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leclsrc · 11 months

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do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

genre: summer love!!!, slight age gap, porn w plot basically...

word count: 10.5k

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by several people! few notes... carlos is aged up a tad, the age gap is 21/33 so not too bad (i aged him up bc the age gap was 7 yrs and i was like. Huh. thats tame). if ur not into that (tho everything is consensual and reader is legal) its ok! anyway im sorry this came so late i had like 6 anons asking ab carlos and lana haha. also big thanks to dani whose work got me thru 4 writing ruts

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, dry humping, oral sex (m and f receiving), deepthroating, semi public sex ish?, praise central, size kink, like a flash of spit kink sorry..., overuse of the term good girl

Half past noon and after a particularly snappy call from his manager, Carlos bites the bullet on summer plans and decides to accept what is arguably the least glamorous offer on his roster. By no means a dazzling standout, the offer to stay at a family friend’s house in Comporta seems to be the most comfortable option—besides, he doesn’t feel himself to be in the glitzy mood for cities like Los Angeles or Monaco.

Lando, beside him, is thus the first to get wind of the news that “grumpy old man” Carlos will not be accompanying him to the ultimate, tequila-flavored “summer extravaganza” in Morocco.

“You’re boring,” Lando moans, pacing the room. Outside, London’s skyline moves passively. Carlos hangs up his phone call with his assistant, receives a picture of his flight details, and looks up amusedly.

“Portugal is not boring.”

“Morocco. DJs, drinks, girls.” Lando raises one hand. “Comporta. Family friends, apple cider, sand in your eyes.” He raises another hand a few inches lower. “See the difference?”

“I appreciate the difference.” Truth is, Carlos has needed this kind of quiet, calm time off for a while now. The season gets heavy and intense and tiring, and sometimes just staying by the beach with a beer is the best kind of reprieve.

“You’re getting old,” Lando says with a sour grimace. “Old.”

“That is,” Carlos says, searching for the word, “defamation.”

Lando shrugs, moves off the subject as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Are you meeting family there?”

“No.” Both of his parents are out of the country for the next few weeks; Carlos was invited by his dad’s friend, though the bond they share is more friendly than just the standard uncle-nephew type of relationship, and they often refer to each other as just friends. “Just friends. Gallery owner and a company owner, I think.”

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

In response, Carlos nods. “And their daughter, who’s visiting from university in the States.” The details are fuzzy in his head, but the gist is about right.

“Sounds boring,” his friend snorts. “Come on, mate. You, me, Daniel. One last chance to watch Peggy Gou’s set and take shots and have fuuun.” He says the last part with the suave that would only rival a preteen’s.

Carlos, for a second, lets his resolve waver. Maybe it would be better watching loud DJ sets, dancing, getting all flushed with alcohol. But he blinks and shakes his head anyway. He hopes his decision is the right one, that summer in the beach house ends up being worth it. It’s a few weeks by the beach, anyway—what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Any recollection of your childhood almost instantly connects to the beach house in Comporta, big and wide and right by the coast. You spent fall, winter, and spring in a constant bumbling state of excitement to spend summer there. Your parents owned it, and often offered family friends to take up residence there when summers in the city got unbearable; for the most part, though, it was the three of you and, on rare years, a guest.

Your summers there have since smudged into the same few memories, of your mum and dad’s faces, of swimming and the learning curve of sailing, of bonfires by the beach on cold nights. And they have since become just that: memories. Summers grew sparse with time, and eventually the idea of meeting distant family friends became more embarrassing than exciting; by the time your parents moved you out of Europe for college, you’d lost almost all memory of the house.

So when your parents ask if you want to fly back to Comporta and spend a few “quiet” weeks there, you figure there’s no harm in seeing what the house is like and what summer can offer you beyond the weekly club outings. Instead of the usual quiet and overall lack-of-bustle that comes with summers, however, you open the front door to three housekeepers dusting every surface in your immediate eyesight.

“Are we hosting a wedding?” You ask when you find your parents tending to two sweaty glasses of champagne. You gesture faintly to the cleanfest inside. “What is going on?”

“We have a guest,” your mother says as she gets up to hug you tight. “Staying for the summer.”

“You said this summer would be quiet,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing underneath your sunglasses.

Your mum pinches your elbow. “I wasn’t lying,” she defends, raising her eyebrows. “Carlos’ son is coming.” She pats your arm. “You know? The race driver! He’s close with your father.” And, leaving no space for you to voice your dissent, she slips back into the house through the screen door, your father kissing your cheek then following suit. Your mouth parts, thoughts beginning to rush with implications of what your mother has just told you.

Carlos—if you’re correct—is Carlos Sainz, Sr., a good friend of your dad’s, and his son is Carlos Sainz, Jr., another good friend of your dad’s, because if there’s one thing rich Europeans do well, it’s the repetition of names. You’ve never met his son, only heard of him and seen a few pictures, but being so far detached from life here, you can’t even shape his face.

All you recall is the fact that he should now be thirty or older, which makes him rather older than you—and therefore effectively incapable of providing any break from any possible summer boredom. For fuck’s sake, he’s close to your dad. You’re at the top of the stairs when you hear the commotion by the front door, peeking at the foyer to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s solo, you observe; upon a glance into the front parking, you notice he’s driven here in a Ferrari, one a bit too modern for your taste but beautiful nevertheless. He carries only two pieces of luggage, and the sun blinds you for a moment before he’s finally at the doorframe, smiling politely, talking to your dad in casual Spanish.

He is, for lack of better word, insanely handsome. He wears a polo that shows off much of his arms, that flex as he puts down his luggage to shake hands with your parents; you follow the movement of his hands to watch one comb through his thick hair, then down to his smile, back up to his brown eyes, deep and so, so pretty.

Maybe this summer deserves a little less begrudge, you decide as you retreat back into your room, still brewing with residual annoyance.

Your parents send him off after a drink and a brief conversation, catch-up, tour of the downstairs area. Carlos knows his room is supposed to be upstairs, but the problem arises in the fact that there are two upstairs rooms and he doesn’t know which one he’s supposed to be staying in. Setting his luggage down for a minute, he knocks on the first door; permissive silence greets him for half a minute, so he turns the knob and prepares to enter.

To his surprise, he finds somebody already inside, a figure by the mirror on the other end of the room. What catches his eye is not the tiny skirt, but the half-tied bikini top currently being wound around two fingers at the centre of your back. You’re basically clothed, but Carlos can’t decide if he’s thankful or not—he doesn’t have time to when you catch him in the mirror and turn around quick, mouth agape.

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

“I did—I knocked, but you—there was no answer,” he explains profusely. “I’m Carlos. Sorry, apologies. Truly.”

You introduce yourself. You’re his friend’s daughter, this and that, and you’re visiting from the States to spend summer here. He apologizes again when you finish.

“Well, seeing as though this is my room,” you shoot back, “that must be yours.” You gesture vaguely to the one down the hall. Amused and a little embarrassed, he mouths apologies as he closes the door.

Carlos exits, departs and doesn’t have time to take in the room before he’s facedown on the bed. Any sleepiness he’d collected from the trip over, from the day drinks, from the headache that’d been blooming at the temples of his head, has dissipated. His mind’s been imprinted with one image only, and it’s down the hall in a tiny skirt.

—

Lunch brings lemonade and pasta, two staples for every summer meal. You, however, find yourself hopelessly distracted by the presence of your guest, and despite your best efforts, the churn in your stomach disables you from fully enjoying the carbonara on the table. The conversation between Carlos and your dad ends up taking your attention instead. “So you’re racing again in a few weeks?”

“Sí,” Carlos nods in-between forkfuls. Then, to add, “Busy, busy times.”

“Well. It’s the worst of our days,” your mum says, a quote she picked up from—of all places—a BBC sitcom she watched to tears last winter. “You are a talented driver, Carlos. Very cultured. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Comporta.”

“I have not been around much,” he says; his gaze flutters over to his glass, which is devoid of water or lemonade. “Any recommendations?”

“A lot, cabrón. Our daughter will be happy to take you around,” your father says on your behalf. He turns to you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, allowing a terse smile. “There’s some places around here that aren’t so boring. But that’s being generous.” Carlos laughs at your joke, raucous and goofy, and you would definitely be lying if you told yourself it didn’t get you blushing a little bit, eyes casting themselves to your still-full plate.

“While you’re here, Carlos,” your dad continues, “I have an old car in the garage that could use some looking at. Are you—would you know how to—?”

Carlos nods, accepting the favor—then the conversation naturally slides into one of cars and racing. Carlos chronicles his journey in Formula One, his Toro Rosso days back then when he was younger, his McLaren period, and now, his time representing Ferrari. He talks of pet peeves on the grid, annoyances but also praises for the sport.

“I’d appreciate the downtime, actually,” he explains, “that I’d get from working on a car instead of in one.” He laughs, eyes briefly meeting yours. He looks away, then looks again. He can’t help himself. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if you can tell the way his looks are anything but casual. “Can you pour me a glass?” He adds.

“Yeah,” you mutter, sitting straight to pour lemonade into his waiting glass. You meet his eyes and almost pour it over the pasta. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, a series of adult conversation you can’t seem to engage yourself in fully, and whether that’s because of personal preference or Carlos’ presence, you don’t make an effort to try.

“…ney. Honey.” Your mum’s voice distracts you from your thoughts; when you look up, half the table is clear and Carlos and your dad have ventured inside to deposit plates at the sink.

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

“Your father and I are heading out for the evening. Carlos will be working on the car. That okay, or you want to come along?”

“Um…” You pretend the latter is even an option before shaking your head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” She strokes your hair. “He could use the company.”

You follow her walking figure inside, where you station your eyes on Carlos. He’s sipping a lemonade. His eyes meet yours for a second and your face is outrageously flushed when you realize you’ve been caught staring, just like his had been earlier when he walked into your room.

—

You’re hellbent on solving a Sudoku puzzle when the dinner bell rings, and you have to finish it on the stairs. Your dad’s always been a stickler for arriving to dinner on time—every meal, but a gargantuan emphasis on the last—and you’ve been victim to scoldings about being five to six minutes late, an instance you don't wish to repeat.

9, you scribble, bare feet moving with speed through the living room, indoor dining room, then to the patio door. 4 comes next, your footsteps following the smell of grilled meat. 8, you write as you turn into the outdoor dining area. You’re halfway through 2 when you stop, look up, and find Carlos preparing dinner.

“Oh—” You pause. “You rang the dinner bell? Are my parents not…?”

“They are at a dinner,” says Carlos, eyes meeting yours briefly. It reminds you of earlier and you clear your throat, looking away. “So I hope my cooking is good enough.”

