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tinycoffeeroom · 4 months ago

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yes chef! | daniel ricciardo

face claim: laura harrier ♡

request: here !

pairing: daniel ricciardo x black!chef!reader

requested: hello ml !! 🫶 I stumbled upon one of your F1 smau’s and the way I swallowed your blog whole right after, I loved it all !!😭 I’d love to request a smau with Daniel Ricciardo x fem!chefreader, like maybe her studying to become a chef, or right up to her exams and graduation? It’s all good if you don’t wan’t to, have a wonderful week either way🫶 - 🍊🫒

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📍 Marriott Hotels

👤 cheflingy/n liked by cheflingy/n, maxverstappen1 and 1,827,050 others

danielricciardo one last night away before exam season for my little chefling x

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cheflingy/n thank you for taking me away my love ❤️ gonna miss seeing your stupid face 24/7 😭 ↳ danielricciardo gonna miss your stupid face too... after exams you're coming to every race with me no exceptions! ↳ cheflingy/n sure thing handsome x

fan it's not a danny ric post if he doesn't rub it in our faces that he's dating y/n and we're not ↳ fan ikr like can you share with the group please ↳ danielricciardo i don't share my food ↳ fan we were talking about y/n ↳ danielricciardo so was i ↳ cheflingy/n down boy!

fan y/n what do you rate the hotel pasta out of 10? ↳ cheflingy/n hmmm a 6? the sauce was nice but was lacking a little in the taste department... if we were at home i'd have added some chili flakes which would have bumped it to a 7! ↳ fan the hotel should be honoured to receive a 6 from chef y/n ↳ cheflingy/n chefling! not passed my exams yet!!

fan y/ns so pretty im gonna scream ♥️ danielricciardo

fan will we be getting a y/n recreates?? ↳ cheflingy/n yeppers! will work on it when i get home 🩷 ↳ fan thank u queen x

francisca.c.gomes barking at the top of my lungs ↳ cheflingy/n come give me a kiss xxx ↳ francisca.c.gomes running as fast as i can!!! ↳ danielricciardo pierregasly we should kiss too ↳ pierregasly come here big boy

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👤 danielricciardo liked by bffstagram, danielricciardo and 609,817 others

cheflingy/n y/n recreates part 15! we visited the Marriott in New York and had their spaghetti alla vodka! you might have seen in danny's comments that i rated it a 6/10 due to the little flavour in the sauce but with a few chili flakes and a little balsamic vinegar, we have a strong 9/10 on our hands! link in my bio ❤️

also swipe for my favourite 10/10 meal x

danielricciardo omg stop objectifying me 🙄 ↳ cheflingy/n you literally called me food in your last post ↳ danielricciardo ... you got me there

fan y/n being the queen of the thattoo agenda ↳ cheflingy/n i rule that shit with an iron fist ↳ fan knowing y/n gets to see the thattoos in all their glory 😔 vs knowing she'll share with the group 😀

fan y/n recreates is back!!!! looks yummy, wish apple would create a way to smell through a screen ↳ cheflingy/n it was very good!! the recipe is in the description of my youtube, you should make it with me!! ↳ fan i will do it purely bc you suggested it 💞

lilymhe can i have some too 🥺 ↳ cheflingy/n ofc lils!! i'll make you some special pasta for the next gp x ↳ lilymhe i'm in love with you

maxverstappen1 funnily enough the 3rd slide is also my favourite meal ↳ cheflingy/n you take the outside i'll take the inside ↳ maxverstappen1 divide and conquer, i like your thinking 🫡 ↳ danielricciardo it's like i'm just a piece of meat to them

fan i live for the fact y/n joins in with maxiel ↳ fan essentially a throuple at this point ↳ cheflingy/n i would rather eat my own toes than enter a throuple with max and daniel ↳ maxverstappen1 rude? ↳ cheflingy/n mf you BURNT a salad, idek how you managed that... at least danny can cook a mean steak ↳ maxverstappen1 it was too close to the stove :(((( ↳ fan im sorry he burnt a salad???? new max lore unlocked

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danielricciardo uploaded to their story

replies:

maxverstappen1 i am outside your door ↳ danielricciardo ominous? ↳ maxverstappen1 open up i want a y/n apple turnover ↳ danielricciardo sorry cant hear you over the sound of me chowing down ↳ maxverstappen1 i know how to pick locks. ↳ danielricciardo ... who taught you that? ↳ maxverstappen1 y/n :) ↳ danielricciardo she never showed me how to pick locks :( ↳ maxverstappen1 pretty privilege, sorry you wouldn't understand ↳ danielricciardo im gonna spit on your turnover ↳ maxverstappen1 kinky x

fan share with the group please ↳ danielricciardo nope!

cheflingy/n i'm glad you liked them handsome x ↳ danielricciardo when does your class end so i can give you a fat kiss? ↳ cheflingy/n i'll be home in an hour x ↳ danielricciardo yippee!! x

fan honey b 😭 she even made a cute nickname out of that whack ass nickname ↳ danielricciardo WHACK ASS??? now that's crazy, give me a reason why i shouldn't block you ↳ fan i bought enchanté merch ↳ danielricciardo you're safe for now.

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liked by danielricciardo, landonorris and 798,014 others

cheflingy/n pastry week got me feeling like... can't wait for final exams next week so y'all can start calling me chef y/n for real

danielricciardo sneak one home pls xx ↳ cheflingy/n already put one in a container x ↳ danielricciardo no one snitch on me to my trainer

landonorris does that mean we have to say yes chef to anything you say? ↳ cheflingy/n yes x ↳ landonorris ok slay ↳ cheflingy/n that gave me the ick a lil bit ↳ fan same ↳ fan same ↳ danielricciardo same ↳ oscarpiastri same ↳ landonorris ?? disrespect???

fan y/n what dessert is that it looks yummers! ↳ cheflingy/n is just a really fancy carrot cake!! will post the recipe when im home 🩷 ↳ fan i love you.

kellypiquet p would like some carrot cake too! (and her mum) ↳ cheflingy/n tell p we can have a baking session soon! miss her little face x ↳ kellypiquet and me? ↳ cheflingy/n i miss your little face too x

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chefling y/n has uploaded a new video

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👤 danielricciardo liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 907,286 others

cheflingy/n doints in the bank so my man gets a steak xx

danielricciardo im her man 🥰🥰 ↳ cheflingy/n damn right you are!

maxverstappen1 i won the race, where's my steak? ↳ cheflingy/n kellypiquet ↳ maxverstappen1 stole my man, won't even cook me steak... what's the point of being world champ if i don't get SHIT ↳ kellypiquet big baby, she texted to say she'd bring some over when they're back from the cabin ↳ maxverstappen1 yippee!!!

fan steak, chicken AND lamb??? oh she's in LOVE love ↳ cheflingy/n he deserves it x

oscarpiastri can i get some steak too? 🥺 ↳ cheflingy/n ofc ofc!! i'll bring some to the next race 🧡 ↳ landonorris me too! ↳ cheflingy/n you can have whatever oscar leaves. ↳ landonorris what the fuck

fan ratings? ↳ danielricciardo 11/10 she never misses ↳ fan wish that was me...

fan did you get chance to watch the race??!! ↳ cheflingy/n i may have skipped a practice session to go on sunday... ↳ fan you're the reason we have doints we love you ↳ cheflingy/n it was all down to danny's driving i promise!! i just sit there and look pretty!! ↳ danielricciardo the prettiest x

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👤 bffstagram liked by bffstagram, danielricciardo and 992,716 others

cheflingy/n who up ratting their touille rn??!!

bffstagram MEMEMEMEME!!!!! ↳ cheflingy/n how's that fourth red bull treating you? ↳ bffstagram i can see sounds.

fan she's just like me fr: losing her mind during final exams ↳ cheflingy/n now who said i'm losing my mind... ↳ cheflingy/n you would be right tho my eyeballs ache from being open for so long

mercedesmgf1 we can send you some lewis hamilton monster to help you stay awake 🩵 ↳ danielricciardo this is a red bull house ONLY ↳ redbullracing iktr! y/nnie we have a special care package coming your way soon 💙 ↳ cheflingy/n i love you red bull

lilynzeimer what happens if we're not ratting our touille? ↳ cheflingy/n you gotta step your game up!

landonorris the girl in the second pic is cute, she got an @ ? ↳ cheflingy/n you stay away from her she's a good girl. ↳ landonorris c'mon, you know i'm a nice guy ↳ bffstagram unfortunately for you, i'm allergic to papaya :) ↳ bffstagram i am however, a big fan of chilis x ↳ carlossainz55 good to know 🤨 ↳ cheflingy/n get your flirting OUT of my comments

fan you got this y/n!! can't wait to call you chef y/n properly!!! 💘💖💗💞💕💗💞💝💖💓💕 ↳ cheflingy/n thank u i love u 🥺🩷

fan when's the last exam miss chefling?? ↳ cheflingy/n tomorrow!! luckily we get our results in a week so i wont be climbing the walls for too long!! ↳ fan good luck!!! you're gonna smash it!! 💘💘 ♥️ cheflingy/n

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chefling y/n has uploaded a new video

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👤 chefy/n liked by vcarb, chefly/n and 1,728,915 others

danielricciardo after 4 long years, my girls finally a graduate ❤️ chef y/n i love you and i'm so bloody proud of you x

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chefy/n danny 🥹 thank you for the flowers and the cake and for just being there with me, i love you so so much ❤️ ↳ danielricciardo i love you more my sexy gordon ramsey

vcarb congratulations y/n!!! we may have an opening in red bull hospitality for you 😉 ↳ chefly/n love y'all but i am very happy just following dan around the paddock on race days 🤣

maxverstappen1 simp ↳ maxverstappen1 also congrats y/n! now about that meal you mentioned last week... ↳ chefy/n man can i enjoy my post grad vacay first damn 😭

alexandrasaintmleux chef y/n we love you 💜 ↳ chefy/n i love you alex 💛 ↳ charles_leclerc don't suppose you fancy sharing some of that cake? ↳ chefy/n come over, doors unlocked! (bring alex too) ↳ charles_leclerc you just want to see my girlfriend... ↳ chefy/n correct captain obvious

fan she changed her @ !! chef y/n welcome we love you!!! ↳ chefy/n i love you too!!!

bffstagram that's my favourite chef right there!! ↳ chefy/n thank you chef x ↳ bffstagram you're welcome chef x

landonorris let's go chef y/n!! you should celebrate by bringing me and osc those banging pastries in your last vid ↳ chefy/n if you run over here in time, there may be some left 🤫 ↳ oscarpiastri you should have seen his little legs it was giving scooby doo ↳ chefy/n giving? we need to get you away from that man ↳ oscarpiastri please...

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📍 Spain

liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 893,017 others

chefy/n week away with my love ❤️ spain was so so gorgeous i couldn't resist picking up a camera and documenting danny trying to make paella, coming to youtube tomorrow x

danielricciardo i think i did a banging job ↳ chefy/n sure you did babe x

maxverstappen1 where was my invite? ↳ fan breaking up the throuple fr 😔 ↳ chefy/n you have your own plane you could have flown over ↳ maxverstappen1 WAIT that was an option? ↳ chefy/n no x ↳ maxverstappen1 that's just cruel...

fan are we getting a y/n recreates of dannys paella?? ↳ chefy/n is that something you would want?? ↳ fan YES ↳ fan YESYEYSYESYEYS PLEASE ↳ fan it's a need not a want y/n please!!!! ↳ chefy/n i hear y'all, i'll get started soon x

kellypiquet gorgeous girl x ↳ chefy/n love you kels x

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chef y/n uploaded a new video

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👤 enchante, chefy/n liked by chefy/n, enchante and 1,938,724 others

danielricciardo welcome to the Enchanté cafe. All meals provided by our resident chef 😉

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fan STOP y/n making the food for the promo videos 🥺 i love them

fan and WHY were there no videos of y/n cooking? ↳ danielricciardo she didn't wanna steal my limelight ↳ chefy/n i'll be uploading a bts vid to my youtube tomorrow, you'll see me there 😉

chefy/n that food looks super yummy! ↳ danielricciardo yeah i heard the chef graduated top of her class ↳ chefy/n damn she must be good then ↳ danielricciardo the absolute best x

enchante the resident chef is never allowed to leave ↳ chefy/n i would never want to ❤️

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a/n: my first emoji anon! hi! and welcome danny ric to tinycoffeeroom! i hope you enjoy and that i did your request justice! <3 also psa i looooveeee the honey badger nickname pls dont kill me 😭

taglist: @golden-hoax

#daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo fanfic #f1 social media au #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 smau #f1 fic

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sunsburns · 5 months ago

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naked in manhattan

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader / implied art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you’re just hours away from a flight that will change your career forever—one that will take you to london, england, for the 2012 olympics, a milestone you never thought you’d reach. thrilled yet trembling with nerves, you find yourself at the hotel bar, celebrating alone. it does not help when you run into art donaldson and… his wife?

