, the capacity to be creative so rarely comes, your brain often sizzled and fried like the back end of a janky, unreliable toaster. The production company you worked for had just purchased the rights to a popular novelist’s book for a film adaptation. The party you were at was more of a “pat yourself on the back” sort of thing for the director and novelist to rub elbows while surrounded by beautiful people. Attending mind-numbing parties for the sake of building connections was one thing. You could actually have fun when you wanted, but this? This self-indulgent, ego-driven, flattery bullshit, when all you wanted to do was sleep?

You watch as Eliot Baker, friend of the director and whose house is currently being trashed by a bunch of dangerously drunk and high animals, steps up onto his kitchen table. His pupils nearly dilated to the size of quarters, he holds up a baggy of white powder.

“Anyone interested in Colombia’s finest, please join me in the bedroom. Beautiful women, please stay.”

The three shots you had done earlier had done nothing to dull your irritation, now amplified by the grating cheer that goes up from the crowd. Coke rarely puts you in a better mood, but at least it’s better than sulking by the stairs. Eliot leaps off the table and leads a gaggle of giggling women, and men with their hands all over their sparkly asses, down the hall and you try not to roll your eyes, your feet all but dragging beneath you.

Then someone catches you by the elbow.

And you wonder how a homeless man got past security.

A comically large green beanie on his head, a blindly yellow hood zipped up over what perhaps had been a white t-shirt – you are immediately arrested by his dark, soft eyes. Thick, furrowed brow. He hasn’t let go of your elbow.

“That guy is a fucker,” he tells you with vehemence.

“What?” He could have asked you your name and you would have said the exact same thing.

“Baker,” he sneers over your shoulder at the small crowd tumbling through the open door, Eliot’s too blue eyes watching like a farmer counts cattle to the slaughterhouse. “He laces his shit. Makes you too fucked up. He’s the kind of evil fucker who roofies drinks.”

The stranger looks at you, the twist of rage around his mouth fading, eyes softening again, as if he is worried about you.

“Don’t go in there,” he says.

His warm hand is still around your elbow.

“Okay,” you say because you haven’t come across anyone this earnest, maybe in your entire life, and certainly not since moving to LA.

He blinks, as if surprised, and slowly withdraws his hand. You stare at each other for perhaps too long before he jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Wanna smoke some weed?”

The cool night air of LA always surprises you. It’s never cold, no, but the chill is noticeable, tangible, always right at the back of your neck when you least expect it. You stifle the urge to shiver as the man slides the glass door behind him, immediately deafening the party inside. You hadn’t realized it had been so loud until there is blissful silence, the sound of blood rushing in your ears replacing the trance music and the dull hum of overlapping voices.

The man straight off the set of The Big Lebowski unhurriedly digs around in the pocket of that obnoxious hoodie for a bit, as if he could lose an item in that small pouch.

He finds what he’s looking for with a grin on his face, and when he brings both the lighter and blunt to his lips, you realize his left arm is in a cast.

He sees you eye it, managing to light and hit the blunt with one hand before pocketing the lighter and offering the smoke to you. The browns in his eyes are overcome by the darkness surrounding you on the back porch overlooking the valley below, the skyline of Los Angeles winking in the far distance.

You notice something, not writing or words on his cast, more like a dark blot, but you don’t ask him about it. Most people in this business you’ve found are only on for the cameras and when it comes to personal, quiet moments, the less personable they have to be the better. You feel like you’re already pressing your luck by getting a few free hits off this guy so you wait your turn, ready to be as silent as he wants it to be.

Which apparently isn’t very much at all.

“How’d you end up here?” He asks with genuine interest and just a touch of weariness.

You shrug as you take the blunt from him again. “My boss is here to schmooze his new writer. As his assistant, I think I’m contractually obligated to be around him more than his own shadow.”

“You’re a PA?” He asks, voice strained and full of smoke, before he puffs out the side of his mouth. A considerate smoker, then.

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m whatever is lower than a PA. I think an actual bottom-feeder in a fish tank has more power than me.”

“So you’re new to the scene?”

You scowl, one arm tucked around your waist, the other tapping on your thigh. “Yeah, if two years is still new.”

He frowns. “What are you trying to break into?”

His fingertips brush yours over the next exchange and maybe it’s the earnest look in his eyes, or the bizarre fact that he actually smells good despite looking like he’d raided a garbage can, or maybe it’s the weed finally hitting, but you are honest with this complete stranger.

“I wanna be a screenwriter.”

Maybe it’s the drugs finally hitting him too, but the glossy shine to his eyes doesn’t seem to be from boredom as you explain to him the past few years of your life, starting from the breakup in Boston to getting a very specific brand of q-tips from a drugstore on the other side of town for your boss at midnight.

“I know I have to pay my dues, and I don’t mind that, but I just want to do something that matters, you know?” The unexpected chill of the night air curls around your neck as he listens intently to your uninterrupted ramble for ten minutes. “I don’t even care about big movies, or the awards, I want to write something that touches just one person. Give them something to think about for years to come. Comforts or encourages them to do the thing they’re scared of doing.” You feel heat climb up your ears as he watches as though you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “It’s silly. It’s just a job, and I know I should treat it like that . . .”

You trail off, waiting for him to admonish you, but instead he grins. A smile that widens his whole face. On someone else it might look condescending, but he’s grinning wildly as he slides the joint back into his mouth with two fingers and leans back on his heels.

“So you’re a little dreamer, huh?” That faint blush now beats a harsh red. Fuck, you knew you sounded like an idiot – always opening up too soon and too fast to strangers who don’t really give a fuck. You were just supposed to have a conversation with this nice, albeit weird guy and go on your way and –

He cocks his head as he looks at you, takes in your beet-red ears and cheeks and that smile falters.

“You know that’s not a bad thing, right? The world needs more dreamers. People, who despite all the bullshit, continue to believe they can be happy.”

“You could also call that being delusional,” you mutter as you take the halfway-spent joint from him when he offers.

One of those thick eyebrows jerks as though thinking of a funny joke. He shrugs, his mouth twisting down in a disbelieving smirk. “Personally, I like to call it whimsy.”

Whimsy? Who talks like that?

You fight a giggle and find him looking at you again, that smile smoothed out and warm again. One glance and you snort loudly, then bust out laughing.

Those magnanimous eyes glitter as he watches you laugh yourself silly.

“Child-like, wondrous whimsy,” he teases and you laugh harder as though he tickled you. Another snort explodes out of you and you clap your hand over your mouth, finally hearing the noises you’re making and mortified beyond reason. You glance over your shoulder, worried someone else might have heard your donkey laugh. In fact, you wish anyone other than the gorgeous man standing next to you had heard it.

But if he finds it unpolished or annoying, he doesn’t show it. He just rolls on his heels, grinning and looking overly pleased with himself. When the giggles subside, you bite your lip at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away, Pistol Pete.”

“How’d you break your arm?”

He looks down at it as he forgot it was there.

“Uh, it’s a long story.”

He finally pulls it out of the sleeve of his jacket. Your mouth drops.

You can’t even tell what medium had been used, either paint or sharpie or something else entirely, but the cast is a mosaic of some of the most gorgeous artwork you’d ever seen. Birds in gold and blue hues, flowers and leaves in stunningly rendered detail, the curves of anonymous noses and lips and teeth and earlobes – all wound together in collage by someone with an eye for detail and a precious reverence for the mundane.

But for all the artwork, designs you fully believe should be in a museum, you realize no one has signed it. Maybe only twelve year olds sign each other’s casts, you think harshly to yourself. Grow up.

But still, the sight makes you a little sad.

“Did you do these?” You ask quietly.

He nods, turning his arm to give you a better look, as if eager for your approval. You think you see the horns of Goya’s El Gran Cabrón before he pulls his arm back.

The man hasn’t answered your original question, watching your face for every microexpression. Finally, you do glance up and he has his bottom lip in teeth, as though preparing to be scolded.

At that moment, you want nothing more than to kiss those plush lips. You swallow, feeling rather lighted-headed and capable of making terrible decisions, so you take a clear step back.

“I got daydrunk and fell in my pool wrong.”

You frown at him. “That’s not a very long story.”

He drops your gaze, suddenly bashful, and shakes his sleeve back over his cast. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t come up with a better story that makes me look really cool, or makes you laugh, so I went with the lame truth.”