“It smells great,” you offer, seating yourself down and pouring a glass of wine. He sets the plate down—just-cut steak, a smear of potatoes. “Christ, you cook better than Dad.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he laughs, sitting across you. “Listen, I want to apologize for accidentally walking into your room earlier.”

Your face warms. “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“It was wrong of me. Let’s start over. I’m Carlos.” He reaches over to shake your hand, still standing. You take it, eyes flitting over his hand, spotting no glinting ring on his finger. With a saccharine smile, you assure him it was an honest mistake, so he segues into a different topic, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So, do you have an itinerary for me tomorrow?”

You hum, passing the wine over to him. “A bookstore, an ice cream parlor, and a bike ride. Anything else is seriously not worth it. You’ll have the next few weeks to explore town. If the house gets that boring.”

“I haven’t been bored so far,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Oh?”

“You know, with the car fixing.” He points vaguely to where the garage is. “But it’s only been a day.”

“Car fixing is boring,” you state matter-of-factly. “You’ll have fun tomorrow.” You cut into the steak and bite into the forkful you stab at, eyes fluttering.

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

“I love it,” you mumble. “You’re so good at this, Carlos.”

Carlos retires to his room that night, and finds that today has held a collective motif of losing his shit. He’s anything but sleepy. Restless, wild-eyed, combing hand after hand through his hair. God, if he’d known you were this pretty—this hard to resist, on his first night here, no less—he would’ve been watching some DJ spin out a set with Lando right now.

Instead, he finds he can’t stop himself from thinking about you, the way your eyes had fluttered when he tried saying something on the edge of flirty. Your hair. Your hands, your fingers, lithe around the stem of your wine glass.

I love it, you’d said, you’re so good at this, Carlos. You knew exactly what you were doing, skittish tone putting him on edge. Despite himself, he can’t help but squeeze himself through his pants when he sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing heavy to purge himself of thoughts so low and dirty.

You’re so pretty. You’d be so easy to wreck, make his, goad little moans out of you, get your lips around him, puffy and pink and pretty. He wedges his eyes shut tight and hopes these thoughts will dissipate as the week passes.

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

The tour is delayed because your dad insists he go fishing with Carlos three days in a row, but eventually (likely due to your mum’s insistence) it pushes through. You greet him with a smile, waiting by the door, wearing a sundress. Sundresses will definitely be his demise.

You’re a good tour guide, though, Carlos figures when you’re finished pointing at every turn and sign and dictating what goes where and where the passage to the coast is, when you’ve even quizzed him about where you are and where the house is supposed to be.

After he points in the correct direction, you nod approvingly. “That’s how my dad made sure I wouldn’t get lost,” you explain when he laughs at your choice of tour guidance.

“And you were what—twelve?” He asks, walking beside you. It’s fairly empty in town, a few tourists mulling about carrying shopping bags and plastic cups of juice.

“Try fourteen,” you argue.

“Well, quizzing a, uh—a fourteen-year-old is really not the same as quizzing a grown adult.”

“Ha. Call me when you can’t find your way home tonight,” you diss sarcastically, making a turn toward the bookstore down the street. “Okay, here we are. Don’t get too excited. They’re just books.”

For a relatively empty town, the bookstore always has new batches of titles, displayed proudly for natives and tourists alike front and centre. But you’re already going to the right side of the store, busying yourself with looking at the signs.

“The classics shelf is always my favorite,” you say, already walking ahead of him. Your dress bobs softly with your legs as you pace, short and sweet and white. You turn and his eyes slide back up instantly, and he hopes he was quick enough. “Do you have any authors you like?”

“I am not a big reader. You?”

“Huge,” you say, smiling a little. “Okay, we can browse. Are you into any genre…?”

Carlos proceeds to tell you his track record in the literary field includes: reading half the Harry Potter series, a car manual, and a few other titles in Spanish he cannot recall the name or plot of. But, he adds, he’s always wanted to read, found the activity so quiet and still and perfect, so he allows you to lead him through the titles stacked on each table and condensed on each shelf. He points at, sometimes, or picks up covers he finds appealing.

“How about—?” He reaches for a pink cover that reads It Ends With Us, but your hand loops around his wrist before he can pick it up and you’re pulling him into another aisle.

“…Not that.” You continue perusing the books around you, your hand still wrapped around his. With your free finger, you point at the top shelf, and tiptoe against the bookcase to try and get it. You come close, but not close enough.

Carlos, behind you, is successful, not even needing to tiptoe to reach for the red hardbound you’d been pointing at. It also means he’s pressed up against you, heavy and big, and the sensation dizzies you. When he finally pulls it off, you turn to him and find respite in the proximity—you two are so close, every exhale out of your lips causes a puff of air to blow against his hair.

He steps backward. You smile and gesture toward the book he’s holding. “That’s a good one.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” He reads out the author’s name in one fluid sentence, his Spanish accent becoming naturally more obvious.

“Okay, colonizer.” He knits his brows. “Trust me,” you insist. “One Hundred Years of Solitude—so good. It was one of the first books I read front to back twice in a row.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he teases sarcastically as you move along the aisle, fingertips brushing against the indents of the books. You turn to narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out. Unfortunately for Carlos, the effect this inflicts upon him is not oh she mocked me, but oh how would it look if—

He needs ice cream. Or to just get out of this aisle.

—

You punctuate the day with two cones of it, melting way too fast in the heat of summer. He’s already half-finished with his vanilla, and you’re taking your time with the lemon sorbet you’d gotten for yourself. Apparently, this is the only other highlight the town has to offer, and judging by the fact that most of the other stores are expensive clothes, souvenir shops, and a Bible bookstore—yeah.

Carlos is also more than sated with the three books in the paper bag he’s holding. Scratch that—six books, you bought a haul for yourself—but it’s not a particularly heavy load, so he’s fine. His phone has been buzzing with Lando’s update requests that he’s been deliberately ignoring.

“They make the best ice cream,” you rave, smiling. You lick over the melt on your lips. “Right?”

He might actually drop his cone now. “It is delicious.”

“Well…” You look around, your hair flying with every turn of your head. Lick over lips again. Again, and again. He has to look away.

“…Do you wanna stop by anywhere else?” You turn to him and ask, licking over the tip of your ice cream cone.

It’s hard for Carlos to pretend he’s looking around your surroundings, at the signs and storefronts, and not at your sticky lips, your pink tongue just peeking out to lap at the quickly melting gelato around your hand. His eyes flit downward, to where the hem of your tiny white dress has flown up in the coastal wind, exposing more of your thighs.

“Carlos?” You repeat, voice sweet and waiting.

He snaps his eyes back up and wills his voice to remain passive. “We can head back.”

So you do, meaning your tour ends around noon, and your parents greet you both with lunch and the round of inevitable questions. Did Comporta live up to your expectations? What books did you get? Was our daughter a good tour guide? The latter, Carlos answers with a smile—very good. You allowed your face to flush, blamed it on the sangria.

Now, though, it’s the brink in-between chilly and hot, sticky traces of the summer afternoon still lingering in the air, mixing with the cool of dusk when you decide to exit your room and fix yourself a glass of something, preferably sweet and alcoholic. An empty driveway save for a Ferrari means your parents are gone, leaving you and—if you’re lucky, which you hope you are—

“Carlos,” you call out from the window you’ve just tugged open with the expertise of somebody who’s lived here for twenty-one summers. “Thirsty?”

He looks up from where he is, outside, continuing his operation on your dad’s car. The hood’s been cranked open, and his long hair is damp with sweat, flying gently in the face of the sunset breeze. He smiles when he sees your figure peeking out.

“For what?”

“Whatever you want,” you respond, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. His white shirt’s stained with oil and dirt, tainting it beige and grey, the tight fit even tighter from his sweat. You can make out the outline of his abs just underneath.

He squints. “Beer?”

You make an exaggerated eugh face to tease him, but duck back inside to bring your homemade aperol and an open, frosty beer outside. When he sees you, he walks closer, smiles and takes a swig of the drink you offer. He makes a noise of satisfaction and you have to make a real effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy, eyes averting from his lips to gaze instead at his solid shoulders, his build, big and tall.

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

“Tastes like shit.” You raise your aperol. “The sweeter, the better. How’s Dad’s car?” You blink, sidestepping him to try and gauge his progress.

“Casi termino.” You look at him, raising your eyebrows, and he translates. “Almost done. It wasn’t that destroyed, if at all.”

“You think he’ll let you drive it when you’re done?” You ask playfully, swiping your condensation-wet finger over the side of the car. You turn, smiling expectantly; Carlos laughs a bit, shrugs.

“It is just a favor. But if he does, I’ll make sure you get to come along.” He says. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, sipping on your aperol. You part from your straw, lips stained, and smile up at him. “I do.”

His gaze is stuck on your lips. You lick over them, and he looks away with a slow blink. You watch as he ruffles his hair, rounds the car and crosses his arms to view it from the back.

God, he’s handsome. You think of the long-winded nights you’ve been spending trailing your fingers over your legs or texting inspired paragraphs to friends back in university about him. Their responses are almost always Send pic now and a cacophony of heart eye emojis when you manage to snag a stolen shot of him doing just about anything.

His gaze is scrutinizing, every little detail of the car, and eventually he closes the hood again. “Should be good by tomorrow.”

“Where’d you learn to fix cars?” You ask sweetly, nearing him. The wind bites at your legs, your flowy skirt bouncing sporadically and held down by your free hand. When your eyes flit to his, waiting for his response, you find them snapping upward. He’d been distracted.

“I work with cars, so it comes natural.” You lean on the hood of the car and he comes to stand in front of you, his eyes pointed downward at you. “That’s not a very good habit,” he adds.

“Drinking?” You pout, raising your half-empty glass. You blink up at him, the corner of your smiling lip caught in your teeth.

“Biting your lip.” His gaze is intense. “You do it a lot, I noticed.”

You smile, leaning backward a little. His resolve is breaking. “Can I borrow one of the books you got earlier?”

“The three ones you bought not enough?” He raises a brow, downing beer again. Some of it dribbles out of the corner of his lip. You’ve never been one to like the taste, but you’d lick it off him if you could.

“I just wanna browse it,” you push. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

—

He sees you the next day after lunch, which you’d skipped because you “weren’t hungry.” You’re wearing a dress, hair clipped into a bun when you excuse yourself to pick up an earring in front of him. He almost thinks it’s a fib until he sees it, the pink gem on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, voice mellow, and then you’re bending over to pick it up. You’re wearing pretty lace panties underneath.

Carlos clears his throat and excuses himself, adjusting his shorts as he goes upstairs.

—

He gives you Norweigan Wood after dinner, like he promised earlier in the week. Two raps on your door, and when you open it, he’s already handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice clipped.