—or: you and tashi rekindle an old flame

word count: 6.9k

contains: SMUT 18+, smut with a lot of plot, semi-public sex (a gym at the middle of the night so idk if that counts), mid-challengers movie (a year after the atlanta scene with tashi and patrick), angst with no comfort, fingering, homewrecking, cheating but also not cheating but also a worse third thing, no use of y/n, old situationship best described in terms of “casual” by chappell roan (iykyk), art is lowkey a shit starter

author’s note: so i finished this a while back and added it to my queue and did not realize i put it for july instead of june so LOL MY BAD. this is kinda like a prequel to “good luck, babe!” but you don't need to read that to get this. alsoooo thank you for all the love and feedback in “good luck, babe!” i’ve read every single message and tried to reply to all of them! you guys are so sweet and inspired me to write more! thank you thank you <3 i hope you enjoy this one!

Manhattan, New York City, 2012

"I hope you're planning on getting laid tonight."

Your drink is cold, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as you swirl the straw absentmindedly. The dim lighting of the hotel bar casts a warm, golden glow over everything, making the polished wood of the bar counter gleam. Around you, the murmur of conversations, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clinking of glasses create a lively yet intimate ambiance. You glance at the TV mounted in the corner, where a muted sports channel displays highlights from a basketball game.

You try not to snort into your drink at the words of Patrick Zweig on the other end of the call. You push your phone closer to your ear, unable to bite back the grin spreading across your face.

"Are you serious?" you ask.

"What?" Patrick's tone is mockingly innocent, full of playful mischief.

"I thought you called to say something a little more... I don't know, sincere? Heartwarming?"

He lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that you can practically feel through the phone. In the background, you hear the faint sounds of a city—honking cars, distant chatter, and the occasional bark of a dog. The noise fades slightly as Patrick likely moves to a quieter spot, and you can almost picture him getting in his car in some other state—you think he's in Arizona.

"The only kind of warming I wanna hear about is cockwarming," he retorts, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

You make a face, "You're disgusting."

"I mean it," he insists, still laughing. "I'm actually so jealous of you right now. You qualified for the Olympics, for fuck's sake! How's your mom doing? Did she have a heart attack? Did she call you already? I hope she packed you some condoms. There's gonna be such a wide variety. Literally every country in the world."

"Shut the fuck up, Patrick."

Your mother did call, her voice crackling with emotion over the phone just before Patrick rang you. She told you how proud she is of you, how she can't wait to watch you play and tell everyone she knows that her daughter is an Olympic tennis player. A gold medalist, maybe.

Her words echo in your mind, filling you with a warmth that battles the nerves simmering beneath the surface.

You take a sip of your drink, savouring the blend of fruity and bitter flavours, a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts. You try not to spill it on your Ralph Lauren sweater, custom-made, just for the Olympics, with your name stitched on the arm.

Around you, the hotel bar is alive with the buzz of other athletes celebrating with their teams. The fellowship is appreciable as laughter and cheers fill the air. But for some single athletes, like yourself, it's a different story. You feel as if you're in high school all over again, too awkward to make friends, hoping someone braver than you will come by and say hello first.

"You better not be sitting at the bar alone, drinking that orange juice you like."

"A sangria isn't just juice, you dick," you retort, rolling your eyes.

"You're such a loser."

You do feel a little bit like a loser, sitting alone at the bar, but you know you shouldn't. You're hours away from your flight to London where you'll have the chance to play tennis in the Olympics. This is all you've ever wanted since you were a child, all you've been working for—sweat, blood, and tears. You can't even remember a time when you've dreamt of something other than this.

Tennis has always been your escape, your sanctuary. You remember those early days when you played with second-hand rackets and makeshift nets, the local court becoming your second home.

And then there was Patrick, your closest… friend(?) and fiercest rival. His encouragement, his competition, and his company kept you grounded and motivated. When the going got tough, the dream felt too distant, and all of it made you feel far too guilty as if you had stolen someone else's life, Patrick was there to reassure you that you deserved it just as much as the next. Without him, you likely would have walked away from the sport you love.

"I can't believe you made it to the Olympics before me," Patrick's voice pulls you back to the present, a mix of envy and pride lacing his words. You can almost see the playful smirk on his face, a familiar expression that often surfaced during your countless matches together.

"I wish you were here, Pat." Your voice softens, the longing evident. It was hard to track down Patrick Zweig, especially while he was constantly on the move, hopping from state to state, playing as many challengers as he could sign up for, each match a stepping stone toward his dream of winning the US Open. And you think he will. You've played against him enough times to know he's better than you at hitting a ball with a racket.

There were nights when you'd both crash in a shabby motel or back at your place after a gruelling day on the court, strategizing and critiquing each other's play styles (sometimes in more than just tennis). His tenacity was a beacon for you, pushing you to strive harder and to reach further.

His voice softens, becoming more earnest. "Yeah, me too. I'll try to get tickets for one of your games in London. If not, I'll catch up with your mom and watch it with her. Is your dad still in the picture?"

You roll your eyes, a reflex to his familiar teasing. "Oh, my god."

"I'm just asking," he chuckles. "Listen, I'm gonna let you go, 'cause I've got a date tonight. But call me when you land."

"Oh, yeah, okay." You try not to let the disappointment seep into your voice, but it's hard. It's not like you and Patrick were together, at least not publicly, at least not in the sense that you couldn't see other people. But even as you tell yourself that, a knot tightens in your chest.

It feels a bit teenageish, you think, messing around with friends and acting like it means nothing just to avoid making things awkward. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were leaving something unsaid, something unacknowledged. Patrick was one of the few people in your life who kept you on your toes and made you feel good—truly good.

Now, the idea of him with someone else, going on dates while you chase your dreams, feels like a betrayal you can't quite articulate. But what right do you have to feel that way? You never made things official, never dared to cross that line.

You never bothered to search for love outside of tennis.

"Have fun on your date," you manage to say. It comes out more brittle than you'd hoped. "Talk to you later."

"Bye!" he says, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart. His voice is light and carefree, and why wouldn't it be?

You end the call and set your phone down on the bar with a bit more force than intended, the hollow thud echoing your frustration. The bartender glances your way and you try to flash him an honest smile before ordering another drink. The TV overhead flickers, switching from basketball highlights to a recap of the latest tennis matches. You watch the screen without really seeing it.

The bar is still lively, yet you feel an overwhelming sense of solitude. You can't help but feel like you're stuck in limbo—caught between your dreams and the reality of your personal life.

You take a deep breath and a long sip of the rest of your first drink, the cool liquid doing little to ease the heat of frustration building inside you. You tell yourself you should be happy, grateful even. But right now, all you can think about is Patrick, and how much easier it would be if he were here with you.

But he's not. And maybe he never will be.

Maybe no one will.

Maybe you will die alone, your tennis racket as your only companion.

"This seat taken?" A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts.

You turn, startled, "No-" you start, but then the blur of blonde hair comes to focus and you're stumbling over your words, "Art? What- what are you doing here?"

"Oh," he smiles, a shy faint red blush already growing on his pale skin. He sits beside you, almost hesitantly, "Just stopping by the city. I saw you and thought I'd say hi."

"Hi." You return his smile, albeit a bit warily.

It's been years since you last spoke to Art properly, though your paths have crossed a few times. You've seen him in magazines, TV, and brief passings usually at major tournaments—Wimbledon, the Australian Open, the US Open. Each time, there were shy smiles and waves from across the room, lingering eyes, and awkward conversations where mutual friends tried to reintroduce you as if you hadn't once known each other

Art looks different every time you see him. His hair, now a little shorter than you remember, still maintains that boyish shagginess. There's a darker tan on his skin, evidence of his time spent under the sun. Some days he has a brighter smile, other days, it's a smile that never reaches his eyes.

As he sits there, you can't help but think of how golden his hair used to look whenever he wore his old Stanford hat, the one he used to pull low over his eyes during your college days. The memory makes you aware that you're staring, maybe a little too long. But he's looking at you too, his blue eyes trailing from one end of your face to the other, as if trying to memorize it all, capturing a photograph of who you are now.

A warmth spreads through you under his gaze, and when he finally looks away, you turn too, tapping at your empty glass, pretending to seem interested in the way the ice has started to melt.

But your eyes betray you, slowly trailing back to him. You watch the way he sits, the way he calls over the bartender and orders himself a glass of water. You try not to notice the deep timbre his voice has gained over the years, and how it resonates in the noisy bar. He looks at you, then the empty seat on your other side, and finally scans the room anxiously, as if he's searching for someone or something.

"He's not here," you finally say, breaking the silence that has grown too heavy. "If that's what you're wondering."

He nods, trying to act nonchalant but failing miserably. "What city is he in now?"

"Vegas, I think."

He makes a face and rests his chin on his hand. "There's no challengers in Vegas this month."

"Then he's just visiting. I don't know." The truth is, you don't want to talk about Patrick right now. Especially not with Art. Not after the way they ended things. You watch Art shrug, and the bartender sets your drink in front of you. You take a grateful sip, savouring the blend of flavours. Art holds his glass carefully, and the two of you sit in strained silence for a moment, the noise of the bar fading into the background.

You can't help but ask, "What are you doing here? In Manhattan?"

"I have an interview tomorrow. For the New York Times," Art says, leaning back slightly. He seems a little surprised as if he expected you to sit there without acknowledging him for the whole night. It makes you wonder what he thinks of you. "They're doing a piece on my career, the highs, the lows... the beginning and stuff."

You study his face, trying to gauge his emotions. You know what it's like to be interviewed, to have a team of people making you look your best for photos and another team crafting answers to help you maintain your reputation. It’s exhausting and thrilling all at once. "Congrats, I'm happy for you."

"Thank you. If anything, I should be congratulating you. Olympics? That's huge..." He continues talking, his lips moving, but you’re barely registering the words. For the first time that night, he seems genuinely enthusiastic, a faint spark in his eyes as he talks about you, about London, gesturing with his hand in excitement.

That's when you notice it. The gold around his finger. It glimmers under the warm lights of the bar, catching your eye like a beacon. You can't stop staring at it even after he's done talking.

"Oh, yeah. It's great." The words feel hollow as they leave your mouth. You struggle to find the right response, not wanting to be rude. "You're married?"

His face falls, and he looks down at his hand resting on his lap. "Oh, yeah, yeah. We, uh..." He scratches the back of his head, his eyes darting up to meet yours briefly before looking away. He seems nervous, like he's bracing for your reaction, worried to tell you, as if you weren’t supposed to know at all. "We got married last year. We kept pushing the date for a while because we were... we were busy... and stuff just kept getting in the way."

"We...?"

"Tashi."

"Tashi," you echo, the name tasting foreign and bitter on your tongue. "You're married? You married each other?"

He nods, "Yeah, we've been engaged for a few years now. You haven't heard?"

You feel a lump form in your throat. "No, uh. My coach tries to keep me away from certain news... my mom suggested it. So I don't get uh, distracted."

This is exactly the kind of situation your team has been trying to avoid.

The reality of his words sinks in, and you feel a sharp pang of something—loss, regret, maybe even jealousy. The air around you feels thicker and harder to breathe. Each word he says feels like another brick being laid on your chest, pressing down, making it harder to stay composed.

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense."

You force a smile, but it's a fragile thing, threatening to shatter at any moment. "That's... that's great, Art. I'm happy for you. Really. How was... how was the wedding?" Your mind races with thoughts of broken promises and missed opportunities. You imagine Tashi in her wedding dress; you know she looked beautiful. The image stabs at you, and you wince.

"It was beautiful. Both our families came in, and we kept it traditional, in a church. It was..." He pauses, watching you before adding, "It was a small ceremony. Private. Just family."

His words twist the knife deeper. Tashi's family used to see you as such. "No, yeah, I get it. Wouldn't want any trouble at the wedding. I'm happy for you. I'm happy for the both of you." You turn to the bartender, desperate to keep your voice steady. "Hey, can I get another drink? Something stronger?"

Patrick was right; your stupid orange juice won't get you through the night.

Art watches you with concern, his brow furrowing. "How many of those have you had?"

You laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. "Not enough."

"Does your coach know you're drinking?"

"Does yours know you're talking to me?"