You don’t remark that it sounds like he wanted to impress you so you go for the easy alternative.

“Why would I laugh at you?”

He flops his arms in half-shrug. “I don’t want you to laugh at me. I just want you to laugh. I like your laugh.”

How does someone who wears their heart so openly on their sleeve survive in a place like this? You want him to swallow you down so you can count the rings in his stomach, learn his history like oak trees.

“Who are you?” You blurt out, your mouth full of cotton and brain somewhat disconnected from your brain stem.

At that, he laughs. “Gimme your number and you’ll find out.”

His smile elongates the longer you stare at him. “It’s not a line. I mean, it is, but not like that, if you don’t want it to be. This fucking industry is built on who you know and I know a couple of people to know. You can call me if you have any questions or need a reference.”

The whiplash between flirty tease and professional contact is jarring. Your fingers shaking from shock, you take your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He taps away, bobbing his head to some tune only he can hear, before lifting it up to his face and snapping a selfie – tongue out and eye squinting into the flash.

He tosses your phone back and you learn his name for the first time.

The shock wears off immediately and you roll your eyes.

“Okay, my turn.”

He digs into his back pocket and slides a bright pink 2007 motorola flip-phone into your outstretched hand.

Full – chock full, in fact – of surprises.

“I’m not gonna get tracked,” he says seriously, eyes narrowed. “You really should think about giving up your iPhone. All kinds of bad vibes.”

You eagerly look forward to him explaining the Big Foot Conspiracy and his theories about the magic silver bullet.

It takes you a second to type out your name with the multiple buttons, some old sense memory from seventh grade coming back like a grumpy, displeased ghost, but finally, you snap the phone together and toss it back to him.

With the nub of the smoking joint poking out of his mouth, he frowns when he looks at the phone screen.

“Dolly Parton?”

You pluck the joint out of his mouth, a surge of playful confidence keeping your eyes locked on his. You nod. “Since we’re doing the whole fake name thing . . .”

You want to wink, with your hand on your hip, so clever to have figured out his little game, but when he continues to frown, that rush of bravery fizzles out.

“But the name I put in your phone is actually my name?”

You chuckle, surprised and confused he’s still committing to the bit, a little frustrated at this point because you are actually starting to like this guy and . . .

Unless . . .

“You’re actually Dieter Bravo? The actor? Three-time Emmy nominated actor Dieter Bravo?”

He loops his finger through one of the free-roaming curls from under the beanie and twists it. “That’s what it says on my underwear . . . when I remember to wear it.”

The blush on your face now scalding, you dart across the space between you and him and snatch his phone back. You can literally feel the shameful heat in your spine, your lower back, as you delete Dolly’s name and frantically type in your own.

“I’m so, so, sorry. I was just trying to be funny. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you but it’s dark and, um, you don’t look like I thought you would and I-I had no idea – I’m so sorry –,”

“Girlie, take a breath,” he chuckles and strokes your fingers as they tremble over the keypad. “I’ve never seen someone so stressed out after smoking half a joint before.”

You’ve gone stock still as he bleeds the panic out of you with just his touch. You watch as his warm hand, dwarfing yours in size, slowly moves up to your wrist, your pulse point. His thumb presses into the vein and gently rubs. You can’t help the sigh that eases out of your throat as all the tension in your arm collapses into that one focal point, that one place he presses against you. You inhale, not realizing you had stopped breathing for a second and he releases gently, the ache in your body left over from the rigidity gone.

A brief dark haze passes over his eyes when you sigh, but gives you space easy enough when you settle.

He takes the phone out of your limp hands and reads what you’ve typed out.

“Cute name. But I think I’m still gonna call you Dolly.”

Humor is your gut instinct. Defuse a situation or calm your nerves, sometimes the best you can do is crack a (often poorly timed) joke. You feel all fluttery inside, partially because you’d been talking to Dieter “I know people who know people” Bravo all night and partially because you’re about 86% sure he’d been flirting with you. And so, without thinking, you say:

“Because of my massive tits, right?”

His eyes flit up from his phone screen to, presumably, your tits. Which are very much not Dolly-Parton-comparable.

But he grins. He actually giggles, pressing the back of the hand holding his phone against his lips as if trying to hide his smirk.

“Yeah, that’s definitely it.”

It is the kind of laugh that you know he’s laughing with you and not at you and he’s still staring when his laughter subsides.

He is still staring at your tits.

Just as your face flushes what feels like the hundredth time tonight, he glances up at you. He offers you the last puff, you shake your head, so he sucks in down before flicking the nub over the railing of the patio. His hands sit heavy in his front pocket, the frown on his face contemplative, eyes searching the horizon.

“I think you’re going to text me . . . on a Tuesday,” he says, like he’s divining portents from the shapes of the clouds.

You swallow, trying to purge yourself of this whiplash embarrassment, but you can’t quite decide what exactly to make of this man or this conversation. “What makes you say that?”

His smile is so genuine it rattles something inside you. “It’s my favorite day of the week.”

This feels too good, too real, too intense, too fast. It was a quiet, but familiar story passed around in writer’s rooms or on the back lots of sets: an older man seduces a young girl, promising the world, and then offering nothing once he had gotten what he wanted.

You beg your heartbeat to slow down.

But Dieter Bravo doesn’t seem capable of that, not with his honesty, his open heart, but then again none of them ever do.

That’s the whole point.

“So, um, I should go. My boss is probably out back, breaking things, pissed off because I’m not behind him with a fresh macchiato.” Your phone feels absurd in your hands, as if it now carries something vital inside of it. “But, uh, thank you – for everything. The smoke, the advice, listening to me ramble endlessly –,”

“You weren’t rambling,” he says, arms crossed and finger tugging at an errant curl again. “You were talking about what makes you happy and I was listening. I like listening to you.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

“I’ll call you sometime, okay?”

He nods, raising a hand in a wave, but as you turn away, something final, the last piece of the puzzle, pops into your brain.

“Why me?”

Dieter looks at you, big brown eyes confused like a puppy whom you scolded for chewing on your shoe.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s gotta be at least fifty people here. Why did you stop me from going into Eliot’s room?

Dieter shrugs, that easy smile returning. “You looked like the only other person who didn’t want to be here. And you’re really pretty,” he adds casually and your heart launches itself into your throat. “I’ve got a thing for really pretty girls. Gets me into a lot of trouble.”

There comes that heat, that flare in his gaze that makes you wonder how someone like him fucks, all proof necessary that he has a working cock, and he’s not some mystical, Willy-Wonka-esque Ken doll.

It’s a look that makes you wonder if he wants his cock in you.

“Good night, Dieter.”

“Night, Dolly.”

Weeks passed and immediately you were so drowned in work, Dieter Bravo occasionally slipped your mind, falling back on your list of things to do when a deadline was approaching.

But when a contract for a position in a new writer’s room passes over your desk, you pause, and immediately think of him. The offer is unbelievable. More money than you thought possible working as an underling. The channel set to produce was the real deal, likely to order more seasons if the first went well.

“Saw your writing,” your boss told you by way of explaining your dreams falling directly into your lap. “Good work. I sent some of it off, and the studio came back with this. Don’t take too long signing the dotted line, okay?”

You nod, dumb-founded as he walks off, and you glance back at the contract.

And, despite your almost desperate elation, something felt off. But you didn’t know enough about the industry to confidently say if this is a bad deal or not.

So, with a glance down the hall, you call the only person you know who would.

He is immediately livid. Not that you haven’t called, of course, but that someone has clearly tried to take advantage of you.

“Do not take that deal. That corporate bullshit means they’ll own your IP for years to come. I can’t believe they’d do that to you. Stay right there and whatever you do, do not sign that. I’m calling someone at the studios.”

“Yeah. Uh, okay, Dieter, I won’t,” you murmur, half-expecting your hand to burn if you picked the contract up again. “But, um, thank you, for being honest with me. It felt weird, but I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity and I was freaking out that this was the only one I was gonna get but I didn’t want to be rash,so I, um, . . .”

You trail off, the sudden silence on the other line only making your panic and shame more pronounced. You cringe inwardly – Dieter Bravo had better fucking things to do than console a baby screenwriter out of her first mistake – and Jesus, if there was ever a chance he was going to sleep with you, it’s long gone now – it must be, no one willingly sleeps with someone so goddamn gullible.