“Our tour isn’t over yet,” you tease, tossing the book onto your bed and descending the steps back downstairs. Confused and interested, he follows you, to the back area of the house, past the swinging screen door, down the steps, and onto the sand.

“Tour?” He repeats, for clarification. The only things to tour are sand and twigs.

“Yeah, Carlos. This is the real tour,” you joke, walking backwards. Every step sends your foot sinking into the cold sand, slowing your pace until Carlos catches up, matching your steps once he does. “Comporta—real and unfiltered.” You both laugh at your hyperbolic, MTV-worthy statement, and he waits for more, entertains you further.

“What is so real about this?” Carlos laughs, allowing himself to humor your little schtick.

“Well, mister. This isn’t bookstores and ice cream parlors.” You point to a nearby spot in the sand, just by a rogue stick. “This is where I smoke without getting caught. Near enough that I can run back in seconds, but faraway enough that my parents can’t immediately see what I’m doing. Granted, I don’t need to be sneaking around much, but if you ever want to do something in secret—”

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

“So you smoke,” he says when he sits himself on the sand, observing the now-dark skyline of the area. You continue pacing around a little, and when you raise your arms up to stretch, he catches a glimpse of your abdomen, the waistband of pink lace underneath the low rise of your denim shorts.

“Occasionally. Don’t play Holy Mary,” you warn, standing in front of him and stretching your hand out to reveal a box of Marlboro Reds.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he responds, taking a stick and inserting it in between his lips. “Got a light?”

“No,” you tease, taking one for yourself and sliding your lighter out from your pocket in one quick motion. The flame illuminates your face, casts a light on your thin white tee and on the bikini top you have on underneath. You puff out a small cloud of smoke, and Carlos reaches up to take the lighter.

“I said no,” you giggle, your lips knotting into a pout. You hold the lighter just out of his reach, red and bold against the bleak evening.

“Give it.” He sits up higher, reaches harder; he almost gets it, but you step backward and raise your arm out of reach. Again your shirt rises with the movement. The view he gets, this time, of your hips, the lace that hugs the area there, is much more close. The laugh you emit sends a cloud of smoke out.

“No, no,” you continue, laughing, a sweet sound.

Carlos gets up, tries again to lunge for the lighter. At this point he doesn’t even care about the cigarette in between his lips, just wants to entertain you. He tries again but you’re quick with it, ducking every lunge just in time.

“Come on,” he goads, laughing himself. You pace backward, smoking, until your ankles hit the shallow shore water, water that goes deeper and deeper until you’re knee-level, still smiling at him mischievously.

“Fine,” you relent, shrugging. You throw your hands up in surrender, in the process taking the stick out of your mouth to blow smoke out. “Do you want it? C’mere, then.” You beckon him closer, wave the lighter tantalizingly so he steps closer, closer, until you’re holding the flame to the cigarette between his lips.

He’s so tall, he has to bend a little to let you light it, his eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the pale moon and the orange of the flame.

It all goes to plan. Once you light it, you place two hands square on his shoulders, whirl him so he’s behind you and thus even deeper in the water, and with all your might, push him into the sea.

“Brat—” he manages to gasp out as he goes, the word leaving his lips in the first and last puff of smoke he lets out. He surfaces, every dip and ridge of his abs and chest accentuated, his linen polo near invisible with how saturated it is with water. His long hair, too, sticks to his forehead; he combs it backward, reveals his amused-irritated eyes, the dead cigarette spouting seawater and ash.

He spits it out. You stare and pinch the soggy stick in between two fingers, stuffing the trash into his chest pocket. “That’s bad for the environment.”

“I am freezing,” he says in response, but you’re just stifling a laugh.

He narrows his eyes, and with unsurprising ease given his build, picks you up and carries you over his shoulder. You barely have time to protest, almost dropping your own cigarette into the water, kicking and pounding on his back to please put me down. You can feel the water getting deep, deeper, and when he finally dunks you in, it’s only a second of dryness before you’re submerged in the chilly water.

Your cigarette dies, and you manage to collect it, because you’re not in the interest of leaving your stick floating; you wedge it into your pocket.

“You’re such”—you gasp for air—“a dick!”

You’re smiling, though, flailing your legs to stay afloat. Carlos can’t help but stare, entranced with the way your eyelashes stick together, damp, the droplets of water on your cheeks, your two hands wringing saltwater out of your hair, and when you swim upward, the way your white tee leaves nothing to his imagination.

You can tell. He can tell you can tell—because the next thing you do, with some faux exaggerated sigh of annoyance, is say, “Can’t swim, too heavy,” and you’re taking off your shirt so all he sees is the red of your bikini top underneath. The white tee bobs softly with each passing wave, and you’re smiling up at him. Checkmate, you’re saying. I’ve got you. A skittish, playful smile on your lips.

“I can help you swim,” he offers—retaliates, more like, his height offering him great advantage. He finds your bare ankle underwater, guides it to wrap around his waist. Naturally, your other leg follows until you’re flush against him, held up by him so you don’t need to wag your legs around just to stay above water.

Your hands go on his still-clothed shoulders first, then eventually around them, fingers linking at the nape of his neck. Your smile is wicked. You’re so sinfully pretty. He wades deeper, holds you all the while, two big hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing over your sides so you can shiver.

“‘M so wet,” you say, voice shaky with chill and laughter. His grip tightens and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and pretend you didn’t just say that.

He dips you underneath the surface to surprise you, and your shriek is cut off by the water—he pulls you up quick, laughing, but underestimates his strength because as he tugs, you barrel right onto him, forehead bumping his.

Your eyes are closed, and you momentarily detach from him to wipe salt out of them. “Ass.”

“Brat,” he responds.

You open your eyes to find he’s close, so close you could just lean forward an inch—an inch—and you’d be meeting his lips. You wonder how they feel, how he kisses. He’s confident everywhere else, would he kiss you like that, too? You lean closer, a wrecked gasp escaping you.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and it’s supposed to be teasing, but your breathy voice is genuine, honest. A thumb swipes over his eyelashes, causing him to blink, then the bridge of his nose. He leans upward, tries to catch your lips, but pauses, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

“This is wrong,” he says in a quiet breath, making no move at all you stop either of you from kissing right now.

You want—need—to kiss him, but you can play the long game if he wishes to. Your eyes flit back up to his, dark brown and reflecting the moon.

“Then let’s head back,” you suggest, even if both of you want anything but.

Long game. He guides you back to shore, picks your tee up, uses it as a sieve for any loose ash and cigarette bits in your path back to shore, even finds your red lighter that’s now dispensing water. He apologizes for not having anything to dry you with, and drops you off at your room with a puddle in both of your wakes.

“Thank you again,” he says, his voice a whisper through your ajar door. He observes your room with what little vantage point he has. The posters on the wall, the art, postcards. The laptop on the bed, open. The phone charging on the nightstand. The thong hanging out of the hamper.

“No problem,” you say back, voice saccharine. Your hand wraps around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

Even if you’re doused in seawater, he can still smell the traces of your perfume, the summery sweet of it, when you close the door. He stays for a second, blinks, relishes in the hint of floral.

—

You spend three days walking on eggshells around each other, testing the limits of interaction.

Your night at the beach was risky, dangerous, thrilling—but it was fun, sending you both into antsy, restless trains of thought. Carlos self-medicates with coffee, beer in the afternoon, working on your dad’s car, and the first two hundred pages of the Marquez book you insisted he pick up. He spots you sometimes, lounging on the beach with his book in your grip, the waistline of your bikini bottoms leaving a tanline he can’t stop staring at when you walk back into the house.

But he can’t act on it—he was the one who labeled it wrong, the one who suppressed himself, held the urge back. He told you it was wrong. And it is wrong. He’s older, he should be wiser; he’s close with your dad; and a cacophony of other rational reasons he shouldn’t be playing into this skittish summer crush.

“Dad said the boat’s free,” a voice says, and he looks up from his book to find you standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a skirt, loose and riding low on your hips. Your lips stretch into a sweet smile. “Wanna come?”

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

So he goes. He’s thirty-five. That’s a grown age. If anything, he’s capable of making sure he stays responsible. He dog-ears his page and picks up his beer to follow you to where the boat is docked. He’d been on your dad’s yacht earlier in his trip here, to go fishing, but it’s quieter today, bobbing softly atop the water. You lie yourself down on the sunny side of the boat, sunglasses over your eyes.

“Stay anywhere you like,” you say charmingly. It’s silent for a while, Carlos seating himself on one of the lounge seats in the shaded area, and then you’re moving around on your towel.

You peer over your lenses, blinking and sitting up, and this is when he knows he can’t do it.

“Carlos,” you call out. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?” You get up again, rifling in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen, dragging a hand through your hair to comb it out. It falls in loose waves, swishing when you turn to hand him the bottle. He pretends he’d been distracted on page 210 when he accepts it, watching as you sit in front of the seat, your back turned to him, your little figure in-between his spread legs.

A minute passes with no hand at your back. “Go ahead, move even slower,” you joke, and the tension breaks a little; he humors you, laughs and apologizes.

“It’s because hour hair is in the way,” he says, touching it gently, combing it to the side.

“Wait—” You dig through your bag again and pull out a blunt pink ribbon, slipping it into his hand. “Can you braid it for me?”

“Braid?” He doesn’t know jack shit about braiding hair. “I don’t know how.”

“At that age of yours and you don’t know anything about how to please a girl,” you whistle lowly. “Adult virgin?”

But you guide him through it despite your teasing, teaching him to divide your hair in threes, weaving one strand over the other until “it looks half decent.” He fucks up a few times and your hair looks odd at some point, but in the end, it’s—well, it’s a braid.

“How is it?” You ask, and he can hear your smile.

He does the job well enough for a first-timer, he thinks, finishing it with the ribbon, which he ties loosely lest you’re unhappy with the finished product. It becomes easier to move your hair out of the way, and once your back is saturated with sunscreen, you unfold your legs and get up, turning around and smiling down at his sitting figure.. Loose tendrils of hair frame your face, the braid resting at your back softly, already loosening.

“Your hair can be braided, too,” you comment quietly, knotting a rogue few strands in your fingers. It hasn’t been this tense since that night at the beach, but that ended before the tension rose further—this, now, keeps going. You step closer and he leans back, smiling. “Can I?”

He blinks, nostrils flaring, then nods, his grip on your hips gentle when you sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his. You smile coquettishly, feeling how hard he is underneath you, the denim of his jeans rough against the skin of your bare thighs. Your skirt’s riding up on them with every little shift you make, just to rile him up.