Art leans back, his posture stiffening. He turns to his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass as he takes another sip. The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable. You watch as he processes your words, his expression shifting from defensiveness to something more pained. You instantly feel a pang of guilt, realizing you've struck a nerve.

You've heard all about Tashi's coaching with Art. Whispers in the locker rooms during tournaments, hushed conversations about how she's pushing him until he cracks. You never wanted to believe it, never wanted to think that Tashi, of all people, would be the one to break him down.

"She calls you Ace, you know."

You make a face at the name. A journalist had written an article about you a few years ago when you won your first US Open, nicknaming you Ace since your serves were almost impossible to hit. The nickname stuck, plastered across headlines, magazine covers, and merchandise. People even bet on you becoming the youngest tennis player with the most aces in history before the season ended. You were only off by a dozen.

"Does she?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, unaffected.

"You do have a killer serve."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Killer." The word feels bitter on your tongue. "Tashi used to hit those back at me like it was nothing."

Art nods, taking another sip of his drink before pausing to look at you. "Only 'cause she knows you."

"Knew," you correct him.

The silence stretches again, heavier this time. You're about to say something, anything to break it, when Art speaks again, his voice softer, more earnest.

"I miss you."

What. The. Fuck.

"I do," he insists, leaning forward, his eyes searching yours. "I miss hanging out with you. I miss playing with you. Watching your games live and not recorded on my TV."

"Art, c'mon." You feel the dread crawling up your throat, wishing you had left the bar sooner. Every word he says seems to pull you deeper into a past you've been trying to escape. Art has done nothing but throw you off your game all night.

"I miss you outside of tennis, too," he continues, his voice tinged with regret. "I miss our late-night walks, studying in the library. You remember those?"

"Of course I do."

"Tashi misses you, too," he says, and you can tell he's crossing a line, testing your patience. You can feel the corner of your mouth twitch, your eyes unable to meet his. "She tells me every night. She's always keeping up with your stats, watching all of your games, rewatching your old ones. She makes notes for you, how you could improve. She wants to coach you."

"Art, stop it," you finally snap, turning to face him. The night feels ruined, any semblance of peace shattered. Was this all some elaborate scheme against you? After all these years, is this how they repay you? Out of spite? Is that what it is, a way to get back at you because you somehow got it all, and Tashi's taking whatever she can scrape off from Art?

"I don't want her to coach me. And I highly doubt she wants to coach me either."

"I booked the hotel," he says suddenly, his voice softer, more sincere. "She doesn't know you're here. And I really think it will be good for you two to talk." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, placing it carefully on the bar in front of you. "Here's our room number. I'll be out tonight with some friends, so the room is yours till late. Just, don't kill each other or break anything if you fight."

"I'm not going—"

"She really does miss you," he interrupts, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you might understand, might relent.

You stare at the piece of paper, feeling its presence like a burning brand. Art stands up, hesitating for a moment as if he wants to say more but thinks better of it. "I mean it. Think about it," he murmurs before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space of your mind.

You watch him go, each step he takes pulling at the threads of your carefully constructed facade. As he nears the entrance, your eyes follow him instinctively, and that's when you see her. Tashi. She's standing there, with her bags looking around with a familiar intensity, her eyes scanning the room until they lock onto yours.

You feel sick.

Meeting Art was a pleasant surprise; he makes your heart race and your cheeks burn. But Tashi makes your heart stop and your brain shut off.

She looks different—older, more mature, hair straight and cut to a mid-length but also a lighter colour—but still heartbreakingly familiar. Her eyes widen slightly as she recognizes you.

She opens her mouth as if to say something when Art stands next to her, pressing a kiss to her temple, but no words come out.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

The weight of her gaze is too much. You're the first to look away. You stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over your drink in the process. "Excuse me," you mutter to the bartender, slapping a couple of bucks on the counter. Your voice feels distant, and detached, as if it belongs to someone else.

You push through the crowd, your mind a chaotic whirl of emotions. You need air. You need space.

As you reach the elevator, you can feel Tashi's eyes still on you. But you keep moving, your footsteps quickening with each step. You need to focus on tennis. That's the only thing that's never let you down.

Tashi had once picked tennis over you, and now it was your turn to do the same.

You reach your room and close the door behind you, leaning against it as you finally let out the breath you've been holding. The walls seem to close in on you, and you slide down to the floor.

You need to remember why you're here. For the game. For the dream. And that has to be enough.

Only one problem.

You can't sleep.

Hours later, you find yourself in the hotel gym, the quiet hum of the machines the only sound in the stillness of the night. Your mind is racing, a chaotic swirl of thoughts and emotions you can't control. Desperate for an outlet, you hop on a treadmill and start running, hoping to exhaust yourself into some semblance of peace.

Anything is better than sitting in the hotel lobby, scouring the internet on the public computer for any proof of Art and Tashi's marriage while drinking wine straight from the bottle.

Art was right, it was a small wedding. There were almost no photos of it caught by the paparazzi, only articles upon articles talking about it, magazine covers and everything. God, how could you have missed this? How out of the loop were you?

There was only one photo posted, and it was from Tashi's Facebook and Instagram from less than a year ago; a picture of just her hand holding onto Art's, where you can see her wedding ring. There was no caption. But the photo had millions of likes.

You wonder if Patrick knew. He probably did. He stalks her account religiously and only recently started to tone it down. And then there's you, who had her blocked on everything since your last argument.

The music playing in your ears drowns out the world around you, a heavy beat pulsing as you hum along. Your eyes fixate on the rising numbers on the treadmill screen, sometimes glancing out the window at the city skyline, other times catching your silhouette in the glass reflection.

Sweat makes your clothes cling to you like a second skin, rolling down your spine in rivulets. You're still a little tipsy from your drinks, the taste lingering in your cheeks, but you think you're sober enough that a few more miles will drain it all out.

Art's words are burned into your mind. The wedding you were never invited to, how he suddenly wants to be friends again. You can see where he's coming from; tennis is lonely. You're lonely. You press the button to go faster, your legs burning as you push yourself harder, trying to escape the thoughts that chase you.

You don't hear the door click open, and it takes a few seconds for you to spot the reflection of someone walking behind you in the window's reflection, rolling out a pink yoga mat. But they don't step onto it, they don't move, and even worse, you catch their eye in the reflection.

Fuck.

It's Tashi Duncan.

Your heart lurches in your chest. You quickly look away, panic setting in. You turn your music up higher and make the treadmill run faster, the machine whirring louder in response. Your pulse races, not just from the exertion, but from the presence of the one person you can't bear to face right now.

In the corner of your eye, you see her approach you. When you hear her call out your name between songs, you pretend you can't hear her. You pretend to be captivated by the sight of the city at night, pretend that you're lost in the music as P!nk's voice blares into your ears, cursing out one of her old lovers.

You wonder how long you can keep the act up.

Tashi moves with a determination that you've always admired and feared. She walks around your treadmill, eyes locked onto you with a fierce intensity. Without hesitation, she reaches down and unplugs the machine from the wall, forcing it to power down abruptly.

Not long enough.

"What the fuck?" You huff, yanking out your earbuds. "What's your fucking problem?"

"You're my problem," she says, her voice steady, unyielding as she rolls her eyes.

"I haven't said a word to you."

"And that's my problem. I'm talking to you," Her gaze bores into yours, refusing to be ignored. You can see the resolve in her eyes, the same decisiveness that made her a force to be reckoned with on the court.

"I'm busy," you snap, and your breath comes in ragged gasps, both from the exertion and the emotional storm raging inside you. You feel trapped, cornered by the very person you’ve been trying to avoid.

You bite your tongue, stepping off the treadmill and walking around her when she steps in front of you. You make a straight line for your bag, watching her from the mirrors as she follows you closely.

"Can you listen?" It's more of a demand than an ask, "I just... Art told me what he did. He's a little shit, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. You have other shit to worry about."

You're taking long chugs from your water, staring at her without saying a word. Part of it is because you have nothing to say to her, and another is because you're afraid that if you speak, she'll see through you.

Tashi's eyes roam over you, lingering on your shorts and the way the wires from your earbuds snake from your iPod, under your tank, and peek out from under your sports bra. Her gaze is both appraising and filled with something unresolved between you. When you don't respond, she sighs. "You look great, by the way. On the court. You've changed your approach. You're vicious."

The compliment stings more than it soothes. You still don't say anything, letting the silence stretch between you like a chasm.

"...Or maybe you've always been. I haven't seen you in a long time. So a lot could've changed, I don't know."

You lower your bottle, swallowing the water. It feels cold as it runs down your throat, a stark contrast to the heat of your rising anger. You can't help the way your eyes drop to her hand when you pull your hair down from its ponytail. The sight of the ring on her finger feels like a punch to the gut.

She notices.

"We didn't want you to find out this way."

Your eyes snap up to hers. "And how was I supposed to find out?"

Tashi looks taken aback for a moment, her confident façade faltering. She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "I don't know. Maybe we should've told you. Should've invited you. But I thought... I thought it would be easier for you if you didn't know. I didn't want to hurt you more than I already had."

Your laugh is bitter, devoid of any real amusement. "Easier?

"Look," Tashi begins, her voice tinged with a hint of impatience, "I'm not a fan of the way I ended things. But I think that keeping a grudge for this long is embarrassing. We were teenagers."

"You're right," you concede with a bitter chuckle, "it is embarrassing. But you know what's even more embarrassing?" Your voice rises, fueled by a mixture of frustration and hurt. "Having your husband come to me and tell me how much he misses me. And how you miss me. But you don't have the guts to tell me that yourself, do you? Do you miss me, Tashi?"

"Of course I miss you," she scoffs, her tone defensive. "You were my best friend. My serving partner. We played and won doubles together."

"Is that all I was to you?"

"Was there supposed to be anything more?"

There it is, the moment you've been dreading, the confrontation you've been avoiding. You can feel the familiar ache in your chest, "You know I fucking loved you, Tashi," you admit. "And yeah, whatever, everyone loved you. No one could get enough of Tashi Duncan. But you know damn well I loved you for more than just that."

"Loved?" She steps closer, her eyes searching yours. "You don't love me anymore?"

"No," you tell her. "I don't. I dropped out of your groupie a while ago."

"What do you love, then?" Her voice is almost a whisper, the distance between you closing.

"I love tennis," you confess, your gaze never leaving hers. "I love winning. Turns out I'm great at both. And I love that too. And people love me. That's more than you could ever give me. Or Art."

"Even Patrick?" The mention of his name is a sharp jab; she's trying to get under your skin.

"I don't know, you tell me." You're taunting her. And you love the way she falters for a split second. "You saw him at the Open last year, didn't you?"

The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you. "Listen," she says, her voice dropping lower, "I just came here to tie some loose ends. For Art's sake. He says It'll be good for me."

"Okay," you reply, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation in your favour. Hook, line and sinker. "Is there anything else you want to get off your chest?"

Hook.

Tashi's eyes narrow slightly, but she takes the bait, her expression shifting to one of determination. "You raise your arm too high when you serve. You're gonna dislocate your shoulder one day."

"I bet you're waiting for the day I do."

"I can make you the best."

"Am I not already?"

Line.

"You're one of the best at most. But not the best. I'd be surprised if you bring back bronze. You're too short-tempered for silver. Let me coach you. I'll make sure you bring back gold."

"I don't need you," you say, the words catching in your throat.

"We both know you do," she whispers, her breath warm against your lips.

And sinker.

In that moment, everything else fades away, leaving only the two of you suspended in time. The words hang in the air, a silent challenge. You can feel the heat radiating from her, the closeness almost unbearable.

Without another thought, your lips crash together in a desperate kiss, a release of all the pent-up tension and longing that has simmered between you for far too long.

It's a whirlwind of heat and passion, each touch igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume everything in its path. Her hands are in your hair, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your body pressed against hers with a fierce urgency.

The kiss deepens a symphony of desire and desperation, all the words you couldn't say pouring into it with a fervour that borders on reckless abandon. You can feel yourself start to become absorbed into the bubble that is Tashi Duncan, it sucks you in, and it scares you, makes you feel as if you're sinking into the bottom of the ocean.

She grips the back of your neck, hard enough that her nails dig into the skin. Tashi waits for your gasp, and when you do, she pushes her tongue into your mouth, past your teeth until it collides with your own.

You're moaning, groaning into her mouth with the way she shoves you until your back hits the mirror behind you. You're arching into her at the way she fucking smiles against your lips at your reaction.

It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Almost in the same way Art is. You know it. She knows it. But in your defence, it's been a while since you've been kissed, it's been a while since someone's touched you this way, with heat and flavour. You're a little dizzy from it, cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

Tashi sucks your tongue into her mouth and you buck your hips against the thigh she's pressed between your legs.