“Dolly?” His voice is quiet, but with a certain edge that makes you picture that implish little smirk. “Do you know what day it is?”

“No?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

That phone call turned into a new job with a female-led production team, thank yous over drinks, late-night dinners at obscure and dark Chinese food restaurants, movie nights at your shamefully small apartment, and then . . . a kiss.

Which led to all the rest.

A year later and you’re so in love with Dieter Bravo, you crank up Beyonce’s Countdown and belt it from the top of your lungs every time you hear it on the radio.

There’s a new irritant, a new agitation that can only be soothed by him. He’s remade you, changed you, reformed your very being to be missing a piece when he’s not around. He’s made space for him inside you, there was no life – not a real one, not a happy one – not before him and there won’t be anyone or anything after him. No one else fits with you anymore. Ever again.

Your blood runs hot over the ridges of his fingerprints, stamped deep on your soul and your bones.

Trouble is, he’ll never know.

“And the award for Best Actor goes to . . .”

His grip is almost painful and you return it with everything you can, your jaw drawn tight.

The pause feels like it lasts forever.

You hear his name and you think for a second you’ve blacked out, that you’ve somehow missed the moment, or you’ve somehow slipped into a pungently real dream.

And the crowd erupts.

The spotlight finds him in the crowd and you’re being pulled into his chest.

The cologne he wears costs more than your car payment but the instant you’re crushed up into his silken shirt, it’s him. Beneath all the layers, beneath the veneer, the man with the green beanie and fervent yellow jacket is still there. Somewhere. You love them both.

“You did it, darling, you did it,” you whisper into his ear and that’s all you can say before you know you have to tear yourself back, because every second you linger on him, the harder it becomes to quell this rising tide inside you that increasingly tastes like salt water whenever he’s around. It’s become so obvious his name resides in the cup of your mouth.

But when you do pull out of his embrace, in the ringing shout of the crowd, the sparkle of the spotlight, his hand lingers on your elbow, and in a space of a heartbeat that lasts impossibly longer in your memory, you’re met with such a look of profound regret you feel it take up room in your chest.

And in an instant, it’s gone. Grinning broadly, he drops your elbow and moves on down the line, cheered on by his peers, the white light from above illuminating his broad back, the bits of gray becoming ever more present in his beard. You cheer and you cheer and you cheer and you hope it’s from all the cheering that your voice grows hoarse and the tears start to trickle out of the corner of your eyes.

You’re trembling visibly as he accepts his award, showing just the right amount of awe, and appreciation, and excitement. He glances up into the spotlight and there’s the real Dieter for just a split second before he humbly gawks at the golden statue in his hand.

The clock begins.

Make your speech thoughtful and poignant – relevant to what is close to people’s hearts right now.

Be profusive with your thanks. Better start with that, actually. Lower yourself at the height of your glory.

Mention family, friends, names and faces that the masses don’t know because it makes you appear connected to a reality those watching on the television can only speculate about. Say something kindly about how this means so much to you.

Cry a bit, but not too much. Keep your voice steady but with tears in your eyes. Cut yourself off, the emotion too much, and say thank you again.

And anything more than three minutes, they start to play you off.

You’re mentally going through the notes on a potential acceptance speech his PR manager gave him on the drive over, but in the end, it’s clear he doesn’t need it.

Dieter’s speech is excellent.

Really good. Really, really, really good. It has a flare of genuinity, but not the bite of vulnerability that makes people uncomfortable.

He’s been practicing for weeks now, editing as he talks, in the mirror, while driving home from the grocery store, before he goes to sleep. Tonight’s speech, a compilation of all that you’ve listened to time and time again, is the best version of all of them.

He’s soft when he needs to be and excited when he can. He’s onto the gratitude bit, going through the director, the writers, the cast and crew, even his costar, whose beautiful face is shown on the twenty foot screen above the stage, joyful tears in her eyes. And as the applause dies down, his big hand dwarfing the tiny metal statue, his fingers flexing, Dieter’s back goes ridgid, his eyes downcast. A smile slips out infinitesimally.

Dieter clears his throat and looks up.

“And there’s someone else I’d like to thank. This, uh, this one goes to all the little dreamers out there. Working nine to five, to make your dreams happen. We did it, baby, couldn’t have done it without you.”

He stares into the camera and you swear, you fucking swear, he’s looking right at you.

It’s a drowning sort of wave, this focal point that draws you down into him. It’s all consuming and it’s tender and it touches places you didn’t know could go this warm and what else could describe this but love? You resent the Academy, this place, these people for keeping him away from you. You think you’ll claw out the eyes of anyone who tries to separate you again.

You are crying – for your industry friend, his guest at the Oscars, so sees the cameras and the glitz and the glamor.

You’re crying because you’re in too deep.

The rest of the night is dipped into a champagne glass and swirled fast, catching like lighting in a bottle.

Gold dust falling fast, dizzily.

Bubbles, glinting green and pink in the light, rising and winking out of existence.

Golden bubbles in your drink, in your mouth. Your throat. Your stomach.

You feel lighter than air.

With him, you feel as bright and as strong as diamonds. As timeless and luminescent as pearl.

As beautiful as gold.

When the door finally shuts behind you in a darkened apartment, you’ve entered a secret, separate realm of domesticity: mismatched shoes, coffee creamer flavors you don’t like, and shampoo bottles that take up too much space in your shower.

It’s quiet here, blue and shadowed. The girl who left here hours ago to get ready in a hotel halfway across town forgot to leave on a light, rushing out in her haste.

Behind you, you hear him snicker, his tongue behind his teeth, champagne bubbles still in his nose, as he hangs his silk jacket on your coat rack, right next to your muddy raincoat and baseball caps faded with sweat.

“We gotta be quiet,” he hums, wobbling a bit as he toes out of his expensive loafers, pushing them near your off-brand birkenstocks. “Nala’s gonna hate me forever if we wake her up now.”

He is, of course, referring to your tabby cat, who hates everyone who isn’t you, and has a distinct requirement for twelve hour naps with no interruptions. Dieter swears he’s going to wake up one morning with that cat flexing her claws against his throat.

It takes you a moment to recognize and comprehend how your lives have melted together, how extracting you from him and him from you would be akin to destructive alchemy, the process of deconstructing two things causing both of them to oxidize and reduce to flaky rust. You’re drunk and you’re a little dizzy and you’re swaying slightly because your feet hurt but you are too consumed by introspection on your own feelings, what it means to love something other than yourself, to do anything about it.

You’re so far gone from your own body you float, untethered and lost in thought, right up until the moment his arms come around your waist and he pulls you into his chest, like slipping on a beloved coat.

“I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island,” he murmurs into the nape of your neck like he is reciting Neruda’s poetry. You stifle a smile, your hands gripping around his elbows, as he sways with you. He does this a lot; thinks one thing, then two, then three, and by the time it comes out of his mouth, it’s nonsensical to anyone not strapped into his train of thought.

“Try again, darling.” You stroke his cheek with your thumb, his chin tucked over your shoulder, ear pressed to yours. “I think you missed a couple of steps.”

Your voice is gummy even to your own ears, the endless drinks at the afterparty stitching your syllables and consonants together into some freakish creature. He’s slightly blurry in your eyes, his presence overwhelming all of your senses as they try to keep you upright.

He chuckles and presses his face into your neck in what you believe is an attempted kiss.

“I mean, you glow,” he admits quietly to your skin. The grin falls from your face when your heart constricts. “You fucking shined tonight and I couldn’t stop thinking how beautiful and sweet you looked. Sweetness I wanna lick up.” He chuckles again, this time through his nose, laughing at his own absurdity. “And then I remembered cotton candy is sweet too and you can buy cotton candy at Coney Island for a quarter and. . . I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island.”

He scrapes the back of your neck with his teeth as he nudges you forward down the hall, not sparing an inch between your bodies. Which makes for a disastrous time, both of you drunk, his socked feet slipping on the wood, and your heels and dress tangling up together.