Carlos drinks in the sight of you, sunkissed and on his lap, legs sprawled out, pretty little face framed, bottom lip in your teeth. You’re inviting him closer, your gaze meeting his with sleepy, demure eyes—do something. You look so fucking precious, so pretty. It makes him want to give you everything right now.

You reach forward, make an attempt to try and weave his hair together—but he grinds upward, your breath hitching and a whimper punched out of your mouth.

Your hands are shaking now, barely able to piece his hair together with how good his clothed cock feels pressed against you, where you need it most.

“Carlos,” you gasp, and all he can really think is—where’d all your fight go? You were so used to being a brat and a half, now you’re whimpering, on the edge of begging.

“Be quiet,” Carlos grunts, digging his fingers into your hips. His other hand lifts your skirt, bunching the fabric around your hips for a better view of your cunt rubbing against the bulge in his pants. The damp fabric of your panties is swallowed between your lips with every grind you make forward and he has to stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight. “Good girl.”

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, sturdy and broad; you can feel him squeeze your waist with both hands, then pull you down against him, just once, so your weight presses down on the hard shape of his cock. It makes him shudder and you whine out loud. You resist the urge to grind over it; you’re already so wet you’re making a mess on his jeans.

His praise, mumbled deep and slow in your ear, gets you feeling all warm, almost ditzy. Your hips roll on their own, chasing the delicious drag of rough denim against your clit, slick soaks into and through your panties, making the material cling to the shape your folds. Carlos’ hands are rough when they wander and grope, hiking this godforsaken skirt up so he can press a thumb against the centre of your folds.

“Been so good for you, Carlos,” you whine, circling your hips against him. He can’t stop staring at your pretty, fucked-out eyes, your bitten lips. He shoves two fingers in-between them, imagines how they looked just a few days ago slick with ice cream—now your tongue is laving over his hand. The braid you'd just taught him is quickly unraveling with every nod of your head. “‘M gonna—can I—” The pleas leave you quick, your voice choked.

Euphoric, your mind lifts, foggy and saturated with pleasure, the braid almost completely undone now. His praise is so addictive, gets you worked up and needy. Come on, he says. Make a mess. His accent, his deep voice, the way it rumbles right through you—his voice drops, his touch a little heavier as he presses harder.

You gonna cum for me? His thumb rubs faster until you’re gasping, shuddering, little ahs leaving your lips. He’s got the upper hand now, but you can hear the strain, the suppression in his voice as he rubs over the soaked fabric; you feel his cock growing under you, getting harder.

P—please—I want to—please let me, you say breathlessly, and you’ve never needed it to the point of begging before, but Carlos is different. He keeps going, doesn’t give you permission, rubbing faster, your heart hammering in your chest.

Feel good?

Y—yeah, you whimper, trying your best not to fall apart here, on your dad’s boat, where anybody could walk on—or maybe see you from afar, humping your dad’s friend in broad daylight. He loves watching you like this; you’ve somehow become even prettier, face flushed and voice shaky.

Come on, he goads. Be a good girl. Cum for me.

It’s the only instruction that matters to you right now, your body seizing with it and cute little moans escaping you as you finish. You catch your breath against his chest, craving warmth even if it’s hot—maybe you’re craving him, his touch, Carlos, just Carlos. You maneuver yourself so legs, exhausted from shaking, are on one side of his body—he holds you close, humming.

He rubs a steady hand across your lower back, gentle and firm and you want him so much more now. “Are you okay?” He asks. “Talk to me.”

“Perfect,” you pant against his polo, fingers playing with the stitching, tugging the collar down so you can mouth at his skin. His hand plays with what’s left of the braid, winds the pink ribbon around his fingers. “Let’s go for a swim.”

—

“And we drove the jet ski around, too,” you say gleefully, your damp hair bobbing with every move of your head. Your face is sunkissed, a little sore from being in the sun for most of the afternoon. Carlos laughs along from where he is at the grill—he’s cooking for dinner, on a quest to make burgers because he’s known for making the best ones back in Madrid, apparently. Your dad, of course, insists on joining, and the two have been asking and answering questions while you and your mum sip rosé at the table.

“Did you have fun?” Your mum asks, her head turning to address Carlos.

“Yeah, tons,” he replies with a smile, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. You know what he means. It’s been only two days since the afternoon on the boat, and since then you’ve mostly swam and ridden around on the jet ski with Carlos—nothing more.

“See, sweetie,” she adds, placing a hand over yours. “I told you this summer would be fun with him around!”

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, nodding and parting from your glass, “I can really count on him for some excitement.” The statement catches his attention and he almost trails off, eyes returning to yours, before he continues speaking in Spanish to your dad about something or other.

The burgers’ reputation precedes them, and is warranted, you learn later when you’re biting into it for the first time. The remainder of dinner passes by in lively conversation, the sun setting low underneath the Comporta horizon, wine taking the place of rosé. Carlos mentions the racing world again, about how he’ll be back into the thick of it sooner than later, and you pulse with something akin to sadness.

Your parents, apparently so grateful for the blessing that is Carlos’ burgers, offer to clean up and before long, they retreat to their downstairs bedroom. Upstairs, you marinate in your thoughts, blinking up at your ceiling, twining your pink ribbon around your fingers as your hair dries splayed over your bedding. You let your arm down, in the process bumping your elbow against a hard surface.

Upon investigation, you find it’s a copy of Norweigan Wood.

Carlos is at his desk, taking a timezone-separated call about simulation and season prep, when two soft knocks go at his door and it creaks open. He turns the chair away from the desk to see who it is. An ankle steps in first, then more leg, and then you—in a lovely, pretty pink lace dress, your face illuminated by the moonlight outside. One hand clutches a copy of his book; the other, the ribbon he’d used on your hair earlier.

He’s nursing a bottle of beer, just to help ease the drag of the day, and he watches you approach him, your footsteps quiet against the hardwood of the floor. Wait, he mouths, finishing the call in a hushed tone, and when he hangs up you approach him again.

“I thought you should have this back,” you say, offering him the book. Your eyes rake over him, wearing the same getup he’d worn to dinner—denim jeans, because he’d ducked out to buy food, except he’s ridden himself of his shirt.

He takes the book, places it on the table, continues staring up at you. “And I thought you should keep this.” The ribbon, pale pink, is now looped around his wrist and tied into a delicate ribbon at the apex of it. You admire your handiwork with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You lean down, face just shy of his. “We shouldn’t,” he manages to eke out, his voice strained.

“But you want to,” you respond softly. “No one’s going to know. Our little secret.”

His eyes are shut, contemplating, and then he’s kissing you—the only thing you’ve wanted, craved, touched yourself to the thought of over the course of the summer. You reciprocate immediately, parting your lips to let him kiss you deeper, a whimper leaving your mouth. He kisses like he knows he’s a good kisser, and he really is. His scent is intoxicating, a drug, sending arousal and desire straight through you.

You part, eyes half-lidded as you stand straight again. You cock your head slowly to the side, and with your head’s movement your hair follows, gathering on one side. It exposes much of your shoulder and collarbones, which lay underneath the thin lace dress you wear to sleep, and which is now subject to Carlos' unwavering stare. He has no shame, eyes raking over you, up and down and back up. One hand curled around a bottle of beer, the other coming up to slowly graze the back of your thigh.

Your breath hitches. “Do you like the dress?” You ask softly, teasingly. It’s nothing special, Carlos, you seem to say; it’s just a nightie.

His hand is rough against the thin skin of your leg, traveling upward. He gives you a nod in response; he does like it, the sheer material, the pink color, the loose way it hugs your body. Roughly, he voices his assent. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Wait,” you say, pouting. Your knee rubs softly against the material of his jeans, and you slowly sink onto your knees, hands placing themselves on your thighs. His grip goes from the back of your thigh to your hair, combing it softly, cradling your face.

“Let me,” you say, letting your silence imply everything unsaid. He’s going crazy, losing his mind.

“So pretty,” he says, nodding. his voice thin. “Go ahead, baby.”

The petname gets you dizzy. You lean forward, resting your face on the hard bulge in his pants, smiling up at him. You’ve got these big, doe eyes, begging him, and he’s not so sure he even has the upper hand anymore—he would do anything you asked, any request that left those pretty bitten lips. He gathers your hair in two hands, forms a messy, unclean braid, crisscross at the back of your head just so he has something to grip while he fucks your throat.

You make quick, deft work of unbuttoning his jeans, and he watches, leaned back on the chair, legs spread wide with bent knees on either side of your body, caging you in. Carlos’ eyes are half-lidded, a hand at your braid, bringing his beer to his lips, swallowing before he sets it onto the adjacent desk.

His cock is big—thick, intimidating—and you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to fit the whole thing in your mouth without choking. It twitches in your palms the longer you stroke him, precum weeping from the head and slicking up your palms. Gruff expletives, in Spanish and English, slip past his gritted teeth and the sounds travel directly to your core, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together to soothe the ache blossoming there.

You take head of his cock into your mouth, feel it roll over your tongue, heavy and warm. Drool gathers in your mouth and your fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs in anticipation. The hand wound around your braid, pressed against your head, presses heavier slowly, slotting the first few inches of cock into your mouth while avoiding the back of your throat. You relax, letting your lips seal around the length, cheeks hollowing and tongue lulling at the underside. He curses.

You continue bobbing your head, lewd noises leaving your mouth with every move you make; it embarrasses you, but also sends slick gushing out of you.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat; you cough, fingers heavy as they dig into the flesh of his still-denim clas thighs; drool trickles onto his balls. The hand remains there, though, pushing you and keeping you pinned in place as he slowly thrusts upward. You haven’t even gotten him all the way.

You gag and sputter, eyes fully watering the harder Carlos bullies his cock into your throat; you’re dizzy with arousal and submission, maybe one, maybe both, you’re too far gone.

“Easy,” he orders, and you will yourself to breathe nasally, relaxing, burying more of him in you. He loves seeing you like this, hair all pretty—his braid, too—and on your knees, trying your best to please him. “Being so good for me, good girl,” he says, losing resolve. You’re so pretty when you cry, eyes rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks all over your cheekbones.

He ruts shallowly into your throat, every move punctuated by a guttural gag from your end—once, twice, a third time, before finally he releases you. You let out a cough, and a gasp, breathy, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. He doesn’t want to cum yet—not like this. You gaze up at him, big eyes anticipating, and he guides you upward, on the bed.

He kicks his jeans off and readjusts his briefs, watches you scramble to position yourself on the bed, sitting down properly. “Will you fuck me now?” You ask, your sweet voice raspy. He likes knowing he’s the reason why.