There's a sweetness that lingers when she bites your lip, you wonder if she's wearing lipgloss, maybe chapstick. You hope she can't tell you've been drinking, that talking to Art made you spiral, that you've been bluffing since the moment she walked into the gym. Since the night she packed her things and told you she was leaving Stanford, her scholarship has no use since she can't play anymore.

When her hands run down your neck to your waist, gliding over the sweat on your skin, you can feel the cold touch of her wedding ring. It's frigid, making you shiver when Tashi starts to lick up the column of your throat. You almost feel bad about how wet you've become.

"Tashi..." you huff, her hands found their way to the base of your ass, guiding you to rock faster against her, only making you whine. Her grasp is tight, wanting. She pulls at your hips, slowly, dragging your crotch closer to hers and then pushing you back down on her leg. She repeats the motion a few times, rolling her own hips up into you a little more with each motion, and soon your muscles start to work so you can grind down onto her.

Tashi rewards you with a quiet moan—oh, you want her to do that again, you're going to make her do that again, louder and louder—and then, with a touch so light you could cry, she traces one hand over your hipbones and down to your pussy.

You can feel your stomach nearly drop, "You're married, Tashi."

She pulls away just to laugh at you. One finger traces your slit through your shorts, and you hear yourself moan. She raises her brows, a challenging look in her eyes, "Are you jealous?"

You try to scoff, but the cold glass of the mirror behind you squeaks when you shift. Even just this feather-light pressure through two layers of fabric, and every nerve ending in your body sets alight at once.

"What would Art say?" You try to say, your hair falling over your face as you try to collect some kind of morality. If you were caught, you can already imagine the headlines and the stories people would write about you. "What would he do if he found us right now?"

"I don't know," Tashi hums, leaning closer. She pretends to think as if the answer isn't obvious, teasing you a little when she gets close enough to kiss you but doesn't. "He'd probably ask to join."

You can't stop the way that thought alone makes you melt. You remember the jokes Patrick used to make back when you were in college, of you and Tashi being his wet dreams. You can almost imagine, how he would moan at everything, want everything, his whiney moans too similar to the ones he makes when he's on the court.

Tashi rubs gently at your pussy a few more times like she's exploring you, and then suddenly she taps right where your clit is. You cry out, and she sighs against your mouth. "You're so wet. You like it when I touch you?"

"Yeah, please... touch me." You nod. And in your head, you're telling yourself you only like it because you haven't been with anyone since Patrick left for his tour.

Tashi kisses you again, and it's a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath her shirt she starts to fumble with your waistband, and you're both angry and resentful and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet.

Her fingers are clumsily slipping into your underwear and then she's there, her fingers are brushing right against your clit—you're so wet that her fingers brush right through your folds, gliding like silk, and by the time she reaches your hole, two fingers easily sink in right to the knuckle.

Tashi leaves you gasping and she teases you for it. "So sensitive," she taunts against your lips, pressing her thumb against your clit so she can see you squirm, pumping her fingers at an urgent pace to hear you moan. "So needy."

With each movement, she scissors her fingers a little, spreading you wider every time, and she starts to mouth at your neck with hot, wet kisses. "Do you like that, yeah? Am I making you feel good? I am, aren't I? I'm exactly what you need. C'mon say you want me. Tell me you need me, Ace."

"Maybe—" You're breathless, and the nickname has you tugging at her hair again, "Shit, I saw the way you made Art. He... oh god... he wouldn't be half the athlete without you. I also... I also wouldn't want to ruin my shoulder... while—while serving."

"I'm not talking about tennis."

For a moment, you worry that you've fallen for a trap, that you've said too much. You're vulnerable, a little drunk on lust and wine, and Tashi isn't stupid to not catch your sapphic crush on her since the two of you became friends, an old high school love that's never really disappeared, from slumber party kisses and how you've gawked at her, at her husband and even her ex-boyfriend.

"C'mon, Tash, you're always talking about tennis."

"Not this time."

You barely catch onto what she says. Your body feels like it's going through the most intense orgasm of your life, especially now that she's given up on pumping her fingers in favour of curling them in rapid beats against your g-spot, but you know that you're not even coming yet: you're close, though, judging by the way the room is spinning around you, and the pressure building in the pit of your stomach—"I think I'm close... oh, I don't—fuck—keep touching me like that."

She bites your neck until you say her name. You pull her hair until she moans. Her touch is blistering against your skin. She says your name in a breathy drawl like she's pleading with you, humouring you, wanting to take everything from you.

"Keep going, please, please don't stop," you all but shout, and Tashi continues the massaging movement right up on your g-spot: the positioning of her hand means the heel of her palm is dragging over your clit, and your hips are frantically grinding up into her hand—you're gonna come, the world feels like it's crashing down around you.

Every muscle in your body tenses up and through it all you hear Tashi whispering, come on, that's it, I've got you, come on, come on, and then you're coming—

Distantly, you can feel her fingers continue their movements inside of you, unrelenting—and the other hand keeps a firm grip on your hips, grounding you onto her lap—but other than that, all you know is the pleasure slamming into each nerve in your body, one by one and then all at once. A hot sting against your skin that reminds you of the sun whenever you're on the tennis court, deep into the game you've turned into the love of your life.

It can't have possibly been this long since the last time you've gotten laid, right?

Then, suddenly, you're back in reality. Tashi is heaving for breath against your shoulder and her fingers are back to a slow, steady pumping, in and out of your swollen pussy. "You're so pretty, you know that? No tennis talk."

You lean your head back against the mirror, a slow grin forming on your lips, "You don't think I'm pretty when I play."

"I think you're hot when you play."

You peek a glance at Tashi, meeting her eyes as she watches you, watching the way you catch your breath, skin shining against the fluorescent lights of the gym, similar to how you shine on the court. Yeah, you're a sight for sore fucking eyes.

Tashi takes slow, taunting steps back and away from you, and then she brings her fingers to her mouth and sucks, moaning around the digits, and through hazy eyes, you can see the most fucked-out look on her face just at the taste of your cum.

She licks her fingers clean—you feel your pussy clench down again at the sight—before opening her eyes, fixing you with an intense stare, and panting, "I'll be in my room," she rolls up her pink mat (which she never used) and picks up her bag, "I'm sure you know the number. I'm hoping you can return the favour and touch me or something. You know, before you leave in the morning."

tags 🏷️: @begoniaespresso / @sceletaflores / @too-deviant / @wolflover384 / @sevikasblackgf / @supercutszns / @diorrfairy / @24kmar / @apolloscastellan

reblog to support your writers!

#and that is tea #tashi duncan smut #tashi duncan x reader #tashi duncan #tashi donaldson #patrick x tashi #art x tashi #tashi x art x patrick #challengers 2024 #challengers smut #art challengers #challengers movie #patrick zweig #art donaldson #tashi’s hotel room

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somewhereincairparavel · 5 months ago

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࿐°♥ Dates with the Hoo boys! ࿐°♥

♥ Jason Grace ♥- would love restaurant dates and picnic dates. Anything that involves food. Camp Jupiter had never really allowed Jason to 'devour' meals because "he had to maintain his body" and he mostly had to eat extremely organic/healthy stuff. So sometimes he likes to go crazy on nice food to fill the void that has left him all these years. He'd also LOVE vacation dates like boating in Venice and all that cool stuff. According to him, life's way too short to not travel the world. Dates with him would be so calm and chaos free because he has everything planned so well :( he wants your dates to be perfect and doesn't want you to get stressed with the packing/planning. One thing about Jason though is that he's a worrywart, so he'd always be stressing out about the airplane schedules and when it would depart and stuff lol but love to be cheesy like kisses you whenever there's a fancy fountain in the name of being 'romantic' 🥹💝 also buys you souvenirs and cute lil stuff. Also, museum dates, he's a history nerd!!

⟢ Leo Valdez ⟢ cooking dates!! Or amusement park dates, but Leo, as social as he is, prefers staying at the comfort of home because he's gone through so many foster homes. He loves cooking Mexican food and loves to use you as a taste test participant haha, if he's feeling energetic then he'll probably go to a carnival with you, trying out all flavours of cotton candy, all the rides, and would even do cute shit like win you a plushie from the games :(( he would be dedicated! Also he loves celebrating latina holidays with you, if you aren't latina, he would love to teach you about the festivals and the cultural practices and stuff! He's a very proud man of his culture

𓇼Percy Jackson𓇼 - as opposed to the fandom's popular opinion, i personally think Percy would hate aquarium dates. He would hate aquariums in general tbh. They're basically just tanks with sea creatures confined in them, Percy hates that canonically, doesn't he? Anyways, I'd say Percy loves the arcade/movies, and for some reason he's definitely a skater boy, so he'll talk you to skate park dates where he teaches you how to skate, so cute!! So far he gives off the most "american teenage boy" vibes. Just youthful and cheerful dates. You guys eat blue popcorn while watching romcoms and sitcoms together, skate at night where New York is just bustling with city lights, also baking dates!! You both have a competition on who makes better blue food and Sally is the judge ahh

𓃰 Frank Zhang 𓃰 - hiking dates and camping dates! Frank is definitely pro! wilderness (duh) so he loves the outdoors, also hiking is super fun with him because he can change into whatever animal he wants and takes you on cool rides as a big swamp lizard or a crocodile lol roasting marshmallows with him while telling him scary stories>>>. Frank and you have a huge picnic in the middle of a forest, and you both sleep in the same tent, cuddling <33

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hummingbee-lievable · 4 months ago

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Song of the Day #24:

'Mile Magnificent' by Molly OfGeography (released 2019).

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An apartment when it's empty echoes lovely, bright and clean

Sing odes to green-blue water that we stole so it comes free

All things end, it's part of living; forest fires feed the trees

Lift your glasses full of sunshine, sing a toast to gasoline

Track #4 on 'Myths'.

Fun fact: Molly refers to this song as 'The Song My Producer Said I Was Not Allowed To Name “CHICAGO IS BETTER THAN NEW YORK”'.* Honestly, her descriptions for so of the songs on this album are hilarious:

'1) The Song That Made My Producer Go, “Wait, What Was That Bit About Worms?”

2) The Song My Producer Said I Had To Append A Parenthetical To So That People Would Be Able To Find It Because The Lyrics Never Mention The Title Once But I Was Raised On Fanfiction So Joke’s On You, Pal! I Love A Long Title With A Parenthetical In It!!!

3) The Song That Is Sad'

Pretty dang accurate, honestly. Also, I think she has a Tumblr!!! *Gasp.* What if I...tag her???

@ofgeography Hiiii and thank you, your music is amazing.

I did it bees and knees (yes, this is my hip modern way of including every kind of person, fight me or provide more hilarious options; I'm content with either option).

I have had a fun time perusing this flavourful dose of humanity's wild website and I think my fun fact today should be her story where she becomes a donut god:

You're welcome, singular entity that reads this blog (that entity being my sister and/or the rogue bots, doesn't matter, we're all friends here).

Personal blurb: Alright, full disclosure time: I discovered this artist because of the 'Good Omens' fandom. Someone said we were missing out on feelings and shared this song, and when I tell you I felt those feelings, I certainly don't mean that I danced to this on repeat for several months (and her 'Hanahaki (Bloom)'), often at 3 in the morning in the bathroom. Of course not.

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Pro tip: dancing with your toothbrush in your mouth is a choking hazard, but in the spirit of Alanis Morissette, I recommend doing it anyway:

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One of my favourite books in the world is 'The Overstory' by Richard Powers. In it, one of the themes that arises often is the concept of pyrophitic serotinous plants (it's okay, I won't remember it either). They are plants that need fire to open. (There are actually different types of pyrophitic plants, from passive to fire-activated but I probably shouldn't start talking about that because you'll need to pull out the duct tape.)

(Technically, 'serotinous' plants are a category in which plants release seeds over a longer period of time, and it doesn't matter how they are released, but the seeds that open by fire fit into this category.) The eucalyptus tree, the lodgehole pine, and other trees encase their seeds in resin that can only be melted by fire (thereby releasing the seeds).

The thing that I love about this concept is this: we need to burn to grow. I recently read this book called 'Life in Oil' about the Cofàn tribe in Ecuador who were drastically impacted by oil companies. And the thing was: Yes. They were impacted horribly (physically, psychologically, environmentally, the works). They also survived. They figured out, through tumult and trial and falling apart, how to keep going.