“Baby, wait–,”

“We’re almost to the bedroom, we can make it–,”

“Not if we break our necks first. Gimme a second, I’ll just–,”

You slide out of his grasp, inching down the wall and tucking up the truly insane amount of tulle they managed to stitch into your dress. You feel like you’ve been digging for five minutes before you find what you're looking for.

You stick your heel in the air and fiddle with the clasp around your ankle, drunk and working in near total darkness.

Dieter huffs and slides to the floor next to you. He watches you struggle for a minute, nearly swallowed up by the layers and layers of tulle, before he squeezes the air with his open hand.

“Gimme. We’ll be here all night.”

You pout visibly and awkwardly rotate until your foot is in his lap. His fingers are warm as he plucks at the clasp.

“I am perfectly capable of getting dressed on my own.” You toss your hair indignantly.

“Yeah, but you’re always going to need my help to get undressed, right?” He smirks, eyes bleary, as he slides the heel off your foot and takes up the other one when you don’t move.

Always, he said.

Forever.

He’s being so soft, so gentle.

He sees the red marks left behind by the straps of your heels and frowns, displeased. Slumped over in the hallway of your tiny, pathetic apartment, his top few buttons of his pressed dress shirt hopelessly gone, tonight’s bow tie slung around his neck like a tipsy snake, Dieter gives you a foot rub by way of kneading out your pain.

He kisses your ankle with such reverence, adoration, the liquid in your mouth vanishes and ends up in the crotch of your tights.

You’re both too drunk for an actual fuck (“don’t make fun of my whisky dick, baby, it makes it sad,”) but you don’t want to be anywhere else but in your bed with him when you do sober up. So, you let the tulle drop, Dieter giggling as he gets hit with an avalanche of dress and you both clamor over each other to stand up.

Towering over you and smelling like rich, warm, leather and splash of something spicy, he raises an eyebrow at you. You scrunch up your face, your twisted-up mouth betraying the stern look in your eyes, and put your knuckles to your hips. He matches your stance, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us . . .

“You’re in my way,” he grumbles, his mouth twitching.

“Maybe you’re in mine.”

“Well, then it looks like we’ve got on our hands a good ol’ Mexican standoff.”

“By all means, pardner, stick ‘em up.”

You eye him like PopEye, cheek full of nothing but air, your one eye all squinty. At that, he completely breaks, going red as he laughs. You hold the pose for a second longer before you collapse against him, laughing until tears run out of the corners of your eyes. You press your forehead into his chest, his heartbeat like a homing beacon, as he nuzzles the back of your head, giggles escaping occasionally on puffs of air.

“That’s it!” He says after a moment of silence and tosses his hands into the air. “I’ve had enough! I can’t do this anymore!”

Without warning, he bends down and hauls you over his shoulder. He continues his tirade over your brief gasp of surprise – “Dieter!” – his finger indignantly in the air as he marches off towards the bedroom.

“I can no longer date a girl who is funnier than me and so goddamn, fucking pretty. Who let you do that, huh? Who taught you how to be so fucking adorable? Answer me, you sexy, little weirdo.”

He tickles you enough just to make you squirm before dramatically tossing you onto the bed. You assume your best heart-broken divorcé pose, hand draped over your forehead, one leg tucked under the other.

“Think of the children, honey! Nala needs a father’s influence, a lonely girl trying to survive in a man’s world! You can’t shoulder me with the responsibility of single motherhood!” You sit up, eyes fluttering up at him. “Everything I learned, I learned it all from you!”

Smirking, he kneels onto the mattress, your body folding back as he hovers forward, his nose inches from yours. You fight the shiver that arches up your body every time he gets that look on his face. He’s got your sanity between his teeth. “That child loathes me, darling,” he purrs. “She’s better off with you. She looks far too much like the milkman to be mine anyway.”

Your fake gasp is buried beneath the lunge of his mouth over yours. His hand cups your cheek as his mouth seeks out all its favorite places against your lips, your skin, your jaw. Your fingers dig into his wrinkled, once-starched shirt, the heat of his skin pricking your fingertips.

It’s right there, that knife edge between starting something there’s no going back from, no alternative path that ends in anything other than him buried deep inside you, filth that still makes you blush pouring from his mouth into your ear. A part of you, the part of you that’s been stalking behind every smile and touch he sends your way all night, the part of you that every nerve sing for him, is begging you to continue. To touch him in the right places that make his eyelids drop, mouth wrench open, to take on the animal that’s gnawing at you both.

But you don’t. You can’t.

The simple fact of the matter is – you’re exhausted. You know he is too. The Oscar statue sitting on your entryway is a culmination of dozens of exhausted nights that finally paid off.

He sighs when you pull back, there is no anger on his face, no disappointment that you’re ending things here. There’s only . . .

“You looked really, really pretty tonight,” he confesses to your nose with a smile. “Thanks . . . for coming with me tonight. You make everything better.”

You tuck his hair over his ear, feeling whole and small beneath the gentle search of his gaze. His hair is getting long and you love it, but you don’t want to nag him about it. The universe has finally balanced itself with him in between your legs, the foundations that make up the galaxy all settled in right here.

He takes it one step further, reaching back behind him to the comforter you keep on the end of the bed that inevitably gets kicked to the floor every time he stays over. You’d pick it up and put it back every day of your life without complaint if it meant him in your bed until the end of time.

Dieter tosses the blanket over both of your heads and crawls back in between your legs, elbows tucked by your ribs. All the champagne in the world couldn’t give you this same warm, bubbly feeling in your chest as his weight sinks into you.

He’s submerged you both in another realm, a deeper one than the one before, and in this one you have to whisper, even though the only other person in all of existence is inches from your nose.

“You’re drunk,” you murmur, hushed. You can barely find the outline of his chin, his lips, his nose. The steady drum in your chest misses a beat as you consider where he might be looking on you.

He awkwardly tugs your knuckles from both hands beneath his head, kissing them gently before allowing them to quietly slide into his hair. He’s so warm, nearly completely invisible to you in the blackness, the weight of his broad chest threatens to choke the air right out of you. But this exactly is how you want it to be. You want to be overwhelmed by Dieter Bravo.

“I’m not drunk,” he tuts, a soft slur still tucking his words together.

You reach down just inches to his temple, following the lines of his body that swear all lead to you, to find the arch of his cheek. He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against your thumbs.

“Could a drunk person do this?” He asks quietly, as close as he could come to indignant in this special, dark little world.

You wait, for a sloppy kiss, for something hard to tap against your thigh, but nothing comes. In fact, he doesn’t move.

You inhale as best you can, grinning, ready to start another proverbial sparring match with him.

“You’re not doing anything, Dieter.”

His eyelashes stroke your thumbs again, a kitten lick, as he opens his eyes.

“I sent you my love. Did you not get it?”

All in the air in your lungs is purged in a heavy gasp as his words impact your chest the way comets collide with meteors.

He says your name, concerned by the wounded noise you just made, and when you don’t answer, he leans back, tugging the blanket as he goes.

It’s not until you’re looking up at him in your bedroom, his face blurry and your cheeks cold, that you realize you’re crying.

“Dolly, what did I do?” He sounds so concerned, so visibly shaken, you can’t help but cry harder. He only touches your wrist, as if he’d been banished from your body.

If you hadn’t had so much to drink, this wouldn’t be happening or at least you’d be able to get it to stop, reign in those explosive feelings that you had kept for so long deep and buried until he came along with a match in the dark.

You take a deep breath, eyes locked onto the ceiling, hands clenched in fists. You know he can feel the tension in your forearm beneath his thumb making circles inches below your pulsepoint. You thought you never, ever wanted to have this conversation, but now you understand this has been the only thing that’s been on your mind for months.

“You don’t mean that,” you croak into the darkness. You feel small and foolish, embarrassed for having a body that produces emotions.

“Don’t mean what, darling?” He’s still talking quietly, but firmer, providing a hook onto which you can grasp and fight the current in your mind. He knows this feeling, anxiety, and he hates how it looks on you.

“That you love me.”

Your words ring in the air, like the distinctive pitch of singing glass. You swallow that choking knot further down your throat and, wrenching your gaze down from the ceiling, finally look him in the eyes.

It’s the same look he blinked at you from the seats, there and gone so fast you partially convinced yourself you’d imagined it: profound, deep regret.

“You think I don’t love you?”