You inch yourself backward so you’re fully on his bed, a hand traveling to stop your tiny dress from riding up any further. He steps closer, one knee on the bed, caging you in again, and stops you. His gaze flickers down to your legs, forces your knees apart so he can see in between them. Your pretty cunt’s soaked through your panties. “Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice rough as he steps back off the bed and kneels beside it.

“Carlos,” you breathe, letting him have his way with you. Your mind’s all fuzzy, but it’s okay—he takes care of you.

Strong arms snake around your thighs and pull you toward him until your cunt is level with his face. His breath, warm, fans against you, muted by the thin fabric of your panties and it does nothing to help the unadulterated, dirty arousal throbbing in your cunt. He bites at the flesh of your inner thigh, then hooks two fingers into your panties and pulls them aside.

The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to Carlos’ head. And all of your embarrassed, whiny whimpers, the way your fingers knot helplessly into his hair as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that drives him absolutely crazy. He licks at your pussy, sticks his tongue in, nudges your clit with his nose, ekes whimpers and debauched moans out of your lips.

He pushes two fingers into you, doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking them in and out, moans spilling out of you involuntarily. It’s lewd, it’s dirty, getting his friend’s daughter all spread out for him like this, but Carlos loves it. More, you sob, more, please, I need—yeah—

His skilled tongue doesn’t let up, continues toying with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks you with his fingers, until your eyes are welling up with overwhelm and the need to release, your hands pulling at his long hair—your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.

Any of the reservations you had are now out the window. Your grip on Carlos’ hair is tight, pushing his head deeper into your pussy and grinding against his mouth mindlessly.

I’m cumming—!

Your voice is so dirty, so lewd, so needy, when you finally finish around him, slick dripping out and your pussy twitching, clenching and unclenching around nothing as you release. Panting, you hoist yourself on your elbows, your braid surprisingly intact, and pout down at him.

“I said fuck me.”

“So you complain,” he responds with a coy smile, his lips shiny with your slick. You want him to fuck you stupid.

He does eventually, gets you all calm and lying down on the bed, knees to your chest. Your feet cross and uncross with anticipation. He lets his cock rest first on your stomach, where it twitches, smearing precum under your belly button.

“That’s where you’ll be,” you say, stroking him. When he finally does begin thrusting into you, he wishes he could save the image of your pretty eyes fluttering closed, puffy lips open in a whimper.

Your legs tremble with the size you’re taking, his hand gentle as it is firm on your hips, forcing you to take him, take him good, take him better. Good girl, he’s saying, good fucking girl. Inch by inch, you struggle to take all of him, his girth thicker than what your cunt is willing to take. You’re positive you’ll feel him in your stomach.

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, watching your pussy swallow him. “So tight.”

He’s drunk on the feeling of you, wet and clenching around him, so tight. He can tell you’re high on it too, on the stretch of him, the way you keep trying to meet every thrust, legs already beginning to tremble with pleasure and deep arousal. He bottoms out, an expletive leaving him in Spanish, and then slowly begins to fuck in and out of you.

He watches your face, the way your brows knit as you take him, take his cock, eyelides fluttering. “So good,” you moan, mouth open. He drops a glob of spit onto your tongue, tells you to swallow—you do, presenting your empty tongue to him. Good girl, prettiest girl—any and all praise leaves him in dizzy, heady breaths.

“Teasing me for so long,” he pants, his dick splitting you in half. “This what you wanted? Hmm?”

But even in your cloudy mind, you find the grit to retaliate, teasingly, a cloy smile on your lips. “You said it was wrong,” you gasp out with every thrust. “Fucking your friend’s daughter.”

“But you love it,” Carlos goads. “Do you?”

You nod, cockdrunk, but it’s not enough. “Use your words, pretty. You can do it.”

“I do, I love it. I need more,” you whine, getting off on his teasing, on the implication that this is all wrong, that neither of you should be doing this. “Needed this so much, Carlos.” You crack your eyes open to watch the bulge in your abdomen, the shape of his girth splitting you open. He slams into you harder and you try to squirm away, but he keeps you pinned in place.

“And if your dad walked in?”

You gush slick all over him. “Carlos,” you plead.

“Saw his daughter taking his friend’s dick?” He says it low into your ear, bending to make sure you hear all of it. “Taking it like a good girl, too.” He pulls out, slaps your ruined hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out—getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Your pretty little face, all sweaty and ruined.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m, Carlos—I’m gonna cum,” you say, nodding. You’ve probably cum twice already, little bursts of pleasure causing your cunt to twitch around him, sensitive. “Can I—?”

“That’s it,” he praises. “Come on, cum for me. Been so good for me.” You tremble around him as you finish, broken moans fucked out of you with every surge of his hips forward.

He’s close, too, having held off fucking you for the past how many days, and you can tell; his thrusts get shallower, faster, until his hips are stuttering and he’s panting your name out, long hair framing his flushed, pretty face. You reach up to comb a hand through it. “Cum inside me,” you beg, watching him go crazy, his nostrils flaring and eyes blinking quick.

He pumps his cum into you, thrusting several times as he rides it out, fucking you full of him, of his cum. You relish in the feeling, of being his girl, his good girl. “You’re a mess,” he comments, his face buried into your neck. He pulls out, both of you sighing at the sight and feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, onto the bed.

You unfold your legs, sitting up despite how sore you feel. Your dress is damp with sweat, and slick, and cum. “I feel a mess.” You pout.

“You look pretty.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You ask, voice meek. He nods, holds you tight as you both drift off, like he knows that you won’t be his to call his by the time the summer wanes and Comporta is left empty again.

—

“It’s the post-race interview,” Ali calls. “Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” You hop into the living room, tossing her the bag of popcorn she’d requested you to cook. Fall has officially dawned upon the city, adorning it with orange and red leaves, jazz music and cold nights—and weekends watching races.

Around you, all your university friends watch with intense gazes at the winner of the latest Formula One grand prix—something none of you had been remotely interested in just months prior.

You watch, eyes glittering, at the winner. Tan skin, long hair, jogging over to the journalist. Sainz, what a stellar drive! She sounds awestruck, genuinely taken aback by his dominance on the track today. She asks for a message in Spanish, as always; a few words of inspiration, and then, just as a fun little tidbit—did you have a good luck charm today?

He smiles to himself, like he’s just heard an inside joke and seems to think for a minute. “No, not really.” Then he combs a hand through his hair. There, looped around his wrist, is a pretty, pale pink ribbon.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz one shot #f1 x reader

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cntloup · 2 months

Text

G/N!Reader implied rough sex, light choking, use of safe word/gesture, aftercare

@yumethefrostypanda

You try so hard to get into it. Maybe your body isn’t responding correctly.

Is there something wrong with you? All your friends are into this kind of stuff.

But no. You feel nothing but pain as he pounds into you harshly, your legs propped on his shoulders and his hand around your throat, lightly squeezing.

You start to feel dizzy, but not the good kind and your legs start to go numb.

Two taps on his wrist and he stops immediately.

“What’s wrong, love? Did I hurt you?” he asks as he halts his movements, panting heavily, concern written all over his face.

His worry grows bigger at your lack of response.

He slowly pulls out and rolls on his back, pulling you in with him so you’re in his arms with your head resting on his chest.

You wince as he moves you, “Fuck! I'm so sorry. Does it hurt?” he asks

and you can only nod as tears start to roll down your cheeks after you come out of your previous shocked state.

“Shh, baby. It's ok...” he coos as he embraces you tighter and you sob in his arms, clinging to him.

“Si, I'm sorry!” you hiccup, “What for, love?” he asks, confused.

“For not liking it. I couldn’t get into it, no matter how hard I tried.” you reply, voice breaking with sobs.

“Hey, hey. You don’t have to force yourself to do something you don’t like. I wish you had told me sooner to stop. But it's not your fault, love.” he responds, tone filled with sorrow as he silently blames himself for hurting you.

“You’re not mad at me?” you ask, lifting your head to look at him.

“ ‘course not, love. You did nothing wrong. I'm sorry for being too rough.” he says apologetically, almost ashamed that he went too far and didn’t notice the signs of you being hurt.

He got too lost in his own pleasure, too selfish.

“It’s ok, Si. You didn’t know. Please don’t blame yourself.” you whisper softly to him as you caress his stubbled cheek with a smile.

He wipes your tears, returning the smile, eyes filled with regret.

He gently cups your face in his hands and brings you in to capture your lips with his, mumbling ‘I'm sorry’ into the kiss over and over again.

“I'm gonna run you a bath, love. How does that sound?” he asks, trying his best to soothe your pain, physical and mental.

“Hmm. That'd be nice.” you hum and he slowly gets up, trying not to hurt you any further.

He goes into the bathroom and returns after a few minutes.

“Can I pick you up?” he questions worriedly, almost afraid to touch you in case he hurts you again.

You nod and he gently takes you in his arms, lifting you up so delicately as if you’re made of glass.

He places you in the bathtub and washes your sore body tenderly as he sheds silent tears.

He swore that hurting you was the last thing he would ever do, yet here he is, tending to your aching body which he is the cause of.

More tears slide down his cheeks as his eyes land on each bruise on your body that he, his hands, his body have caused.

“I’m so sorry, love.” he apologizes again, holding back sobs and you turn to look at him.

“It’s ok, Si.” you place a tender kiss on his forehead.

“Please forgive me.” he mutters into your neck.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and nuzzle the back of his head, “I forgive you.” you whisper back.

He gently picks you up and wraps a towel around you, then carries you to bed, delicately wrapping his arms around you as you lie on his chest.

"You feelin' better, lovie?" he asks quietly so as not to disturb your peace, his heart weighing heavy in his chest.

"Yeah. Just a bit sore." you reply softly, mind beginning to drift off,

'sorry' he murmurs against your temple and places a soft kiss on your skin.

"I love you." he whispers, kissing your forehead, leaving the subject for now so you can get some rest.

"Love you too, Si." you mumble as you drift away into a slumber.

comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated ♥

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igotanidea · 2 months

Text

Strain: Jason Todd x reader

A/N: nsfw themes. Not explicit but still, so I'd rather put MDNI here.

***

Every touch every move every stroke had only one single purpose.

To bring her pleasure.

And judging by the soft moans and gasps of delight he was doing quite a good job at it.

"Mmh...Jay..." she whimpered.

"Like that, princess?" He made his voice deeper only to tease her more.

"Yes, please... So good, don't stop..."

"I won't" he leaned to plant a string of soft kisses on her delicate and exposed neck. In return she gripped the sheets, her body responding to the caresses and rocking it's been subjected to. And Jason couldn't help but grin from complacency.

At this point he was becoming rougher, compressing her body like something that belonged to him, that only he knew how to handle and worship in the right way.

How to make her satisfied.