This song screams to me of that same instinct. I mean, look at us. This is what we do, isn't it? We fight, we fall, we continue. We're just like every other aspect of nature in that we are born, and in our fight to continue, we impact everything around us. We're just a part of the cycle and eventually we will decay back to where we belong and serve as soil for our children. And all we'll be? A story. And after a while, not even that. Just a whisper of what was.

In a way? I find that freeing. We might as well live the life we want to live; how little it will matter. (This isn't absolution, please don't go murdering people.) I just mean that I don't have to put so much weight into every little thing. Not everything has to be joyful or depressing (and if we really think about it, everything is always a balance of both). It can just be what it is.

We are as we are. And we don't have to love ourselves for it, but we don't have to hate ourselves either.

I love the lyrics to this song. For a long time, I misheard 'We're animals of love/ the city never makes us beg' as 'the city never makes us pay' and I don't know why? But I kind of like that image.

We are animals of love. And that's okay.

We are the cogs in a continuous cycle and we always will be.

I think often of this monologue (content warning for the video, it's gory, but you don't need to watch it, you can just listen) from 'Midnight Mass' so often, in regards to this:

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We just are. Everything just is.

#Youtube #midnight mass #mike flanagan #the overstory #richard powers #molly ofgeography #good omens #alanis morissette #this got way more existential than i planned #oop #life in oil #cofàn tribe

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artyandink · 4 months ago

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amoralism | seven

Summary: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Agent Dean Winchester (yes, he’s a warning in itself), mention of murder, murder, Knights of Hell but they’re just murderous humans, fantasising, description of injuries, use of firearms, a mole in the FBI, office shenanigans, Azazel, Asmodeus, crime syndicates, Crowley MacLeod, Rowena MacLeod, fluff, bullet wound problems, angst, pressure, bandage changes, fluff, making out

Song Inspo: We Go Down Together by Dove Cameron and Khalid

SERIES MASTERLIST

masochism

Dean Winchester during a bandage change was a cocky son of a bitch.

“This is romantic, ain’t it?” He flashed his pearly whites, his bare torso in all its rippling biceps, glowing skin and distracting chest glory would be a delicious sight had you not looked lower and seen the hole in his side that dampened the view of his glorious abs. “Patchin’ me up after I heroically saved the British consulate.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “Shush.” You had half a mind to slap his perfectly sculpted shoulder, but instead you continued the cleaning of the bullet wound before applying the gauze and beginning to wrap the bandage. “Even when you’ve been shot, you’re still an ass.”

“Yeah, I know I’ve got a great ass.” Dean chuckled, smirking and raising an eyebrow, before his lips curled into a grin that made you want to kiss it off until he was senseless. As soon as you’d clipped the bandage, he gave your ass a small slap. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome.” You smiled, shaking your head in amusement as you put away the supplies.

“I am very welcome.” He chuckled, checking you over as you turned back around. “Finally got a hot nurse after all this time- mm.” Dean puckered up, his eyes closed on impact and eyebrows raised before his lips became pliant and accepting of your every movement. His hand lifted to cradle your jaw, other delicately grasping your waist and pulling you to stand between his legs. “Mmh.” He hummed again, tilting his head and sliding that hand on your waist to grab the crook of your knee and hitch your thigh up.

You noticed that this wasn’t like the demanding, hot kiss you were given a few days ago before Dean got your clothes off and ravished you. It had the same kind of intensity that had one hand of yours gripping his bicep and the other on the side of his neck, the same dizzying feeling. His lips were soft, pliable, and now that you two were almost fully clothed, you could focus on the scent of his cologne and the earthy aroma that made your head spin.

The taste of coffee and the telltale notes of beer on his tongue flooded your own mouth just as his hand pushed into your hair, winding the soft strands around his fingers. And, like an exchange, he found the flavour of gazpacho and your raspberry chapstick. Odd combo, but he didn’t hate it.

Pulling back slightly, he stole a few more kisses, one, two, three, and then pulled back slowly, his nose nuzzling yours for a moment before taking a good look at yours.

It would have been a romantic moment had he not ruined it with his cocky grin.

“Well, hello, nurse.” Dean winked, then stole one more soft kiss from you, his eyes fluttering shut and so did yours. Once he disconnected, neither of you let go just get. Your hands stayed right where they were, his holding you to him. One in your hair, the other on the small of your back. “Does this mean…”

“I wanna try us out. I really do.” You murmured, then scoffed lightly. “Cause God, with all the failures we’re having, I just need one win. One.”

He hummed, reaching to hold your chin gently. Letting his lips meet yours again with a gentleness that you never knew he had in him. Less claiming and more coaxing into the intoxicating thing called his arms, and then he pulled away and in true cliché, romance movie/book fashion, tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear and let his fingers curl around your chin.

“I’ll try my damned hardest to make this a win for you, sweet girl.” Dean murmured, green eyes boring into yours with the faintest smile on his pouty lips. “A big win.”

You took the leap of faith into his strong arms, allowing him to hold you, his chin on your head since he was sitting on the windowsill and was therefore taller. His hands gripping you like you were his in a less possessive, more intimate way. His. It was an easy pill to swallow. “It’s already a big win. A fuckin’ big one.”

He hummed, nodding slightly. “That’s my girl.”

“This isn’t any odd places we’re walking into.” You briefed Dean, strolling through the hallways of a high up company. “This is a company owned by a very wealthy mother and son. Mother looks younger than she is, Son looks older than he is. Don’t question it. Rowena and Crowley MacLeod. They’re our undercover contact that our syndicate thinks they bought out. They’re actually on the FBI’s payroll.”

“But still high up.” Dean noted, nodding and taking a look at you. You looked hot as hell when you were all business. Reminding him to also keep on business.

You pointed at him with a nod and a click of your tongue. “Exactly. They’re rich, Scottish, and very full of themselves.”

“The trifecta.” He quipped in amusement. “How’d we get so lucky, eh, baby?”

“Refrain from pet names in the workplace.”

“Ok.” Dean chuckled, low and rich and- stop turning on. Stop. “Darlin’. Sweetheart. Sweet thing. Pretty girl-”

“Oh, shush.” You grinned, but just as you were about to step into the office of Crowley MacLeod, Dean gently took your arm, bending so his breath hit your ear.

“Wouldn’t say no to a post-meetin’ quickie, you know.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you cleared your throat. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure you won’t think.” An open mouthed, slow kiss on your pulse sending it racing at the speed of Mach 1. Oh, boy, you were already regretting your decision. It would be on the coroner’s report: death by Dean Winchester’s lips and voice.

“I- you-” Yet another clearing of your throat. “Business. Interview. Late.” It was all you could get out - rather pathetically - and you knocked sharply on the door, which was promptly opened by a short lady with bouncy red hair and smoky eyeshadow that looked strangely amazing.

Dean’s eyes widened slightly, with a subtle pump of his eyebrows. Damn, you weren’t kidding when you said she looked younger than she was. Might be an understatement, actually.

“Oh, Fergus, your nine o’clock’s here.” She called to someone further into the room, before running her eyes over your office suit with a red-lipped smirk. “Loving the suit, lass. You’ll have to give me the details of your tailor. Always fancied me a power suit.”

Your hands instantly went to the lapels of your suit, straightening them out unconsciously, as you stuttered out a ‘thank you’.

Then her eyes turned on Dean and- did she just… playfully growl? “You’re a right sight for sore eyes. And especially for a lady who has to look at her son all day, it’s a nightmare.”

“Mother, stop flirting with the agents.” A voice that sounded generally done and generally suave became louder, and then came an equally short man (but taller than his mother) strolled into your line of sight. Power suit, beard.

Rowena and Crowley MacLeod.

“Agent singular, Fergus.” Rowena corrected pointedly, poking Dean’s shoulder. “This one’s a catch.”

“Mother.”

“Alright, I’ll go back to my motherly duties.” She rolled her eyes playfully, then smiled at Dean again through her eyelashes. “If you’re not already taken by this lass,” Rowena nodded to you, “do call me.” Then she sashayed off, leaving you both with a very strong impression.

Dean didn’t know whether to feel flattered or possessive of you. Women just kept flirting with him. Older women, more notably. Was that commendable?

“Alright, now that she’s not here to ruin business, let’s do business.” Crowley sighed, beckoning you both into his large office. Glass on two walls, very minimalistic. A few chairs, one long table with chairs - presumably for business meetings - and one smaller - again, glass - desk with crystalline glasses and a bottle of the good stuff. “You’re here about Hell.”

“That’s right.” You nodded, folding your arms. “What do you have to tell us?”

“Depends on what you want me to tell you.” He poured himself a whiskey, looking to the both of you. “Fancy some?”

Dean’s hand raised. You slapped it down.

“Uh, right.” Dean cleared his throat, glancing to you. C’mon, baby, you’re meant to be on my side here. “We’re lookin’ for names. Anyone who could be tied to… Hell.” He gave a brief, tight-lipped smile.

“If you’re looking for names, I’d probably draw up a mile long list.” Crowley chuckled amid a sip of his Jack Daniel’s. “Hell used to be a New York unit. Now they’ve bought out places in almost every US state, Washington DC included. Nobody’s safe.” Then he paused. “I can tell you their structure.”

“That’d be helpful.” You added, gesturing for him to continue, watching and listening very carefully.

Crowley took a moment to swirl his whiskey. “Well, there are first merely the followers. Bottom feeders, not so much high rankers. They listen and they follow, and that seems to be their only purpose. In Hell, they’re classified as ‘demons’. Then it’s the elite strike squad, all codenamed. They’re called Knights of Hell. Highly trained individuals handpicked from the masses of ass kissers to do necessary assassinations. From what I understand, you’ve already got one in the Supermax.”

“Abaddon.” Dean confirmed, his brow furrowed slightly.

“That one. She’s bloody batshit.” Long sip of whiskey. “Cain’s dead, so I won’t bother to mention him. There’s Abraxas, who recently killed one of your colleague’s wife and kid.”

Nick. Oh, God. But… why would a Knight of Hell order a hit on a woman and baby?

Crowley clicked his tongue. “Corvinus, Jodohr, Urxehl, Andras, Furcas and Morax. Those are the other Knights of Hell. They could destabilise entire governments overnight. They just haven’t destabilised the US government because they’re too busy getting the entirety of America under their wraps.”

“Anything else?” You asked, a million of these details noting in your head as he spoke. It was almost militaristic. They had a ranking system.

“Then you have the Princes of Hell. Most of them are in high-security prisons across the globe. But the ones who weren’t stupid are still active. Asmodeus, Azazel and Dagon. Asmodeus leads the Knights of Hell and the land charges. Dagon handles personal matters, like overseas contact and property protection. By property, I mean humans under Hell’s control. And Azazel, well, he handles the trafficking. Drug rings, recruitment, suicide bombings, crowd control… if it’s important, he handles it.”

You and Dean exchanged looks. For Azazel. The words that came out of every SB’s mouth. So he was behind those. For what, publicity?

“Then there’s our boss.” Crowley grimaced, rolling his eyes. “They call him Lucifer. And apparently, he’s a dick. He makes the business deals, the threats, and he oversees everything. If there’s one person you wanna hit to take down the whole operation, it’s him. But you’re gonna have to work up the ladder.” He finished his whiskey. “There’s a lady who’s running drug trafficking through beauty pageants. She gets the ladies through to the last round and uses that clearance to make the drop. She’s a Latina, and her name’s Eleanor neé Romero.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach then leapt back up as if you were about to hurl it out. “Mom.” You whispered, your blood running cold. Upon hearing the name, Dean’s hand instantly found the small of your back. I’ve got you, sweetheart.

“You know her?” Crowley’s eyebrows raised a little, and Dean shook his head with a nervous chuckle.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't calm down a little and lean into his touch.

Tax fraud and evasion. Drug trafficking. Possession of illegal substances. Fraud in general. All things that you found your mom guilty of when you and your team did a thorough background check. It landed you in the hospital, the gown on, red patches on your neck and over your eye.

As expected, your mom rushed in, past Rick and Cassie. You felt sick to your stomach, and by the looks of it, your dad and sister were too, as they’d been told of the situation by Sam since you couldn’t do it. Dean was sat on a chair beside you, and he briefly nodded to Rick, giving a polite smile to Cassie. The latter of which surprised that you managed to snag a man that goddamn fine.

You were surprised too.

"My baby." Your mom whispered, sitting beside you in your hospital bed, smoothing back your hair. "God, look at you."

You rolled your eyes, prepared for the worst. After all, nothing more or less could be expected of your traditional mother other than personal comments to your appearance.

"Spit it out." You groaned. "I look like hell." You felt like you'd combust. You'd do it. Fragile china be damned.