His tone makes you instantly feel guilty. Did you miss something? What if he texted it to you and you didn’t see it? Or wrote it in a note . . .

“You’ve never said it. At least not to me.”

And his face crumbles.

He slides off his haunches, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, his big shoulders curved.

Slowly, as if believing he has no right to, he touches your ankle, where he had rubbed away those painful marks in the hallway. He shakes his head, smirking darkly at himself.

“At the risk of sounding like a dramatic fucking actor, I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

You sit up, unable to help yourself from curling up next to him, his grip adjusting to your thigh, instantly finding the heat of it beneath all the tulle. Cutting right to the core of you.

He gets this furtive glance when he’s thinking about something unpleasant, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth, as though unable to choose the right course of action. How much does he say, how much does he give away?

He rubs your dress material between his fingers.

“I’m older than you,” is how he starts. When your mouth twists open, ready with a litany of reasons why you don’t care, why no one should – reasons you’ve already said to him a dozen times – he meets your gaze and silences everything in your head. “And it’s not me they’re going to come for.”

The weight, the finality to his voice shoves that knot right back up your throat, your eyes hot and tight.

“I . . . I didn’t say it, outloud, because then we’d have to do something about it. I don’t want to keep us in the dark, but . . .” he swallows as if choking too. “But after the dox two years ago and then the incident in Austin, I feel like I’ll be putting you in physical harm when they find out we’re together. And I would literally rather die than have anything happen to you.”

He kisses your temple, the touch a consolation.

You don’t want to turn away, you want every kiss he gives you, but all you can feel are the studio’s words, the words of your managers, pressing down on you:

You know how some fans get. For your safety, let’s give it two years.

We’re happy for you, we really are, but you can’t be seen together too much. Minimal instagram, rare public appearances. We’re just trying to keep up appearances until the fans settle.

Appearances.

Aesthetics.

Image.

You’d happily kill anyone who tried to take him from you.

But you know he’s right.

“It has nothing to do with how I feel about you, what I feel for you,” he promises, voice warm, dipped in honey. “I just . . . I can’t lose you.”

“Then can you say it just this once? Just to me?” You try to smile but the tightening of your skin only spills the tears. “Please, Dieter, I won’t ask again. I have to hear it once from you. After that, I promise I–,”

His great warm palm covets the back of your neck, rolling you into him like melting chocolate drips onto the floor. He stops, inches from your mouth, so close you can feel your neutrons mix with his.

“I love you.”

Earnest, genuine, real.

A green beanie and a yellow jacket.

Chinese food and dreams of a better life. Of a happy life.

You steady yourself, your spinning world, against his hand around your cheek, clutching onto his wrist like it’s the last great lighthouse at the end of the world.

You open your eyes and, yes, yes, there is adoration in his smile, in the way he watches his words soothe some ache inside of you with joy.

“I love you too,” you tell him, in case it wasn’t obvious. If somehow he couldn’t smell your obsession for him. “I love you,” you say again, firmly.

It’s an inevitable sort of fall, his mouth into yours.

Like neutron stars collapsing together, alone and quiet in the far reaches of space.

Like the stone bones of an ancient church cracking and tipping into the sea as time and erosion eats away at a once great monument.

Like the spinning metal within a compass, never failing to find north, to find home.

When you awake next to him the next morning, warm in a way that goes behind physical body heat, he kisses your nose.

I love you, he tells you, with his words, with his body. With the dozens of ways he’s been mulling over in his mind to keep you safe and make you his for everyone to see.

I love you, he tells you that morning.

And every morning after that.

#100 followers event #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x oc #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfic #the bubble fanfic #the bubble

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zillasvilla · 17 days

Text

Beyond the lights

Chapter Six: Non-disclosure Agreement

Pairings: Jey Uso x Black!Original Character.

Summary: Let’s just say Soraya’s day started out fine, got better only for shit to hit the fan.

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ only. Minors DNI : use of foul language.

A/N: I use the same tag-list for all of my works.

Song: Megan Stallion x NDA

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since the release of Conceited. Soraya had sent the rap industry in an uproar over her debut to the hip-hop industry. It had also been a month since she last saw her man. She knew with the Royal Rumble coming up, he would be busier than normal. Although the recent praise she has been receiving comes to a standstill.

Soraya sat with her manager and lawyer in a meeting room. A Death Row Records conference area to be exact. Their counselors were present, along with them, and someone she was hoping she would never see again.

“My artist here is prepared to sign a non-disclosure agreement to never speak of her or their relationship in a negative light if she agrees to produce and compose his music.”

She lets out a surprised chuckle, confusing not only her team, but the men across from her.

“What’s so funny?”

She waves her hand amid her laugh. They were seeking to negotiate his career, and she thought it was laughable. He honestly thought she was going to write his music, let alone produce for him again? He has another thing coming. Soraya quieted herself down, wiping the lone tear that dripped down her face.

“Whew,” she exhales out with a smile. She turns to him, showing him an ounce of attention he’d been wanting since the minute she arrived. “Need I remind you? We signed an NDA two years ago.”

At the mention of the NDA, her manager pulled out several of the original documents they both signed, including the signatures of the advocates present at the time as witnesses.

“NDAs carry a statute of limitations them.” His attorney indicates, skimming through the various pages.

“That is correct. However, this one does not.” Naraya, her manager, speaks. Before his counselors could object, his mush mouth looking self spoke.

“You think you're the shit, huh bitch?” He stares her down, trying to intimidate her. She wasn’t budging, she turns to her advocate, while he whispers in her ear. She nods and rises up, collecting her things. Dame watches with a sneer. Soraya pulled out her phone, a slight grin forming on her face.

Jey 💙: Flight lands in a few hours.

Naraya continues, emphasizing the critical sections. “If you read section four, subsection b, it states that the business arrangement is void if he belittles or refuses to clear her name. If I can recall, two years ago, she received backlash from his fans and several others when he referred to her as a mistress.”

My place or yours.

Dame frowns, seeing the smile on her face. The same smile she gave him when they first got together. “No one belittled this bitch name. She did that herself by taking down my catalogue.”

”What my client is trying to express…“

It had turned into a battle of the counselors, everybody speaking over each other, until Naraya stood up and replayed his interview with Roxanne Wethers on the conference television. They fixate on the screen as he calls Soraya a deranged fan who took his act of kindness too far. Stamping her as the mistress. Soraya tunes out the rest of the conversation. Bouncing on her legs lightly, watching the three messages dance across her screen.

Jey 💙: surprise. Be ready at 8.

Soraya could feel him walking towards her: something she learned out of fear while being with him. He pauses a few feet away. A slight scowl etched on his face. She wasn’t afraid of him anymore; it was all behind her, and it was going to stay that way. Soraya needed to cut all connections with him.

“Weak ass bitch.” He initiates. Her eyes roll, glancing down into her purse, cutting him off while clutching object in her fist.

“We’re not doing this back and forth. I have shit to do, and you’re not fuckin’ my day up.”

“Tough shit.” He sizes her up, knowing the minute he called her out ther name, she would get riled up, and act out. Soraya was unfazed by his intimidation tactics.

“Dame, I think you forgot about the real reason we signed those NDAs.” Everybody is confused, but the way Dame’s face sank had her eyebrows arched into a knowing smirk. She brings the object between her fingers, a black, and red USB drive.

Dame was glaring her down, knowing what was on the thumb drive. He gets a step closer. She kisses her teeth and takes a step back. “We go our separate ways, and you still have a chance at a career.”

Dame, with a tilt of his head, let out a threatening chuckle, his fingers pressing against his bottom lip. “You trying to extort me?”

Soraya, with a shrug of her shoulders, drops the USB drive back in her purse and crosses her arms. “You keep my name out of your mouth and I keep yours out of mine, simple as that.”

Their parties are watching the interaction go down, hoping it didn’t escalate. They didn’t have time to deal with assault charges. His team was only worried about reviving his career. She just wanted this to be finished. A slow lick of his lips, and a nod of his head. He stares at her, seeing the icy stare in her eyes.

“Okay.”

She claps her hands together. “Excellent, we're done here.”

He watches her and her team leave. He was starting to think she was bluffing. However, he wasn’t about to test that theory just yet.