"You're so responsive and I love it..." he gasped pawing her skin and every curve.

"Cause your working in all the right places..." she whined her voice a little muffled from the fact that her face was buried in the pillow. "Though I believe you're getting too excited..."

"Yeah, you're still so tense Princess."

"Yeah it's been a heavy week..."

"Don't worry, we'll get rid of that in no time... Just forget that and relax with me..."

His hands moved lower on her body, getting more curious, wandering in all the right places as he kept moving. What was even more exciting, was that she couldn't see him, as she was lying on her belly. It made all the situation even more bone-deep cause as she was focusing solely on the touch and not other senses.

"Oh yes...."

"Here?" He pressed on that one spot and she moaned in acknowledgement. "Guess it's here then..." He smirked while continuing his attack on the new found place.

"Shit!" She whined arching her back a little "it hurts!"

"I know baby but trust me you'll feel better in a moment..."

For a few good minutes the silence in the room were being torn only by the groans and rustling of the sheets and after then a deep sigh of relaxation made Jason aware he finally reached his goal.

With a signature smirk he pulled back and laid next to her side searching for her eyes.

"Feeling better sunshine?"

"Much better, thank you. Dare I ask where you learned all that things?"

"Self education." He grinned

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, see those muscles?" Jason pointed at his chest and body "they did not come from nothing. And with all the soreness i had to deal with throughout I had to learn a thing or two about anatomy. Guess it came handy tonight huh?"

"I'll be sure to use your sevices more in the future."

"Sure thing princess" he kissed her forehead affectionately "I'll get you a regular customer discount."

"Tease!" she nudged his shoulder.

"Hey!" his reaction was immediate and took a form of grabbing her wrist "behave princess, you know my massages are good for your health and posture, you have no contrargument to that."

"Ok, fine! fine! They are. But unless you want me to use someone else's services you'd better accept payment for kisses."

Jason groaned in frustration.

She always knew how to take away any words of objection from him.

So what else could he do rather than accept his fate, nod his head and enojy the little smooches all over his face in the form of thanks for his professional rub down?

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd smut #red hood smut #jason todd x you #red hood x you #jason todd fluff #red hood fluff #jason todd x y/n #red hood x y/n

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erosauriarts · 3 months

Text

SSKK^2 As Teens [Headcanons]

Outfits:

Acchan wears a lot of J-pop fashion - athletic wear. Open and easy to move in. The designs are simple, but with his brother’s help, he makes his clothes his own.

Ryuuchan paints little designs on his clothes - some of which are inside jokes that not even Atsushi and Aku know.

Acchan likes it when no one knows what his designs mean, and he flaunts his custom sweater/shirt around.

He wears crocs. Unironically. He likes he can kick them off whenever to climb anything he wants. Everyone hates them, but they can’t handle it when he tries to go find them.

If he can get away with it, he’d wear clashing patterns.

He’s destructive to pants in specific- he goes through them quite a bit. Atsushi can’t get him to stop.

Ryuu-chan is very simple. He likes self-expression and to look smart. He tends to wear layers, and Acchan encourages colorful jackets for Rashomon. He gets told he dresses too old for his age; to his reply is ‘yuh.’

He likes it when his outfit’s pallets match. He will test color theory on some outfits, but rather they’d just match them.

He likes it when his jacket is darker than his shirt.

Though he makes designs for Acchan, he doesn’t really like wearing graphic tee/sweaters.

~More Headcanons and Context ~

Haircuts:

Acchan watches a lot of TV - some of which are 80s TV. HE REALLY WANTED A MULLET. He kept telling everyone he was going to grow one, but Atsushi was insistent he didn’t. Aku stepped in to let him know that hair is important to a kid’s self esteem. Surrendering his rejection; Acchan is allowed to grow out his mullet. He doesn’t brush his hair, so he tends to look like he’s been electrocuted.

Ryuuchan grew his hair like Chuuya's [mostly to try it out]. Unlike his brother, he cares for his hair really well. He prefers to pull it back to keep it from getting in his mouth. His hair has never passed his shoulders, and he’s ok with that. [It grows too fast, so he gets major cuts periodically. It returns to the length after a few months.

Academics:

Acchan is either really good at school or fails hard. He has a natural understanding to patterns and repetition but if school requires critical thinking; he panics and answers like “fish” on a math test. If there is a formula to the school work - he will blossom. He’s also been asked to join sports groups because he is the fastest runner in his class. Atsushi encouraged it until Acchan played soccer and kicked the ball so hard with the tiger that he had to pull him from sports that required kicking or throwing. [Atsushi was mostly worried for other kids' safety]

Ryuu-chan is attached to creative classes, though he does really well in all his closes. He, however, gets stressed with the school starts to bring up university. He gets in his head and tends to over study and get exhausted on test day.

Personality:

Acchan is really sweet to everyone he comes across. He tends to come home late from school because he gets stopped to do a series of heavy labor requests for the neighbors. He’s also very hungry and asks for food for payment. He comes home with snacks everyday. He’s well spoken if he is interested in a particular subject but when him and his brother fights over hypotheticals - all intelligence leaves.

Ryuu-chan is pretty reserved - though not socially avoidant. He’s too polite [engrained bc of Atsushi] and tends to do everything everyone asks. Unlike his brother, Ryuu-chan gets asked to do complicated tasks. Old people also really like talking to him, and it often feels like they seek him out to talk to him. He tends to dip if his social battery gets too much.

Context:

@sskk-squared

#art #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou gay dogs #fan art #digital art #procreate #sskk fanart #sskk #sskk² #bsd sskk #shin soukoku #acchan #ryuuchan #atsushi nakajima #akutagawa ryunosuke

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luveline · 10 months

Note

Ok this sentence from your hotch fic "You're so busy, I could never," you say, shaking your head.

got me thinking what about a lil story about a non bau gf being very upset but trying to hide it from hotch bc he’s busy and she doesn’t want to add to his plate

hope this is ok!! —hotch assures you he's never too busy to listen if you've been upset by something, 1k♡

You're doing the dishes when it starts to come back. It's weird that the nature of the things that hurt us is their ability to come back, to metastasise while we're unaware; you think you're doing a good job at moving forward and the claws of it sink into your back, your chest. One talon at a time.

You ignore it, focusing instead on Aaron behind you at the dinner table. The sound of papers fluttering across each other as he turns a page, the click and drag of his pen as he writes. You can picture his cursive, and the frown he wears as he works.

You're dying to tell him about what's hurting you, but beyond feeling small in the eye of the storm that is his job, he's been busy, evidenced by paper work at home and a yawning gap of communication. This is the first time you've seen him all week. You dread filling the time (wasting it, even) with something that doesn't concern him. It barely concerned you, someone else's unresolved issues turned to a bad mood and all the fallout on your shoulders.

"Is something wrong?" Aaron asks.

He's like a shark for emotions, your tiny sniffle a drop of blood in the water. You wipe your nose with a soapy hand and shrug casually.

"Nothing's wrong. Are you nearly done? Maybe we can watch a movie."

Aaron stands up. You stiffen at the sound, but relax when his hand squeezes your shoulder. He braces his hands on the countertop and leans forward, looking at you. You meet his eyes. Usually so serious, softened slightly by worry.

"You stancing up on me?" you tease.

He doesn't buy into your jokes. You clear your throat, wondering what you might be able to change the subject to. You've been thinking about asking him if he wants to get a pet fish with you, an aquarium—

"You're upset by something," he says. "I think it's best if you tell me."

"You think?"

"Please, honey."

You set the last dish on the drying rack and dry your hands slowly, buying time. Aaron indulges your behaviour though he undoubtedly knows what you're doing.

"You're really busy, Aaron, I don't want to put more water in your levy."

You've barely stopped talking when he begins. "If this is about my being busy, put it out of your mind. You know better than anyone that things have to wait sometimes, regretfully, when I'm working, but I'm here now." He fixes you with a fond smile.

"Exactly, you're here, so let's not waste time on silly stuff that's bothering me."

Aaron bears his weight on his hip against the countertop, taking your water-warmed hands into his, tacky skin sticking as he rubs your knuckles. Easing your forward with a gentle pull, one of his hands runs up your arm until his fingertips are nudging under your sleeve. An encapsulating hold, it says, I'm right here. Not too busy. Nothing too silly.

And still, he says aloud, "Time talking about how you feel isn't wasted, even if you're upset by something small."

You frown then, nose aching, eyes burning, because it doesn't feel small at all. "Are you sure you're not too busy?" you ask weakly, a high pitch attempt to salvage it and keep hiding how upset you are, but a simultaneous giving-in.

"No," he says softly, all empathy as you descend into tears, "of course I'm not too busy."

He hugs you close right there in the kitchen. Words won't come out and your shoulders shake under his hands with every attempt to explain it to him, not just that something bad happened to you, but that it's been really heavy to carry alone, and that weight being taken from you —by him, and so easily— is a moving relief.

He pulls it out of you, an explanation made of fits and starts, and he gets mad on your behalf, but he pushes it aside to talk you through it. When you can cry without nearly choking yourself on breathlessness, he sways you minutely from side to side.

"I knew something was upsetting you," he says, still so gently, "but I didn't know it was this bad. I need you to let me know. I'm sorry, honey, but I need you to tell me when it's bad like this if I miss it."

You shudder in a breath. "It's not that bad."

You both know it's a lie. Aaron pulls you in for another good hug, hand at the small of your back rubbing a dedicated circle. Your shirt bunches up and he takes a handful of your naked skin, thumb tracking around, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. "It's okay," he murmurs. "Take a deep breath. I will always be here for you, you know that?"

It's odd to hear him strung like that. You take a deep breath like he asked you to, arms clasped behind his, your face too hot in his neck.

"Even if I'm busy, I'm here at the end of the day. I promise. If I'm sitting at the table with you, that means I'm waiting for you." He cracks a small smile, his hand at the nape of your neck encouraging your head back. The other hand, dedicated to the patch of skin just above your coccyx, rubs upward. It releases a little of the tension building in your spine. "I love you, honey, I'm busy, but never too busy to hear what's wrong. Never."

"You'll make me cry worse," you whine, letting him tip your head further back again, hand at your cheek now giving a soft squeeze. You blow a warm breath out at his thumb.

Aaron kisses you lightly, lips only half-touching.

He pulls away. "Let me make you something to drink, hm?"

Thus begins a night of adoring pampering and over the top doting. You pretend it's too much, but it's really, really perfect.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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steddiecameraroll · 26 days

Text

“Whatever, now he’s just somebody that I used to know.” Steve shakes his head in annoyance.

Dustin won’t let it go. He’s still trying to get Steve to go with him to visit Eddie. As if he wants to travel across state lines to visit his ex boyfriend. Ex being the keyword.