“You’re hurt.” Her fingers gently traced your jaw, and she turned to Dean with teary eyes that had your stomach turn. “How did this happen? Who are you?” Though her glasses over eyes scanned Dean. Dios mío, that’s one handsome man.

“Uh, Agent Dean Winchester, ma’am.” Dean put out his hand for her to shake. “Major Crimes, I work with your daughter.”

“Oh-” The moment Eleanor’s hand linked with Dean’s, you got your gun from under the blanket, pointed it at her temple while Dean swiftly cuffed one of her wrists.

“You’re under arrest.” You said shakily, but kept determined anyway, and the look on your mom’s face said that she knew why she was busted. “For tax evasion, fraud, identity theft, possession of illegal substances, drug trafficking and exploitation.”

“Sweetie!” It was the first time your mom ever called you that. It stung, when you knew the only reason she did was to get you to break. Too bad, cause Dean already had her hands bound behind her back and had handed her over to Sam and Benny, who were waiting in the hallway.

You grabbed a wipe from the bedside table, cleaning off the makeup around your eye and on your neck, the red coming off onto it. This had been an undercover operation to get your mom. Of course, if she’d been told that her daughter was working on a case to take down the organisation she’d been working for, the wool would be ready to pull over your eyes.

Not today.

The door slammed shut behind you as you pushed Dean through the threshold of your bedroom, your lips locked fiercely with his. You almost fell forward with the force had it not been for his hands keeping you upright, your hands taking on a furious pace in shoving his suit jacket off, then tearing at his tie with fumbling hands. Dean let out a low moan, his brow furrowed in concentration as he began removing your clothes too, humming in between kisses.

"Fuck, sweetheart." He pulled back, getting his belt off and dropping it with a clunk on the wooden floor. Dean grinned, taking sight of your creamy skin once he'd undone your shirt, getting it fully off so he could kneading your tits over your bra as you got the rest of your own clothes off, sans underwear. "Don't know what's gotten into you, but I like it."

Dean was caught off guard by you shoving him onto the bed, landing with a small bounce and taken even more by surprise when you began kissing at his neck, your movements frustrated and even sloppy, your head pounding and breath almost coming in growls.

The sound would've had Dean raising an eyebrow had it not been for your lips trailing a dizzying line all over his neck, which had his own falling open in a groan that came from his very soul. His hands flying to grip your hips.

You paused for a moment, panting heavily into the crook of his neck while your hand flew to tug down the fly of his pants, being careful not to afflict his gunshot wound any damage, but it wouldn't come down.

"Damn thing-" You muttered under your breath, tugging at a force that had Dean's hand moving to grip your wrist before you broke it.

"Woah, easy, sweet thing." He cautioned, but then a drop of water fell on his chest, right on the anti possession tattoo thingy he and the boys at the office got after a case with a homicidal maniac who claimed to be a victim of demonic possession.

And another drop. Fuck.

"Shit," Dean's hand instantly cupped your cheek, lifting your head to face him and seeing tears running down your flushed cheeks, and even then you tried to dip back down to kiss his chest. "No, sweetheart, stop. Stop for a second, OK?"

You sobbed quietly, next thing finding yourself nestled into Dean's arms, your head tucked in the crook of his neck with his chin comfortably on your head. "Why can't anything go right?" Your hands were tightly holding onto him, and Dean's hand buried into your hair protectively, a small frown gracing his brow. "I can't even undo a stupid fly right, fuck all."

"I know, but you can't get all of that out like that, sweet girl." Dean pressed a kiss to your hair, massaging your scalp. "Talk to me, OK? I've got you."

“She’s my mom, Dean.” You croaked into his skin, and his arms tightened around you instinctively, a heavy sigh leaving him. “I know we didn’t have the best of relationships, but she-she was my mom.”

“You were so strong, darlin’.” He muttered, keeping his breathing even while your tears soaked his skin. “So strong. And I’m gonna do whatever I can to make it right, y’hear? I’m gonna do everythin’ in my power to make sure you get a win. We’re gonna catch the sons of bitches, put ‘em in the Supermax and everything’s gonna feel right again.”

You nodded into the crook of his neck, and he just gave you the time to cry, stroking your hair. “We don’t have to do anythin’ tonight.” Dean murmured with another kiss to your hair. “We’re gonna get comfy, and we’re just gonna relax. Can’t guarantee it’ll take your mind off today, but I just want you to feel better.”

The words surprised you. Dean didn’t care about the sex, or whether you just jumped him out of pure frustration- he cared about you.

And that meant everything.

NEXT UP:

“So, you’re the famous Agent Dean Winchester.” He smirked, stepping closer to Dean, who was looking up at him from his knees with the best ‘fuck you’ smile he could manage with his chin being held. “I knew your daddy. Hell of a man, he was, until I tarnished his name and got him fired from his precious job.”

Dean coughed slightly, then chuckled. “You must be the dick Azazel. Who nobody’s heard about.”

“They’ve all heard about me, boy.” Azazel chuckled, taking a look at the body on the ground. “Everyone in the United States. Cause my name’s on the suicide bombings, ain’t they? My name’s written all over the attack on the President.”

“I bet your name’s somethin’ really stupid.” Dean snickered, giving his best cheeky side eye. “Like Gerald. Or Emmanuel. I’m guessing you were that one kid who had no game in high school.”

TAGLIST:

@goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57

@1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99

@autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19 @deanbrainrotwritings

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@k-slla @muhahaha303 @suckitands33

@dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

@katherineeekai @freefallthoughts @angzls

To be added to any character’s taglist of mine , find my form on my master list.

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

#dean winchester #supernatural #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean fic #dean smut #dean x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff #amoralism #masochism

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thewintersoldierdisaster · 11 months ago

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a/n: hi hello i wasn’t expecting to write barzy long fic but those damn musician mat photos KILLED me. also yes, i started this fic literally the day after the photos were posted but here we are. it needed major editing and also i need to like sit on it for a bit before posting. ANYWAY it’s here and i’m happy with it? i hate the title but whatever, it is what it is. enjoy and let me know what you think!! 🫶🏻

word count: 4.3k

tw: semi-public fingering but doesn’t go all the way, public thigh grinding

summary: hanging out in a dive bar on long island, the last thing you expect to see is mat with a guitar over his shoulder, joining the cover band on stage

When you look up from responding to a text and Mat’s nowhere to be found, you’re not really that surprised. He does this a lot - gets distracted and wanders off. Occasionally, he’ll be cornered by a fan, smiling gamely for a selfie and chatting for a bit. Every once in a while he gets roped into a game of pool, chatting with the random men like he’s known them for years. Once in a bar in the city, and this one nearly killed you, he struck up a conversation with Aaron Tveit - your favorite Broadway star and secretly a man that you absolutely would use a hall pass on - without realizing that he was talking to someone more famous in certain New York circles than he is.

All this to say, Mat disappearing in the bar isn’t a totally unprecedented occurrence.

You set your phone back down on the high top table and lean a shoulder against the wall next to you, crossing your legs at the ankle and taking a sip of your High Noon. It’s warm-ish now, starting to taste more artificial, and you look over your shoulder at the bar, scrutinizing the crowd that’s gathered and waiting for the bartender to notice them. It’s not worth it to leave the table since it’ll be snatched up in a second, so you flip your phone over and use your index finger to tap out a quick message to Mat asking him to get you another drink when he gets back from wherever he wandered off to - at this point you’re assuming there’s a major line for the men’s room. The little blue bubble floats up and shows it was delivered. Satisfied, you lean back against the wall, scooping your hair off the back of your neck with your free hand and holding it in a lazy ponytail so your neck can cool off a bit.

Long Island is a humid, swampy mess, August slipping away into a moment in time, as Queen Taylor says. But September is doing her damnedest to remind everyone that she’s still a summer month too.

Not that you mind, having been born and raised on Long Island and intimately familiar with the weather extremes, but it’s particularly gross in the bar tonight. Sweaty bodies packed in for the 90s alt cover band that’s supposed to be playing tonight. They’ve played at the bar before and they’re pretty good you have to admit, but right now you’re just wishing for a little bit of a breeze.

Giving up on your hair, you twist it up into a messy knot, securing it with a thin black elastic that’s seen better days. Three loops around thick hair, and you know it’s going to snap before the night is over, but you can’t worry about that now. There’s immediate relief from pulling your hair off your neck and now you can focus on the fact that Mat’s actually been missing for more than a few minutes. You tap your phone screen, looking for a message, but there’s nothing from him, just a few messages in the girls’ group chat talking about Monday night’s poker event. Wrinkling your nose, you look around the bar again, trying to see if you can spot your boyfriend.

It’s too dark though, Mat’s hair and black tee would blend in with the crowds. After a few more minutes of looking, you give up, rolling your eyes and muttering to yourself, “he better not have found Aaron Tveit again,” before taking another sip of your High Noon. The spark of grapefruit flavour hits the back of your tongue and you pinch your lips together, swiping at your lower lip with the tip of your tongue. Drops of condensation roll down the can, making your hand wet and you wipe your palm on the fabric of your dress, already a little sticky with sweat.

Bored without Mat, you reply to the group chat and scroll through Instagram, double tapping on a photo Sofia posted of Olivia and commenting a string of heart eyes emojis. While you’re on your phone, the band takes the stage, a group of older men that have clearly been on the circuit for a while now. You start to swipe over to the phone app, ready to call Mat and find out where he went, when another man comes out onto the stage - this one much younger, much more handsome, and much more familiar to you.

“What?” The shocked gasp falls out of your mouth and either you’re louder than you thought or Mat just has radar to tell where you are at any given moment, because he looks over as he’s adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder and winks at you, his mouth curling up in that familiar cocky smirk you know and love.

Mat’s been fooling around on the guitar for years now and he’s gotten half-way decent in that time, but you had no idea he was feeling confident enough to play in front of a packed bar. Or that he knew the band well enough to ask or be asked to join.

The lights over the stage dim and brighten simultaneously and the band gets into position, drumsticks clicking together to signify the start of the set. In your excitement and rush to grab your phone so you can record Mat, you nearly knock over your drink, catching it at the last second. Mat grins at you again and tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, looking down at the guitar to position his fingers. You cover your mouth with your free hand to muffle the excited noises that start when the band begins to play - you want to make sure that the video you record has Mat’s playing, not your squeaks and cheers. He looks a little nervous at the start, focused intently on her fingers and the guitar strings, but as the song goes on, Mat gets more into it and relaxes.

The phone shakes in your hand a little from your excitement and the inevitability of you bouncing a bit on the balls of your feet as you get into the music too. Mat’s hair falls over his forehead and curls around his ears, long at his neck, and a flush of heat spreads through your stomach. He’s stupidly attractive up on stage, playing his guitar, and you’re ready to jump him. You lean up a little on your toes to get a better angle, the hem of your dress fluttering around your thighs. Mat looks up while he plays and spots you again. You move your hand from your mouth and grin brightly at him. He responds with another delighted smirk, shaking his hair out of his face.

Around you, the crowd is into the cover, singing along when they know the lyrics and dancing in that lazy way people dance in dive bars. You catch a few mentions of Mat’s name, eyes landing on a handful of younger girls that are staring openly at him and recording. You bite down on your lower lip to prevent the self-satisfied smirk from forming. There’s something extremely satisfying knowing that all these girls are thirsting over Mat, but you get to go home with him.

Mat shakes his hair back again and scrunches his nose up while he plays and the girl closest to you nearly yelps, “fuck, he’s so hot with that hair.”

Her friend chimes in with, “it’s giving Nathan Scott season four minus the depression.”

The first girl replies, “it’s going to be such a crime when he has to cut it for the season.” She’s not wrong - you always hate when Mat does the Lou-approved chop at the end of the summer.

You muffle a laugh behind your hand and focus on Mat’s playing. The song winds down and his grin is immediate and genuine. He shakes the hands of each of the guys and claps them on the back before wandering off the stage. You stop the recording and set your phone back down on the table, clapping and cheering along with the crowd. The band starts back up again and you bounce on the balls of your feet, waiting for Mat to find you.

He ducks through the crowds, still grinning, and appears in front of you suddenly. Before he can say a word, you throw yourself at him, locking your arms around his neck and slanting your lips over his. One of Mat’s arms wraps around your lower back, holding you flush against the front of his body. You grin against his mouth - he tastes like peach flavored High Noon, chapstick, and the salt of his sweat. Mat’s tongue swipes against your lower lip, encouraging you to open your mouth and you do, deepening the kiss and twisting your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging gently. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed up by your lips. The kiss lingers and fades out as you pull back for air, but then Mat ducks forward and kisses you softly. Your forehead rests against his and you exhale a little giggle.