Soraya rushed into her home, tossing her shoes in the closet next to her door. She frowned at the messiness of her living area. She didn’t have time to clean like she wanted to. Soraya settled for putting everything back in place. The knock on the door had her anxious. Glancing at the time on the clock above her fireplace read three-thirty. She realized it wasn’t Jey. The hammer was relentless. Taking slow steps to the door, she opened it.

A look of annoyance plaster on her face. She leaves the door open and steps away to finish cleaning.

“Oi! Is that any way to treat your siblings?” Her oldest brother, Zyaire, expresses, leading the pack of them in the home.

“You could’ve called.” Soraya states, finally turning to peer at them.

“Oh, so you can send it to voicemail again. We gotta pop up.” Zyaire wanders up to her, tugging her into a tight hug. She softens in his embrace, hugging him back. Growing up, he always gave the best hug, and knew when to give them.

“I’m busy.” She mutters, pushing him back. He snickers and pats his chest. He takes a seat on her couch.

“You’re constantly busy.” Shiloh, her older sister, tells her, sitting next to her Zyaire. The two of them were well into their late thirties and looked amazing for their age. She had hoped to look just as good as them when she aged. It didn’t make it any easier when her twin brothers were born, well into their early thirties and looking like they were teenagers.

“She is a platinum recording artist.” Duke, one twin, speaks, his head stuffed in her fridge.

“Don’t forget, she’s a dancer, writer, and producer.” Dennis adds, in the kitchen right along with his twin, raiding her pantry. She had hoped they would leave Jey’s snacks that hid in the back alone. She bought them for him.

” Baby sis, stay busy.” Zyaire stares at her. “So who is he?”

Soraya glances at him, confused. “Huh?”

“Huh.” He mocks. “Who is he, Raya?” Zyaire had noted the men’s shoes in a bin next to her couch, the random bottles of cologne on her kitchen island. His sister was seeing someone.

“There is no he..” She starts, unsure if he was serious or just joking.

“She must think we dumb.” Zyaire cuts her off, laughing with the twins. Soraya tucks a lip between her teeth, feeling small under her brother's presence. She loathed communicating to him. He was constantly trying to be somebody’s daddy. Their own dad didn’t speak to them this way.

“Is it Dame?” He frowns at her now. He had hoped it wasn’t him. Zyaire couldn’t stand the nigga, and would rather lay hands on him for how he treated his little sister. Shiloh smacks his shoulder, seeing the overprotective part of him coming out. A part of him she knew all too well.

“What, she let this nigga bitch her out?” The amount of yelling that occurred gave Soraya a headache. She didn’t hear what they said as she raced up the stairs to her room. They could let themselves out, she thought. She goes in her bathroom and shuts the door behind her, locking it before sitting on the wall to clear her mind for a minute.

Soraya cared for her siblings, but sometimes, they could be too much. Especially with the large age difference between them. They were fun, but by the time she was old enough, they were already out of the house and experiencing life. They treated her like a baby. Gentle knocks on the door breaks her trance.

“Raya.”

She frowns, hearing her sister’s voice. “The boys left. Just me.” She stands, opening the door, she turns the light on to her closet. Shiloh watches her walk through the rack of clothes. Soraya was always a perfectionist, and it trailed into her everyday life. Her wardrobe was color-coded and by the season. The blue and white WWE gear stood out like a sore thumb. A small smirk forms on Shiloh’s face.

“It’s Joshua, isn’t it?”

Soraya wondered what gave it away, but it didn’t surprise her, she guessed, without asking questions. After all, she was engaged to his cousin, Joe. She smiles at the thought of the couple's dates with her sister and cousin Trinity. She grabs a dress from a hanger, letting it rest on her body.

“You think this is too much for a date?” She turns to Shiloh, glancing at her. Shiloh has a small smile on her face.

“Yeah, did he say where he was taking you?”

“Nope.” She sighs, tossing the gown somewhere, shocking her sister, as Soraya hated clothes on the floor. “He just said to be ready at 8.”

Shiloh had spent the better part of the day helping her younger sister get ready. Soraya had told her about how they've been together officially for a month now, and it had happened recently.

“So, are you guys going public?”

Soraya, putting on her heels, shakes her head. “No.” She stands up, running her hands through her hair, fluffing out the tight curls.

” Did he agree to that?”

A soft knock came at her door. Looking at the clock, it was eight on the dot. “I’m not ready to tell anyone.” She grabs her phone and purse, leaving her sister to watch her leave. The long trek down the stairs had her anxious. Her hand grasps the doorknob, twisting it open. On the other side, he stood dressed in a white shirt and light-washed distressed jeans. In his hands, he carried a vase of flowers.

“Hi.” she whispers, feeling giddy under his affectionate gaze. She walks closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. His lips press delicately to her cheek, inhaling her expensive scent.

“Hey pretty girl. Are you ready?”

“Mhm. Yes.”

“Hi Jey.” They glanced back, and her sister was standing behind her. “Don't worry. The secret is safe with me.” She lifts her fingers in scout's of honor. “Have her back home in a reasonable hour, yeah?”

Jey laughs lowly with a nod, holding Soraya’s hand in his own. “I got chu.” He leads Soraya out to his truck. Opening the passenger side for, he leans down. “You look sexy tonight, mamas.”

Soraya appreciated her deeper complexion, any brighter, and you would see the warm flush of her cheeks turning red. He plants a brief peck on her lips. The door slamming shut as he went to his side.

The ride was short, but agonizing. His large hand resting on her thigh, his thumb rubbing circles into her skin. The powerful scent of wood and musk filled her nose, making her eyes roll at how the smell suited him. His new mullet hairstyle shaped his head perfectly, stopping at the base of his collar. The black strands of hair curling wildly away from his neck

“Where are you taking me?” She eventually breaks the comfortable silence.

“A surprise.” He keeps it short. He shivers at her nails grazing the skin on his nape. He briefly closes his eyes, exhaling deeply. He puts his focus on the road.

“I don’t do surprises.”

His eyebrow arches in amusement, giving her thigh a gentle squeeze. “You’ll love this one.”

Soraya loved the surprise. His hands were placed on her waist as he guided her to a restaurant that had to be reserved months in advance. She had complained to him about being on the waitlist for just a reservation.

“How do you-How did you do?” She turns to stare at him. A triumphant smirk appeared on his face.

“I pulled a few strings.”

Their table wasn’t ready, so they remained in a secluded section, soothing music playing in the background. Soraya pressed her back against his chest, letting him hug her from behind, pressing tender kisses along the side of her face.

“Missed you so much.” He grumbles, swaying them side to side.

“I missed you more.” Soraya murmurs, turning in his arms. She wraps his arms around his neck, wishing to be buried in his skin, but this would have to do.

” We have to talk about it.”

“About what?” Soraya knew what, she had hoped he would forget about it.

”Us and the privacy of our relationship.”

She struggles to step back, but his grip on her was firm. He dreaded this conversation just as much as she did. They were living on the high of being together, and have yet communicated to each other about what they wanted from each other.

“I don’t want everyone to know.” She mumbles. “At least, not yet.”

He had a hint on why she remained private, and he was okay with that, or he thought he was. “We can at least tell our folks yea?”

The silence between them was thick. On one hand, her sister already knew, and she was bound to spill it to her family, more so because she wasn’t doing it the traditional way. Her Samoan culture refused to let her keep it from family, and she hated she was deep-rooted in her heritage, but embraced the gentle gestures that came with it. She realized it wasn’t fair to force him keep it from his family.

A sharp breath leaves her lips, his coarse hand smoothing up and down her back. Jey’s eyes never left her face, watching the subtle crease in her eyebrows when she took out out her phone. The vivid red lettering caught his eyes.

XL Artist, Dame has released several documents. In those documents, he implicates recording artist Soraya as an associate in his endeavors.

She places her phone back in her bag, not wanting to spoil the night. He could tell her mood was sour. He shifts her to his other side, guiding her to a chair, making her sit. She watches him, confused. Jey, with a slight tug of his jeans to adjust them, sits at one of the many pianos.

His finger glides smoothly over the keys, piecing together a melody of notes, using his skills as a way of distracting her. A soft smile on her face at the hidden talent. She uses her phone to sneak a quick picture before they were seated. Refusing to put any distance between them, He squishes her in the booth, making her giggle.

“No space, huh?”