“Yeah but he used to be your boyfriend. Come on, Steve. Eddie would be so surprised.”

“No shit. I’m sure he’d throw open the door and just be so elated to see me standing there. Toss his arms up and cheer with glee.” Steve swears Dustin better hear the sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“He will! I swear.”

“Have you absolutely lost it? Do you not remember how he broke up with me? He sent Jeff to my place to pick up his shit. Couldn’t even bother to do it himself. Then he changed his fucking number, Dustin. Does that sound like someone that would be happy to see me? He couldn’t risk the tiny chance that I would reach out to him. He went far enough to avoid me that he moved and didn’t say a fucking thing. So no, I won’t be joining you on this lovely weekend trip to Chicago. And for the love of god, stop asking me.” He punctuates his point by slamming the refrigerator door shut.

“Sorry, ok, I’ll stop.”

Steve glares over his shoulder at the boy. He can’t believe Dustin could have forgotten how painful their break up had been for Steve. Eddie dumping him out of the blue and subsequently disappearing like none of it meant anything to him. As if their relationship was just a smudge to be wiped away with a damp cloth.

Steve’s just made it to the angry stage of it all and for Dustin to completely disregard his feelings is especially crushing. He knows their relationship veers closer to a sibling connection. It’s why Dustin’s usual prodding doesn’t drive him as crazy as it does others but there is a time and place, and the subject matter of Eddie Munson is never an option. Not to Steve at least.

“I just thought-“

“Don’t,” Steve cuts the boy off. “It’s over. I’ve accepted it, you should too.”

Dustin nods silently with a twist to his mouth.

“I beg you, never speak to me about him ever again. If he wants to act like I don’t exist, then I get to do the same thing.”

“No, but Steve, that’s not- he asks about you all the time!” Dustin rushes out before Steve can strangle him.

Steve whips around scowling at the boy. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not, no, he does! I swear, Steve.” Dustin rushes to keep up pace with Steve when he turns heel and rushes out of the kitchen.

“Stop it,” Steve grits out.

“I swear on my mother. Every time I call him he asks how you’re doing. Or what classes you’re taking. Or how your new job is.”

Steve’s fingers are digging into his palms as he fists his hands at his sides. He’s trying so hard not to lose his shit right now. He’s breathing heavy as Dustin stomps behind him down the hallway.

“I swear, just come with me. He misses you.”

“SHUT UP,” Steve spins around and yells in Dustin’s face. “No he doesn’t! No he doesn’t! If he did then he wouldn’t have done it. He wouldn’t have left without saying a word. He wouldn’t have ripped my heart out and destroyed me.” Steve’s anger is fizzing over into sorrow and he knows he’s failing at keeping the tears at bay.

“Steve?” Dustin’s voice cracks.

“NO!” Steve throws his finger in Dustin’s face. “I don’t want to hear it. I loved him and he betrayed me. He means nothing to me now. Nothing. Do you understand?” Dustin nods nervously. “He’s just some guy, now.”

Steve sighs with a heavy heart. Every muscle in his body is immediately exhausted. He thought he was done having to think about Eddie Munson. Thought he was past the point of letting the man get to him but here he is shaking profusely and on the verge of breaking down because Dustin is asking him to go on a road trip.

“Dustin, please.” Steve asks shakily. He’s so close to tears. “If you care about me even a little, you won’t do this to me. You don’t understand. He was just your friend, brother in arms and all. He was my-,” Steve chokes back the lump in his throat. “He was my everything. And if what you’re saying is true, then Eddie can try and fix this himself. He can get in his fucking piece of shit van and drive his goddamn ass back here and tell me himself. I’m the victim here. He did this so he can fix it. Now get out.”

“Steve,” Dustin pleads.

“No. Get. Out.”

Dustin nods solemnly then shuffles around gathering his things, and leaving Steve alone a few minutes later. Once Steve hears the front door close with a soft click, he collapses onto his couch and cries into one of the throw pillows.

#cw implied unhappy ending #post breakup #I watched that dancing TikTok to Gotye and had some feelings to get out #steddie #sad and hurt #steve harrington

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tarjapearce · 1 month

Text

The Immorality Of Love (Pt. 1)

Duke! Miguel O'Hara x Courtesan! Reader.

WARNINGS: Mild angst, power dynamics, emotional distress, sexual tension, No use of Y/N, Mild smut, Oral (M! Receiving), implicit sexual activities. No proofread, Historical innacuracy for the sake of the plot

Summary: More than just directions and simple business.

A/N: ngl, nervous about this, but anyway, hope you enjoy <3. Inspired in the first scene of Pretty Woman <3

Random fact: poverty, insecurity, physical danger, alcoholism, disease and police harassment were just a few of the things that prostitutes around that time were subjected to.

The more papers and seals he went through, the more the need to rip his hair in a rage fit grew. Painfully as the thought was, he'd rather feel that kind of discomfit than keep absorbing the words coming from the other end of the line.

"No, no. It wasn't like that. You know I'm-"

Busy as usual. As ever and probably forever. Something Dana often seemed to forget.

The black and gold metallic tech device rested smooshed against his cheek and shoulders, its cord had tangled underneath his arm, making him fuss through, trying to pry his arm away from it's grasp.

An annoyed sigh escaped his lips as Dana kept complaining.

"Dana, corazón, look-"

His hand rubbed his heavy countenance, awash with so many things he thought his brain would collapse.

"Oh... Okay. Uh... Thanks for your time, ok? I... I had fun. Yeah." He fred himself free from the cord's grasp and put the letters in his free hand on his desk, "I'm sorry. Good luck."

He hung the call as his shoulders slumped with the toll of his stress baggage, that quickly was picked up again as soon as Peter came through the door.

"You're missing your own birthday party, Your grace." Peter loved annoying him with the formal title he strictly forbid him to use.

"My intention precisely."

Peter served him a glass of whiskey and pushed it to him.

"I believe Gabriel won't appreciate this little stunt. You're still working, missing your birthday party-"

"And Dana just dumped me." The chuckle escaping his plump mouth wasn't remorseful, but a relieved one. Peter's brow just quirked and sighed.

"That's perfect then! More reasons for you to just come down and enjoy your own celebration. You're turning Thirty two! Do you know how many people don't make it that far?"

"Are you calling me old?"

"A relic. And grumpy hermit too. Let's go."

Miguel rooted deeper in his seat and Peter's face went blank.

"Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"I just wanna go home for the night, Parker. Drink my new bottle and sleep." He slurred, tiresome.

Peter was about to come up with a quip but Miguel's stomach rumbled.

"Yeah, no, that ain't happening. Move it."

"I am the Duke of Nueva York, Parker. I will not-"

"And I'm your best friend. Move. You gotta eat at least something. Mingle a bit, make the celebration historical by actually remaining for more than an hour, then you can leave."

Miguel's lips twisted in a tired smile, with a resigned heave he gulped down the whiskey and followed Peter downstairs.

-----

As historical as his assistance was, the minutes had stretched incredibly long. His hand reached for his ever trusting golden pocket clock and scowled almost imperceptibly when he noticed the hours. A quarter past nine and his head started to hurt.

In fact, the boisterous mumbles from people had his head spinning. He was already making a fool of himself by faking a laugh to Gabriel's jokes and exchanging pleasantries with people that were only after him for favors or trying to get to know their single female relatives.

But enough was enough when someone begun slurring his words and dripping his drink on the floor. Alcohol became a bit too pungent when he approached the food table, so he turned left, missing some people, quickly nodding a hello here and there, swimming through the sea of unknown people until he reached the main entrance.

His heart dictated it was time to leave, it's powerful hammering resonating within his ribcage. He secured his hat on top of his head and marched towards the carriages.

Damned be his mind if he was to remain another second inside. But damned be his luck for not finding anyone to drove him home.

The door creaked and Gabriel's raucous laugh froze him in the spot.

"Where are you going, Miguel?"

The aforementioned tensed as he approached the carriage with the attached horses.

"Home. Where are the chauffeurs at?"

"Inside, in your party. Told them to take the night off. Go back inside, Migue."

"Ah, cómo chingas. Look... I'm tired, a terrible headache, got job to do and I can smell the whiskey from here on you. "

"You're the only person I know that hides from his own birthday."

Miguel hopped in the front seats of the carriage, the structure creaked and dipped under his weight as the horses tapped the grassy floor. Gabriel's mirthful laugh only deepened the scowl on his already tired face as he mimicked his eldest brother.

"And if I can recall you still fear horses, Miguelito."

"Cállate." He grumbled while securing his clock in his pocket, "Don't get too drunk, I've got enough complains of you to discuss with the king."

If none was to drive him back home, he'd make do. Even if the horses held a secret grudge on him. But if this was what it took to get out and be free to have his own personal celebration in his room, then so be it.

"Ajá. Ya, vete pues." (Right, go on now.)

The younger O'Hara chided as he watched his brother ready to depart. This gave him an idea.

Miguel fixed his hat again and took a hold of the reins. Gabriel approached, sauntering towards the horses and your grace's unsuspecting being.

"I forgot. Happy Birthday, brother of mine."

Miguel's eyes widened as Gabriel slapped the horse's rear, igniting their angry galloping, taking a cursing Duke away from him.

"Cabrón!-"

-----

For how long had he been wandering the streets? He recognized some avenues and milieu, but a wrong turn had taken him to a relatively unknown area.

Although the buildings kept their refined air, the washed up and cracked walls started making an impromptu appearance in his line of vision. A couple of people stared his way to quickly scramble back into whatever business they thought better to attend.

Even the floor and smells had changed. The duke couldn't help but grumble as the stony and jagged texture of the floor made his carriage to bump and shake erratically. There was no smoothness to make the steering steady, the floral and occasional bakery smell was quickly replaced by the smell of opium, industrial filth and other unpleasant odors.

He didn't know what was worse, to admit to none but himself that he was lost, since his daily route was his manor, the king's palace and the office of his empire. Or the random smells that fought for a spot in his nose, pouncing on his senses.

His discomfort grew the more he ventured into the changing scenarios. But it also gave him a glimpse of those he was assigned by the king to protect and watch over.

Little were the things that managed to surprise him greatly, but seeing the scenery pass and turn into a more rundown, less fancy and acquainted place, got his skin crawling softly under the linens of his warm frock coat.

Even a man of his calibre knew to not tempt fate and with a whip on the reins, the horses galloped faster, wherever it was better than this part of the city he didn't know.

As spoiled as the thought was, he really hated not having his chauffer at his immediate disposition. He wouldn't have to deal with these situations, he wouldn't have to feel like a lost pampered puppy that escaped his guarded home, only to be out there by his own in the cold and unforgiving night streets.