“Hi, babe,” he laughs, whole face crinkled up in delight when he pulls back, one arm still looped around your waist. You can feel his hand tremble against your waist, betraying nerves or leftover adrenaline from his stint on stage.

“Oh my god! You loser!” You laugh, pushing at his shoulder with the palm of your hand. Mat grabs your wrist with lightning quick reflexes and flexes his fingers around your wrist, tightening gently before he brings your hand to his mouth to kiss your pulse point. Your breath stutters in your chest, but you continue, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were going to play!”

Still holding your wrist, Mat steps closer and shakes his head. “I wasn’t planning on it. I went to the bathroom, sort of got talking with the band,” he shrugs, “it just happened.”

“It just happened!” you echo on a laugh. “Well you were amazing.”

“Thanks,” Mat ducks his head, ears going a little pink underneath his hair. He releases your wrist and scrapes his hand through his hair, the sweaty strands holding in place. Your back bumps against the wall and you realize Mat’s still crowding your body, one muscled thigh in between your legs. You hook an ankle around his, dragging his leg a little closer and the faint smile on his lips becomes more salacious, hungry. He leans his hand against the wall next to your head, caging you in. Your stomach flips and heat coils low, throbbing between your legs.

Your tongue darts out and licks your lower lip and Mat’s gaze traces the movement, eyes darkening in a familiar way. His palm is flat over the curve of your hip, but his fingers curl up a little, capturing the cotton fabric of your dress and tugging the fabric up a little. A flutter of a breeze hits your upper thigh.

“Maybe you should quit hockey,” you giggle a little, blinking lazily, “and play guitar full time.”

“Yeah?” Mat raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think amateur guitar playing is as lucrative as professional hockey.” His fingers twist in your dress more, making you glad that he has you backed against the wall and blocked with his body. He leans in, pressing his leg against your inner thigh, knocking it out an inch or so, widening your stance. Your entire body flushes with heat and it has nothing to do with the humid bar atmosphere.

Your head lolls back, hitting lightly against the wall, and you hum. “It’s really fucking hot though,” you murmur, tipping your head up so you can press a kiss to the edge of his chin. “All that fingering,” you giggle the innuendo, finding it cheesy even as you say it.

Mat huffs a laugh against your temple. His fingers loosen their grip in the fabric of your dress, letting the damp and sure to be wrinkled fabric fall back against your thigh. “I already have a fingering side-gig,” he informs you, his hand slipping underneath the hem of your dress. He presses the pads of his fingers up against the soaked fabric of your panties and you gasp, jolting your hips forward. He strokes the fabric slowly, dropping kisses against your temple and down the side of your face. He works you over through the fabric, sticky arousal collecting between your legs. The lace surely can’t be doing much at this point and Mat’s fingers slide over your inner thighs. His calloused fingertips catch and snag on the lace, stuttering his work and making your clit throb.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna let you touch me after that line,” you laugh, choking off into a little gasp when Mat snaps the elastic of your panties against the crease of your thigh.

“You started it,” he reminds you, a cocky smirk gracing his lips. His forehead touches yours as his fingers continue their exploration, trailing up and dipping under the waistband of your panties. Your stomach clenches when he stops inches from where you really want him and you bump his nose with yours. “You’re not supposed to start things you can’t finish,” he warns, pressing closer to you, sliding his fingers lower. Your skin is hot, sweat beading at your hairline from the effort of keeping your legs from trembling.

You let out a harsh exhale. “Mat,” you mumble his name, grabbing at his wrist with both hands, trying to force his hand lower. He shakes his head against yours and doesn’t budge, your muscle strength no match for his. “We’re in public.” As if to punctuate your sentence, the drummer goes into a solo, the beat of the sticks on the drums pounding in time with your heart.

His fingers curl briefly and then they’re gone, leaving you cold and hot and frustrated. “Okay,” he says, shrugging. There’s an infuriating smirk on his face when you manage to look up. “I’ll behave.” He flips the hem of your dress down and smooths his palm over the fabric.

“I…what…Mat!” You stutter, the throbbing between your legs pounding in time with your heart. “You can’t just…” your voice trails off and you press your thighs together - or try to at least - Mat’s muscled leg is still in between yours and prevents you from giving yourself any relief.

Your absolute menace of a boyfriend holds his index finger - the one that had just been making a home in between your legs and is still wet with your arousal - up to his lips and shushes you. “Shh, I’m trying to listen to the music,” he smirks, sliding his other hand down the wall behind you and wrapping it around your shoulders, easily manhandling you so your back is leaning against his chest while he leans against the wall. You’re so stunned by the delayed pleasure that you don’t resist at all. Mat reaches around you and picks up your half-empty High Noon and knocks it back, holding the can lightly and sliding his arm from around your shoulders to wrap around your waist, forearm pressed against your stomach. His broad palm rests on your opposite hip, blunt nails scratching lightly and absently.

He hums along to the music in your ear and you sink back against his chest, still frustrated, muttering, “I can’t believe you shushed me.” Mat exhales a little laugh and kisses the side of your neck, scraping his teeth against your pulse point. Your head suddenly feels too heavy for your neck and you drop it back against his shoulder, giving Mat easier access to kiss your cheekbone. “Take me home,” you whine quietly, silently willing Mat’s hand to drift lower, but it remains stubbornly planted on the jut of your hip bone.

Mat’s nose bumps against your temple and you catch the scent of his cologne, mixed with the citrusy sweet alcoholic scent of the High Noon on his breath. He lazily rolls his hips forward, the hard bulge of his erection pressing against the curve of your ass. You grind back against him, whining low in the back of your throat. “Mat, please, I wanna go home,” you mumble, the vibration of the music rattling through your chest. Your hands wrap around Mat’s forearm, squeezing. “C’mon, take me to bed.”

“Babe,” Mat’s arm tightens around you, pulling you harder against his erection. You push your ass into him again, nearly grinding over the thigh that’s still in between your legs, desperate for relief. He holds you in place. “Thought we were in public?” His voice is slightly strangled, his breathing hitching when you press back harder, slipping a hand behind your back and in between your bodies. It takes a second, but you manage to wiggle your hand into place, pressing the heel of your palm, hard, against the fly of his jeans. Mat sucks in a sharp breath and he pinches your hip in warning, his head dipping down and his teeth sinking into the side of your neck in a matching warning nip. You hiss at the sting of his teeth, knowing there’s going to be a mark there in the morning when he sucks gently at the spot, tracing his tongue over the faint impressions of his teeth.

“We don’t have to be,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles against the ridge of his erection. “You have a very nice car that can get us home in twenty minutes.”

Mat’s breath is harsh in your ear, the empty can in his hand making a crunching noise when he crumples it in his fist. Your arm is starting to go a little numb, twisted behind your back and pressed in between your bodies, and you’re desperately hoping Mat gives up and gives in to what you want soon. His hand flexes over your hip and you grind down on his thigh again, hiccuping a breath at the drag of his jeans and your lacy panties over your swollen clit. Faintly, you wonder if you’re causing a scene, if people are watching you both, but Mat’s hands aren’t anywhere they shouldn’t be and your grind on his thigh could easily be mistaken for drunken dancing.

“Think you can wait twenty minutes, babe?” Mat jerks his hips into your ass, tossing the can back onto the table top and wrapping his other arm around your stomach so you’re caged against him. You wiggle your hand out from behind your back just before it’s completely lost feeling. “Moving pretty good on my thigh,” he bounces it lightly, sending shockwaves up your spine. “Think you could get off like this?”

Yes, is your immediate thought.

You have and can use Mat’s thick, muscled thigh to get yourself off. Most recently two nights ago, lazily grinding yourself over him on the couch while half-heartedly watching a movie. But tonight, with alcohol and lust fogging your brain and the image of Mat’s capable fingers working the guitar strings, you don’t want his thigh.

“Wan’ your fingers,” you turn your head and press the tip of your nose against the side of his neck, nuzzling him. He smells so fucking good. Mat chuckles, kissing your forehead. “You’re so good with your fingers.” Your hands cross your stomach, covering his hands, and you play with his fingers, lacing them with yours.

“You’re good at getting what you want,” Mat grins and you can feel the lift of his cheek against the side of your head. He squeezes you in a hug once, tightly, before loosening his grip. “You gotta walk in front of me to the car, babe. Hide the evidence of what you do to me, don’t wanna get in trouble.”

Your heart kicks up its tempo in your chest and you lift your head from Mat’s shoulder. “Home?” You ask brightly, wiggling and turning in Mat’s arms, your own coming up to loop around his neck.

“Yeah, home,” he laughs, smirking, cupping your cheek with one large hand and dragging your face up to his for a deep kiss. His hips roll mindlessly against yours and you lift higher on your toes to press flush against him, the throbbing between your legs building. When he breaks the kiss off, there’s a mischievous little gleam in his eyes and a slightly mean curl to his lips. “But you don’t get to touch. I’m gonna practice on you, okay, babe?” He taps his fingertips against your cheek, “just these. Gonna practice my finger placement.” Mat’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, obscuring the usual hazel-green color.

Your head bobbles up and down in an agreeable nod. You’ll agree to almost anything just to get Mat’s fingers inside your throbbing cunt. You also know that he’s a total softie and as much as he tries to act stern and tough, once you get into bed with him it’s only a matter of time before he gives up the act and gives you whatever you want. Honestly, you’re both too horny for each other to really commit to the bit. Plus, you roll your hips up into Mat’s, based on the rock hard erection he’s sporting, you’re not even sure Mat’ll be able to keep to the promise of giving you only his fingers.

His hand slides back from your cheek and tangles in the messy bun knotted at the nape of your neck, gently pulling so your face tilts up. “Let’s get out of here,” he grins, kissing the corner of your mouth and turning you around swiftly, one hand resting on your lower back to push you in front of him and through the crowd. You reach back and tangle your fingers with his free hand, a zap of excitement running up your spine when Mat’s hand slides lower and grabs a handful of your ass.

You’re navigating the crowd with Mat hot on your heels, purposely stepping on the backs of your sandals and laughing when you whip your head around to glare at him. His hand flexes against your lower back, warm through the cotton, and he uses his hand in yours to pull you back slightly so your ass bumps against his groin. “Gotta move a little faster, babe,” he teases.

“You’re a fucking menace, Mathew,” you grumble, a laugh startling out of your chest when Mat finally urges you out the front door and crowds you up against the front of the bar. Heat pools low in your stomach and you lick your lower lip reflexively. Mat grins down at you and ruffles a hand through his hair. It’s messy, the little wings sticking out around his ears and neck, and all you want to do is tangle your fingers in it and pull while he eats you out. And you tell him so, watching with delight as his eyes glaze over a little and his mouth goes slack.

“Why the fuck are we still standing here then?” He asks, voice a little strangled.

A giggle slips past your lips. “You tell me, Van Halen.” Your hands slide up Mat’s arms and over his shoulders so your fingers can twist in his hair. Mat hisses when you tug gently. “Why aren’t we in the car or at home where you can get those talented fingers knuckle deep in me?”

Mat groans your name and drops his forehead to your shoulder, growling a little against your overheated skin. His hands slide to your waist, gripping tightly. You grin wickedly, even though he can’t see it, and tug his hair again. “If you get me home soon, I’ll show off my skills,” you murmur into his ear, tongue darting out to trace the shell of his ear.

“Fuck,” Mat grunts, grabbing your hand and nearly yanking your shoulder out of its socket with the force of pulling you down the street to his parked car. Your giggles echo around the quiet street, the humid air enveloping you and making your hair frizz around your temples. At the car, Mat pushes you up against the side, grasping your chin in one hand and kisses you, hard and bruising, his tongue dipping in your mouth. His other hand slides up your dress and he presses his thumb against your clit, the rasp of the lace on your clit providing extra simulation. Your knees go weak and you moan into his mouth, flattening your palms against the side of the car for stability. A rush of heat floods between your legs and the longer Mat’s lips are on yours, the wetter you get. At this point you’re not sure if it’s sweat or arousal that’s dripping down the inside of your thighs. He slides his tongue over your lower lip and rubs his fingers against your damp panties again, eliciting a strangled noise from the back of your throat.

When Mat breaks the kiss, pulling back from your face and breathing heavily, you blink up at him, completely dazed and lust drunk. He kisses the tip of your nose and squeezes the inside of your thigh and you giggle, unable to stop the words from slipping out of your mouth, “are you gonna play Wonderwall before or after I get my orgasms?”