“Nope. I haven’t seen or touched you for a month.” He leans down next to her ear. “I also can’t do this if I’m on the other side.”

Before she could ask what he meant, his hand closest to her found its way up the white dress she was wearing, fingers treading carefully in uncharted territory. The pads of his fingers teasing along the band of her underwear.

“Jey.” she warns, breathing hitching in her throat at the contact of his fingers drawing back the band to slip his fingers inside her soaked underwear.

He presses his lips to her ear, leaving delicate kisses along the shell. “Are you wet for me?” He murmurs, his tone dangerously deep. An appreciative sigh leaves her own, with a nod. He works her up gradually, moving his fingers in tight circles until her thighs crush his hand.

“So fuckin’ wet, princess.” He sighs, pulling his hand back. She watches him aroused at the way he sucked his fingers clean, wanting his mouth where his fingers were.

The meal was fairly nice. He splurged on the tasting menu, knowing she would have a hard time picking what she wanted to try first. They ate in a comfortable silence, bringing up their likes and dislikes, reminiscing about the moment they almost got together. So into each other, they hadn’t noticed the lack of people in the restaurant.

“What do you want from me?” He asks the question that was burning in the back of his head. He had hoped she could see a future with him. She was it for him and god willing, she would be his wife one day. Soraya, knowing what he was asking, shuffled into her seat. Her hands reached down to grab his own, intertwining their fingers together. “Long-term, short -term, or what do you want?” He questions.

She was surprised by the question. She figured they were together, and in an actual relationship. “I thought we made it official?”

Jey flexes his shoulders back, taking a small sip of the now watered-down coke. “We did.” He shifts around in the booth to lean back and look at her. Her soft brown eyes staring up at him. “We just need to set some expectations.”

She groans. “It’s that conversation.”

“Yes, it’s that conversation.” He chuckles, moving the arm that was holding her hand to rest around her back. His large hand rubbing circles on the bare flesh of her thigh. “I’ll start.” His legs instinctively spread on, allowing her own to drape over his thighs. “I want honest and open communication between us. I just want you to know you can trust and feel protected with me.”

She does. The moment he saved her three years ago, she knew he was a safe space. He was her safe space. He continues on about trust, and honestly, he rambles on making sure he forgot nothing. She places a tender smooch on his mouth, shutting him up. His lips moving against hers in a passionate kiss. Her hands rested on his chest before pushing him back when he tried to deepen the kiss. She needed a a minute to breathe. Just kissing him made her dizzy in the best way possible.

“You’re it for me Joshua.” It was entirely true. If this didn’t work out with him, she was going to stay single for life. She wasn’t going to find anyone like him. He disregards her calling him by his government, liking how it sounds when she said it.

“Good.” He whispers before kissing her again, distracting her from his movement and digging his hand in his pocket. A soft thud hitting the table pulls her back. “I have something for you.”

Soraya peeks at the small brown leather-skin box in his hand. A small smile forms on her face when she grabs it. The box wasn’t new, just new to her. The same box his cousin Joe had given her sister before they made it official. Her fingers smoothed over the flat corners, tracing the patterns of the ridged leather. He watches in anticipation as she opens the box. A surprised gasp leaving her lips.

“Joshua.” She whines.

”Mhm, open it.” He urges with a smile.

Lifting the piece of fabric in the box, her look of surprise turns into a small pout. She runs her fingers along the small white pearls that were woven around the band. It feathered down to the center where a white flower rested on a leather cut-out. In its center was a small blue-lavender moonstone. She realized he must have talked to Joe. He was the only person who knew about her family’s love of pearls and birthstones. A soft sigh leaves her mouth, leaning up to kiss him. He welcomes the kiss. Though, the present may be pointless to some. It was something they shared, being of Samoan culture. The gifting of jewelry to represent the new relationship. Usually, the present from the guy to the girl. There were countless other rules they were skipping. They would deal with the consequences later.

The constant buzzing of their phones frustrated them as they left the restaurant. Hand in hand, they both pull out their phones. His brows arched, confused. He felt her tense, and he didn’t have to look at her to know she was fuming.

Recording artist Soraya, mentioned in a recent court case against the mother of Dame’s child. She says Soraya knew the nature of her relationship with Dame and continued to pursue him. She then retaliated against him when he came out about the true nature of their affair. Hence, her name Fatal, Attraction. It is also said she was the one who fed his addiction, then sent him to rehab as a way of controlling him.

Rap artist Dame has confirmed these allegations with an interview at the breakfast club.” Yeah man, I met her in the studio, told her I had a girl. She didn’t care. I finally broke away from her crazy ass, and she pulled strings to get my catalog removed. Bitch is insane. I pray for anyone who’s tapping that.”

He thought she was bluffing and called her bluff. Don’t worry, she had a surprise for him.

Zilla’s Villagers:

@justazzi @yana3sworld @wrestlingprincess80 @abadbitchblogs @courtninacole @kill-the-artiste @destinio1 @kill-the-artiste @reci1996 @mindairy @jatriciablog @alichesmi @jstarr86 @minsheyaish @wonderingfashion @whatdoeseverybodywant

#jey uso x black!oc #main event jey uso #original character #roman reigns #black oc #black tumblr #fanfic #Jey!uso #He’s about to get it #Let the drama begin

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dystopia-incognito · 7 days

Text

Vox x OC - Day 1 - First Meeting

Vox, on his way home after a long night of clubbing is inebriated and caught off guard when being attacked by an unknown demon.

I wrote this Vox x Lila Sinclair for the @hazbinocxcanon Event Week and it contains some mild violence and cursing but is otherwise SFW.

The hard impact to his face screen had left Vox's head crackle, voice buffering and electronically distorted as he bellowed, "What the ff-f-u-uck?" His screen flashed, froze and crashed, displaying the ominous blue screen of death, street lights were snuffed out as he slumped down to the ground in the now pitch-black alleyway. The big brute of a demon that had hit him over the head towered over him, laughing as he kicked Vox sharply in the ribs. "Not so tough off camera huh, you flat-faced fuck." His menacing yellow eyes glowed with glee as he continued kicking Vox's limp body.

Lila's eyes flashed, and the extra six appeared and flitted around her in the now-dark street of the city as she heard someone yell from the alleyway she had passed. Her heart jumped. Should she risk it and check? Maybe someone needed help. Against all reason, she jogged back and apprehensively followed the sound of dark laughter.

Struggling to regain composure, Vox's screen flickered back to life, displaying a mix of colours before settling on its usual deep blue tone. He grunted in pain as he tried to push himself up, only to be met with another kick from the thug. "Ah fuck- You piece of shit!" He spat out, his voice still slightly garbled from the initial blow. He tried to focus his gaze on the attacker, but his vision was still blurred.

Suddenly, a new presence entered their field of vision. The young woman was a strange sight to behold; A warbling blue-green of hair shining in the dim eerie light of many glowing red eyes. The thug turned towards her, smirking cruelly. "Well, well, what have we here? A little lost kitty come to play?" He sneered, taking a step towards her.

Despite his pain and confusion, Vox mustered what strength he could to finally sit up. "I think you're better off making a run for it, toots," He chuckled bitterly addressing the newcomer, his voice regaining its usual charisma.

Lila took in the situation, the TV-headed demon in the nice suit looked pretty beat up and now his attacker had it out for her; Large, hairy and not here to make friends. She squared her shoulders and made a quick decision; "You look well off." She told the TV-demon still sitting on the floor. "If I help you, you owe me a meal. Deal?" She took a step back as the hairy thug neared her. "Think quick."

Surprised by Lila's boldness, the thug paused momentarily, considering her. Meanwhile, Vox couldn't believe his luck - this scrawny-looking woman might just save his ass! With a wry grin spreading across his screen, he nodded in agreement. "Deal," he replied coolly, managing to stand upright despite the lingering dizziness. As if sensing an opportunity, the larger demon lunged forward, growling menacingly. But just then, something unexpected happened - Light shot from Lila's many eyes, illuminating the alleyway with an ethereal glow, all of them were now a hypnotic swirling pattern of the most blinding cyan and focused on the attacker. In response, the larger demon froze – clearly taken aback by this unexpected display of power - then stiffened and fell backwards with a dull thud as he hit the pavement, paralysed. Lila blinked, now slightly dizzy herself as her eyes returned to normal and darkness surrounded them once more.

Seizing the chance, Vox quickly transformed into a swarm of electricity, zipping past them and straight into a security camera above.

Lila let out a small gasp as she felt the surge of energy coursing past her as she watched him go. "Hey!" She protested. "You made a promise. Don't you dare fucking off without making good on it." She glared at the camera as it fizzled with the electricity of his presence inside of its casing.

The security camera fell silent for a moment that stretched on too long for Lila's liking before it locked onto her, she could hear the demon chuckle darkly. With a flash akin to a mini lightning strike, Vox reappeared in front of her, Pentagram's lights flickered back to life as his electrified form dissipated into his battered humanoid shape once again. He smirked, admiring her audacity. "My dear, you've got quite a mouth on you." He seemed to compliment, his reasoning to come back now neatly concealed behind the unreadable mask of a placating smile as he straightened his bowtie while walking past her towards the exit. He gestured with a flourish for her to follow him. As they emerged onto the busy street, demons stopped mid-step, staring wide-eyed at the unconscious thug lying motionless on the ground but no one dared to do anything about it. "Very well then," Vox began, turning to face her once more. "To repay my debt, how would you like dinner tonight? My treat, of course." He offered nonchalantly, already scanning the crowd for potential cameras or reporters.

It wasn't just the gnawing hunger, Lila found herself strangely drawn to his magnetic charm and accepted easily despite her reservations as he led the way amidst curious looks from passersby. "So," She began, as they passed a small group of demons that immediately parted like a school of fish to let them through. "Something tells me you're kind of a big deal. My name's Lila Sinclair, and I'm new to Hell. And I should know you, why..?"

Chuckling softly, Vox inclined his head in acknowledgement. "They call me Vox, the Voice of Hell itself. And you, my dear, seem to possess quite the knack for getting yourself in and out of troubled waters." He glanced at her. "Perhaps, with a bit of guidance from yours truly there'd be room for someone like you in my circle." He said smoothly, his words carrying an almost seductive undertone. They arrived at a tall tower with pink-tinted windows decorated with red glowing LED lights, atop it three V's shone proudly in bright neon lights. Vox led her into an elevator and after punching in a passcode it arrived at a sleek dark blue room with walls that doubled as a shark tank with cybernetic sharks which swam in it. There was a long table with several black office chairs on both sides and a bigger dark blue chair at the end for Vox to sit.

Lila recognized it as a conference room and marvelled at the demonic plants potted in the corners of the room before she spotted the surrounding shark tank, all three of her visible eyes widened in awe. "Gorgeous. I didn't know there were creatures like this in these parts of hell. Must've cost you a fortune."

"Indeed, they don't come cheap," Vox admitted with a hint of pride. "But isn't everything worth having its price? Besides, keeping your mind entertained is essential for productivity." He chuckled, walking towards the table and offering her a seat. "Kitty, a Whiskey Sour, and a.." He glanced at Lila as she sat. "Martini for the lady. And bring a plate of tonight's steak au poivre with brandy cream sauce while you're at it." A little modified Fizzarolli robot zipped in and acknowledged orders before zipping away for a moment to swiftly return with the drinks and then the food she placed in front of Lila before disappearing from sight.

Lila sat there slightly stunned, overwhelmed by the change of scenery after nights of fearing for her afterlife. Vox took a seat in his chair, facing her with an expectant look and she felt pressured into taking a small bite of the food. To her pleasant surprise, it was good. Really good. Better than she remembered having in quite a while. "Not bad." She told the TV demon, savouring another bite as she tried to suppress the flood of emotions which washed over her.

Smiling triumphantly, Vox leaned back in his chair, watching her closely. "Excellent," He purred, taking a sip of his whiskey sour. "Now tell me, my dear, why did you decide to venture into such dangerous territory earlier tonight?" His voice held a note of genuine curiosity mixed with subtle threat. Around them, the sharks circled slowly, their mechanical bodies gleaming under the artificial light. Despite the luxurious surroundings, there was an undeniable air of danger lurking within the confines of this opulent chamber.

Lila met his equally red and cyan gaze with a solemn expression, "I was lost, like I said, I recently died and ended up here. I frankly barely understand where 'here' is, although I've heard it being called Pentagram City and that no one can leave. All I tried to do was find a place to stay, maybe get a job. No dice." She shrugged and took a sip of the Martini, slightly relaxing just from the taste of the alcohol.

Listening attentively, Vox considered her words carefully. This brand-new sinner seemed honest enough, perhaps even naïve. Or perhaps she was simply playing him for her own gain. Either way, there was potential in her - this power she had seemed quite useful and would fit right into his vision. Leaning forward slightly, he fixed his gaze upon hers once more. "Ah yes, the trials and tribulations of a newly deceased soul in our fair city. Well, my dear, allow me to introduce myself properly." Reaching into his pocket, he produced a business card embossed with glowing cyan letters reading 'VOXTEK'. "This is my company," he explained, handing it over to her. "Together with my associates, fellow Overlords Valentino and Velvette, we - the Vees - pull the strings of Pentagram City. News, media, its tech scene? I control the information and entertainment sinners and hellborns get to enjoy and consume. And I happen to require talented individuals such as yourself. What say you join forces with me?"

Lila looked at the card, turning over to read the back of it before throwing it onto the table with a huff. "No offence, but what would I be able to offer you and what's in it for me?"

Unfazed by her brusqueness, Vox raised an eyebrow. Clearly, this young woman possessed more fire than he initially thought. Good. That would serve him well. "Oh, my dear Lila," he drawled, leaning back in his chair once more. "Let us start with what you can offer me. "Your abilities are quite unique, aren't they?" He observed thoughtfully. "What was that light projection, a certain type of hypnosis? …and those extra floating eyes of yours could prove very handy too." He continued, leaning back in his chair. "In exchange for your loyalty and services, I propose we enter into a Soul Contract together. You'll receive protection, shelter, food, clothing - whatever else you may require." He listed matter-of-factly. "In addition, you'll have access to state-of-the-art facilities and resources at VoxTek. Not to mention," He added with a devilish grin, "I'll pay you."

Lila couldn't suppress the little guffaw escaping her. "Sorry, a Soul Contract? Now that, Sir, sounds like something I should definitely avoid." To emphasize her words she pushed away the plate of food, her appetite clearly affected by his shady offer.

Raising an eyebrow, Vox studied her reaction closely. So, she was clever indeed. But so was he. "Ah, my dear Lila," he purred, holding her gaze. "Don't mistake me for a fool. Of course, you must always remain vigilant when dealing with demons such as ourselves. However, I assure you, my intentions are pure." His tone shifted slightly, becoming more serious. "Look around you. Do you really think you can survive alone in this pit of vipers? We both know the answer to that question." He paused for effect before continuing. "Besides, who better to protect your interests than someone who knows exactly what you're capable of?" His eyes glittered with sincerity - or was it merely calculation? - as he leaned over the table towards her once more. Let me put it this way then; imagine having complete control over any situation - influencing others effortlessly, ensuring favourable outcomes every time." His voice dropped low as his left eye swirled hypnotically. "Imagine never having to worry about safety or comfort ever again; knowing that you always hold the key to success." He paused, letting his words sink in. "That, my dear, in exchange for your name on a measly little Soul Contract. See it as a promise; You keep me safe while I- protect you." He flashed her the toothiest grin she'd seen of him yet.

Lila fell silent for a moment, considering her options. And then, with a sigh of defeat, she uttered one word that would seal her future in Hell; "Fine."

Grinning widely, Vox extended a clawed hand across the table towards her. "Welcome to VoxTek, my dear." His voice resonated with excitement as he watched her hesitate before finally reaching out to accept his offer. Their palms touched, sending a jolt of electricity through both of them. For a brief moment, their eyes locked in a silent understanding – two predators recognizing each other's strengths and weaknesses as electricity crackled around them, frizzing Lila's hair and casting eerie shadows over their features. Then, without warning, Lila pulled away sharply, breaking contact with him. Her cheeks flushed as if burned by his touch.

"Alright," she muttered gruffly, attempting to regain composure as she combed her fingers through her hair. "Just give me the damned contract.

Thank you for taking an interest! <3

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