A laugh barks out of Mat’s mouth and he pinches your ass cheek, making you squeal. “Just for that, it’s gonna be before,” he laughs again, reaching behind you to pull open the passenger door. You fold into the seat, making sure to flash Mat a little before yanking the door shut and grinning at him from behind the window.

“Who’s the menace now, babe?” Mat sticks his tongue out at you, laughing, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“Still you,” you tease back, wrinkling your nose at him, knowing he’s going to be so worked up the more you poke fun at him. “Now get in the car, I’m gonna put Wonderwall on so we can get straight to the fingering practice when we get home.”

#mat barzal #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal x you #mat barzal fic #new york islanders

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buffetlicious · 5 months ago

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So what did ended up on My Dessert Plates? The Burnt Cheesecake is sinfully good, worth going for second piece. The Longan Tart was surprisingly pretty delicious too followed by the not too sweet Pecan Tart. The Swiss Rolls on the second plate were just passable and the New York Cheesecake not rich enough for me but the Ondeh Ondeh Cake turned out nice though I would rather eat the actual one made from glutinous rice flour filled with sweetened desiccated coconut.

Ended the seafood feast with a cup of Double Chocolate Ice Cream filled with rich bitter chocolaty flavour and crunchy dark chocolate chips. Also had a cup of hot peppermint tea to wash down all the delectable food. As I must head back to the office for overtime work after this, I asked my dining partner if he had his fill and was ready to leave and that concluded our Father’s Day dinner outing.

To summarize the dinner, it featured plenty of seafood like lobster, shellfish, crab and fish done in many cooking styles. If you are a fan of seafood, you did be wowed by the spreads which strangely doesn’t have freshly shucked oysters. This International Seafood Dinner Buffet is really a good value and we each paid about S$77 after factoring in the service charge and GST. Too bad the restaurant has since increased the price to S$88++ a pax which works out to be in the region of S$105 after adding on the service and tax.

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blooberryberet · 13 days ago

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I went to the Hunter X Hunter Stage Collaboration Cafe yesterday and it was amazing!!

If you’re interested here is a full rundown (I’m gonna yapppp)

The space was designed so well, they had all the costumes on display and some of the props, the actors had signed the wall too which was super cute! And they had all the volumes of the manga on display too it looked really cool!

Food/drinks:

I got the treasure pancakes. In Japanese it was named after the method of creating a new opening that Zeplie explains to Gon and Killua, so the the pancakes came with a little opening cut into it and inside was filled with sweets. Such a niche reference I was obsessed with it.

And then obviously I got Gon and Killua’s drinks! So funny to me that the main fours drinks were named ‘Gon’s Fishing rod’ ‘Killua’s sweets’ ‘Leorio’s sunglasses’ and then Kurapika’s was ‘Kurapika’s Scarlet eyes’. Like he was having the worst time in the York new arc so they couldn’t think of a single silly thing to name his drink after lollll. (Don’t ask me what Hisoka’s drink was called)

I also got a Nen test drink it was so cute!! It came with a little cup of syrup to mix into it and whatever flavour you got revealed your Nen type!

Also the fact that Killua’s drink was loaded with sweets was actually sending me. They literally put half a chocco pie (wagon wheel), a doughnut, a mini pastry, chocolates and sprinkles on top.

We also got to watch the first act of the stage play while we ate, (which I didn’t know until we sat down haha). But it was so good!! I really liked how they managed the pacing, the Nen effects were all really cool and all the actors were amazinggg. Genuinely surprised that my favourite ended up being Hisoka. This diva. He stole the show I fear. Kurapika and Killua were also highlights for me but all of them nailed it.

Okay one last thing was they had really cool merch!! I managed to get the hunter guidebook which I had no idea still existed but I think they’ve started reprinting it?? It’s so shinyyyy and it came with some posters!

I might make a seperate post showing some of the pages. The main four all have personality pages which look really fun! (I haven’t translated them yet)

Also here’s a link to the cafe if you want to see the other drinks and merch :)

#hxh #hunter x hunter #I’m supposed to be on a social media break but here we are #also we got blind coasters and I really wanted one of the main four #but I got fucking uvogin TWICE wth #hunter x hunter stage 2 #lacy in japan #lowkey could go again I kinda wanna try the Kurapika and Leorio’s drinks

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denimbex1986 · 7 months ago

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We are lucky to be alive in the age of Andrew Scott, an actor of extraordinary breadth, skill and sensitivity, who can terrify as Jim Moriarty in Sherlock, make us fall in love (inappropriately) as the hot priest in Fleabag and cry in All of Us Strangers. He can also astonish, last year playing eight parts in a stage adaptation of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya. He recently became the first actor to win the UK Critics’ Circle awards for best actor on stage and screen in the same year. And his latest project, Ripley, is a beautiful and chilling adaptation of the Patricia Highsmith novel The Talented Mr Ripley, with Scott playing the lead, dominating all eight one-hour episodes. It’s been a wild, crowning year for the 47-year-old Irish actor. But in March his mother, Nora, died of a sudden illness; she is who Scott has credited as being his foremost creative inspiration. His grief is fresh and intense and for the first half of the interview it seems to swim just beneath the surface of our conversation.

“We go through so many different types of emotional weather all the time,” he says. “And even on the saddest day of your life you might be hungry or have a laugh. Life just continues.” We are in a meeting room in his management company’s offices, talking about his ability, in his work, to modulate between emotions, to go from happy to sad, confused to scared, all within a matter of seconds. How does he do it? Scott laughs. “I would say that I have quite a scrutable face — is scrutable a word? — which is good or bad depending on what you are trying to achieve. But my job is to be as truthful as possible in the way that we are, and I don’t think that human beings are just one thing at any particular time. It is rare that we have one pure emotion.”

It’s an approach that is particularly appropriate for the playing of Tom Ripley, an acquisitive chameleon who inveigles his way into the lives of others (in this case Johnny Flynn, as the careless and wealthy Dickie Greenleaf, and his on-off girlfriend Marge, played by Dakota Fanning). “Ripley is witty, he is very talented. That’s gripping, to watch talent. I can’t call him evil — it is very easy to call people who do terrible things evil monsters, but they are not monsters, they are humans who do terrible things. Part of what she [Highsmith] is talking about is that if you dismiss a certain faction of society it has repercussions, and Ripley is someone who is completely unseen, he lives literally among the rats, and then there are these people who are gorgeous and not particularly talented and have the world at their feet but are not able to see the beauty that he can see.”

The show was written and directed by Steven Zaillian, the screenwriter of Schindler’s List. It’s set in Sixties New York and Italy, and filmed entirely in black-and-white, its chiaroscuro aesthetic evoking films of the Sixties — particularly those of Federico Fellini — while also offering an alternative to Anthony Minghella’s saturated late-Nineties iteration that starred Matt Damon and Jude Law. This has a darker flavour. “I found it challenging,” Scott says, “in the sense that he’s a solitary figure and ideologically we are very different. So you have to remove your judgment and try to find something that is vulnerable.”

It was a tough shoot, taking a year and filmed during lockdown. Scott was exhausted at the end of it and had intended to take a three-month break, but delays meant that he went straight from Ripley into All of Us Strangers. “Even though I was genuinely exhausted, it was energising because I was back in London, I was getting the Tube to work, there was sunshine,” he says. “I found it incredibly heartful, that film, there were so many different versions of love … I feel that all stories are love stories.”

All of Us Strangers, directed by Andrew Haigh, is about a screenwriter examining memories of his parents who died when he was 12. In it Scott’s character, Adam, returns to his family home, where his parents are still alive and as they were back in the Eighties. Adam is able to walk into the memory and to come out to his parents, finding the words that were unavailable to him as a boy. Some of it was filmed in Haigh’s childhood home, and there was a strong biographical element for him and his lead. Homosexuality was illegal in the Republic of Ireland until 1993, when Scott was 16. He did not come out to his parents until he was in his early twenties. I ask if he was working with his own childhood experiences in the film. “Of course, so in a sense it was painful, to a degree, but it was cathartic because you are doing it with people that you absolutely love and trust. I felt that it was going to be of use to people and I was right, it has been. The reaction to the movie has been genuinely extraordinary — it makes people feel and see things, and that isn’t an easy thing to achieve.”

The film is also a tender and erotic love story between Scott’s character and Harry, played by the Irish actor Paul Mescal. The two found a real-life kinship that made them a delight to watch on screen and off it, as a double act on the awards circuit. “I adore Paul, he’s so, so … continues to be …” Scott pauses. “Obviously it’s been a tough time recently and he just continues to be a wonderful friend. It’s everything. The more I work in the industry, I realise, you make some stuff that people love and you make some stuff that people don’t like, and all really that you are left with is the relationships that you make. I love him dearly.”

Scott and Mescal were also both notable on the red carpet for being extraordinarily well dressed. Scott loves fashion and has a big, well-organised wardrobe that he admits is in need of a cull. “I don’t like having too much stuff. I really believe that everything we have is borrowed — our stuff, our houses, we are borrowing it for a time. So I am trying to think of people who are the same size as me so I can give some of it away, and that’s a great thing to be able to do.” One of his favourite labels is Simone Rocha. “I love a bit of Simone Rocha. What a kind, glorious person she is. I just went to her show.” Fashion, he says, is in his DNA. “My mother was an art teacher, she was obsessed with all sorts of design. She loved jewellery and jewellery design. Anything that is visual, tactile, painting, drawing, is a big passion of mine, so I have tremendous respect for the creativity of designers.”

Today Scott is wearing Louis Vuitton trousers and a cropped Prada jacket, dressed up because he is collecting his Critics’ Circle award for best stage actor for Vanya. I ask how it feels to have won the double, a historic achievement. “Ah …” he says, looking at the table, going silent, having just been so voluble. “I’m sorry …” His voice cracks a little. “It’s bittersweet.”

At the ceremony Scott dedicated the award to his mother, saying of her “she was the source of practically every joyful thing in my life”. Is it difficult for him to carry on working in the circumstances, I wonder. “Well, you know, you have to — life goes on, you manage it day by day. It’s very recent, but I certainly can say that so much of it is surprising and unique, and there is so much that I will be able to speak about at some point.”

He is looking forward, he says, once promotion for Ripley is over, to taking some time off, going on holiday, going back to Ireland for a bit. He has homes in London and Dublin. To relax he walks his dog, a Boston terrier, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie “like a 12-year-old, skulking around the city” or goes to art galleries on the South Bank — he was considering a career as an artist until he was 17 and got a part in the Irish film Korea. He goes to the gym every day, “not, you know, to get …” he says, flexing his biceps. “More that it’s good for the head.” He is social, likes friends, likes a party. When I ask if he gave up drinking while doing Vanya, which required him to be on stage, alone, every night for almost two hours, he looks horrified. “Oh God, no! Easy tiger! Jesus … Although I didn’t drink much, I did have to look after myself. But we had a room downstairs in the theatre, a little buzzy bar, because otherwise I wouldn’t see anybody, so I was delighted to have people come down.”

Scott was formerly in a relationship with the screenwriter and playwright Stephen Beresford and is currently single, although this is not the sort of thing he likes to talk about. He is protective of his privacy, not wanting to reveal where he lives in London, or indeed the name of his dog — but he swerves such questions with a gentle good humour.

He is famous on set for being friendly and welcoming, for looking after other people. “The product is very important, but most of my time is spent in the process, so I want that to be as pleasant and kind as possible. I feel like it is possible to do that, that it is an honourable goal.” He is comfortable around people, with an easy charm — no one I have interviewed before has said my name so many times. And although when we talk he sometimes seems reflective or so very sad, there are also moments when he is exuberant, silly, putting on accents. “I feel like, as a person, I am quite near my emotions. I cry easily and I laugh easily, and there is nothing more pleasurable to me than laughing.”

Scott was raised a Catholic and is no longer practising, but says his view about religion is “ever changing — I definitely have a faith in things that cannot be proved”. When he was younger and felt overwhelmed, just before or after an audition, he would go to the Quaker Meeting House in central London and sit in silence, something that made its way into the second series of Fleabag, in which Scott’s priest takes Waller-Bridge’s character to that same meeting house. “It’s just around here,” he says, standing up, looking out of the window at Charing Cross Road. “When Phoebe and I first talked, we met at the Soho Theatre. We talked about love and religion, we walked all around here. And I said, ‘This is a place I go,’ so we called in and there was no one there, so we sat in there and we talked. It was a really magical day.”

Scott says he sees all the different characters that he has played as versions of himself. “It’s like, ‘What would this version of me look like?’ rather than, ‘Oh, I’m going to be somebody else.’ You filter it through you, and you discover more about yourself. I think that is a very lucky thing to be able to do, to find out more about yourself in the short time that we are here.”

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