Even the horses refused to keep going forward to a much more secluded and darker area, guarded by the slithering shadows that would play games with his mind if he stared long enough.

A breath hitched on his throat as the horses turned left and took the opposite road, away from the lurking danger. To his luck and awestruck, the horses indeed knew the route and guided him to an area that, although he had seen a couple of times, it ended up in a familiar environment.

The boutiques and coffee shops started to take shape as the galloping kept going through the enlightened stony and steady path. The wheels creaked merrily upon being on familiar territory again.

The crawl on his skin stopped only to be replaced by a sudden gasp when the horses stood in their hind legs as a stray cat crossed their paths out of nowhere, scaring them. Miguel barely could take a hold of the reins, as the horses pulled and his back collided against the hard wood of the carriage.

"B-Basta!" He huffed nervously while he held his hat as the other hand secured the grip on the leather ropes, trying to stop the horses, but they kept running, as if the black tiny monster with beady eyes chased after them.

"Shit!"

The carriage turned into to a bustling area and suddenly halted into a corner, Miguel bounced hard in his seat as the transport parked forcefully above the sidewalk, earning a frightful gasp and murmurs from the people around.

Without much thought he stepped off the carriage and released a breath he didn't know it had been stuck in his tightened throat for a while.

"Condenado gato, asustándome así." His nostrils flared with a heavy sigh, as his hands scrambled underneath the seat to see if he could find anything remotely helpful to guide himself back to his manor. (Fucking cat, scaring me like that)

Miguel nearly slapped himself upon finding a neatly folded map in the further corner of the seat. A hand passed over his impatient face before unfolding it and taking a good scrutinizing look in it. None of the names sounded familiar for him, not even the post with the signal Maxwell's Avenue before him rang a bell into his befuddled head.

Where was he?

The soft clicks of a pair of heels behind him made to look at the lady behind him.

"Are you alright, my lord?"

Even though her voice was sweet with sultry undertones in it, Miguel could recognize almost immediately her profession. A courtesan. A fancy and less crude word for a prostitute, whose soft and floral aroma tickled his senses.

"I'm not interested."

----

Upon hearing those words your brow quirked and stared at him for couple of seconds. He was definitely a nobleman, the tallest and most build up man you've seen so far, His frock coat and the golden chain attached to his chest where his clock was, said everything you needed.

A potential client. Although reluctant.

He could redefine the word handsome if someone took a proper look into his face. Sharp features that were as strong as his nose and angry looking eyes. Lips twitched with contained fury the more he stared at the map on his trembling hands.

Your attention wandered to said piece of paper only to let out a humored scoff. Brown eyes snapped your way immediately upon the noise.

"You're holding the map backwards, my lord. Bid you a goodnight."

You turned around and walked back but his voice calling you with a 'Wait' made your lips stretch into a thin yet knowing smile.

"Yes?", wispy eyelashes fluttered with each blink you gave him.

The man cleared his throat and inched the map closer to you.

"Where am I?"

"Where do you need to go?"

His eye twitched almost involuntarily at your reply, but if he wanted to go home, at this point any help would come in handy.

"Babylon-"

The horses tapped the floor a bit more impatiently as they shook their mane. His hands tightened in balls in each side of him.

"Babylon manor."

Your brows puckered in as he kept turning and turning the map.

"I could take you there, if you wish to."

"No. I just need-"

The horse's forceful neigh made Miguel to clutch his hands tighter, nearly digging his nails in his palms.

"Shut up!"

He roared at the beast that only blew an annoyed sigh his way. Earning a giggle from you.

"You're making the horses and me nervous, my lord."

A heavy and blasé heave came from his nostrils, folding the map in a haste. Mirth crossed your features on his distress.

"Glad that at least I'm amusing you."

"Although, that's my job, my offer to take you there for a little fee, of course, remains."

With little to lose and patience he gestured you towards the carriage. With a proud smile you gave him a little curtsey and stepped on the same spot as he was sitting instead of the inside of the carriage.

His bushy brow quirked at your choice of seat but little he could do about it. You pulled a fan and blew yourself with it as your eyes studied every movement.

Reins a bit too tight on his heavy looking hands, frame so frigid and mechanic you thought he'd break upon sitting next to you, swallowing the space with his sheer size. Lips and brows puckered in an apparent permanent frown and his gorgeous eyes that hid a crimson glint in it, if you dared to look closer.

He whipped the ropes and the horses walked on with a pull that had you clutching to your seat. Fear however begun growing after the speed of their trotting increased, passing and turning blocks in a blink of an eye.

"Stop them!"

"I'm trying woman!" He hissed, more nervous than angered.

Without much thought you took the leather ropes from him and pulled back with all your might. If it wasn't for him placing an arm before you, your body would have lurched forward and off the carriage.

"My goodness..."

Both of your chests rose upon the short and quivering breaths your lungs exhaled

"Are you alright?"

You gave him a shaky nod, while your hand loosened the grip on the horse's command. In truth, Miguel's bile had rose up his throat. For a moment he really thought he'd lose control of the carriage and his name would be in the morning newspaper with the title 'The Duke crashed cause he's unable to drive by himself properly due an irrational equine fear."

"I should ask you that, my lord. You're paling."

But he didn't crashed nor would appear in the news, thanks to you.

"Should I take the lead?"

"You know how to ride?"

"That and more, yes. Though I rather the term drive" His brows crinkled upwards at your reply, taken aback by your quip, earning him another chuckle from you, "But I know enough to get my way around horses without being nipped or kicked."

Your hand caressed the neck and mane, in an attempt to soothe the beast's nerves. Curiosity tugged at his seams. A courtesan that knew how to drive.

Times change I suppose.

His mind mused, and his hands rested on his hips, without much thought he mumbled: "Be my guest, then."

"Hop in then, sir."

You got into the carriage front seat and patted the space next to you. He obeyed.

----

Against all odds, you took him home. Ride back happened smoothly without the horses trying to kill him, they obeyed without a hitch under your command. A clear screw you from the annoying beasts that made him look like an utter useless fool.

Once close enough, you gave him the reins back to him and got down the carriage before his staff approached, leaving his hand on the air while trying to help you to get down.

He followed and straightened his coat and hat.

"Safe and sound, aren't we?"

He nodded as your eyes locked on each other briefly before a valet took the horses away.

"Then, I'll be happy to receive my payment and leave you be, my lord."

The payment, of course.

"Right. And what is this fee of yours for helping a stranger?"

"You say so like I'm robbing you." he chuckled, "I'm sure twenty crowns won't make you less rich."

"They won't." He searched inside his vest and pulled out a 20 bill from his wallet.

"A pleasure to help you, sir."

You bowed to him with a satisfied smile and gathered your skirt.

"Just a quick thing, don't whip the horses too hard. They hate it."

"Noted." he nodded before approaching the door, "Be careful out there."

"Appreciate your concern, my lord. Bid you a good night."

With a final curtsey you turned around and walked towards the corner. Some of his staffs threw discreet glances your way others swarmed Miguel with their attention as usual.

The street had slowly turned less concurred as the night kept advancing, and too bad you had forgotten your pocket watch at home. Walking was always good for the health, but at this hour alone, you rather not poke at the devil's tail to see what he had in store for you.

Miguel watched you for a second, Securing the shawl on your shoulders, an ethereal soft gleam on your skin provoked by the post lamp nearby was quickly covered as you straightened your back, enhancing the sight of your mounds for a moment.

He blinked away the glimpses of your beauty to finally gather his thoughts and walk inside. Not that he was strange to courtesans, Gabriel had once arranged himself a night with a couple, only to be ditched as soon as they laid their eyes on him.

His frock coat and hat were quickly taken away to be hung. He ordered his new bottle of mezcal while his hands pulled and rolled up at the wrist of his sleeves up to his elbows.

His ears perked up upon hearing some jeering comments from a man outside. His steps guided him back towards he just came from. To jis little surprise there was a drunk man, barely supporting on the walls as he spoke your way.

"Kindly, fuck off you twat"

Miguel chuckled at your sharp and dirty mouthed reply to the man that quickly thought his words upon catching him peeking out of the main entrance. The Duke truly thought you had already walked away.

With half wobbly steps the man left as you shot an apprehensive yet grateful look his way.

"Thanks."

His head bobbed in a brief nod, and slowly approached you again.

"Waiting for someone?"

"Maybe. Do you know them perhaps?"

Miguel quirked his brow with a bit of confusion. You sighed.

"My apologies, drunkards get me on edge. And I am waiting for a carriage to take me back to my district. Don't wanna risk myself at this hours into unknown territory."

He crossed his arms.

"Where do you head to?"

"Doubt you'd like to know that, sir."

Your eyes were keen in the horizon, but no carriage or known face approached.

"Time seems to be a problem for you."

"I'm working. Gotta make the most out it. But since this a new territory and I've seen nothing but empty streets, I'll go back."

A Hmm came out of him while he stood next to you.

"Alright, then how much for a night?"

You blinked while facing him, "Pardon me?"

"You're still... working, right?"

You nodded.

"Then, how much for the night?"

As unexpected as his question was, the words that flew out of your mouth surprised you even more.

"300 crowns." you blurted.

He pursed his lips in a pondering movement, then nodded.

"Alright. Let's get you inside."

In truth the quantity was just a coy to see if he bit the bait, and it was double the amount you needed to get that lovely perfume you so needed. But money was money.

"As you wish, my lord."

You didn't imagine he'd actually agree. But now that he had, you followed him inside. However, he told you to wait before disappearing for a moment, only to return with a coat and drape it around your shoulders.

"What is this?"

"A coat" Your face went blank, "It'll save us some trouble."

Once again your feet resumed their walking inside, and for a minute, you wished to have eidetic memory to remember everything, so you could print it all out and have a proof of the place's exquisite grandeur, and for Aveline to see this with her own beautiful blue eyes.

She always boasted with descriptions you'd only find in the many magazines Avy managed to steal from their unsuspected client's homes. But now, you were in one of them, walking up the marbled stairs that were dressed up in a shade of velvet that could be mistaken for a rivulet of blood rolling down under your feet.

But there was not that coppery smell flooding your nose, no. Au contraire, the place smelled like it was doused in a gentle breeze of vanilla, an appalling contrast to the lavender incense you were used to at this point.

It blended well with the delicate floral aroma oozing from your pores. A couple of staff members dallied around, interrupting with their greetings towards Miguel, some spared a glance your way and of course murmurs ensued. But it didn't matter, you were getting your new perfume and possibly a couple of brand new accessories for all you cared.

The room, the master bedroom you supposed, was as beautiful as the rest. Majestic and powerful like it's owner.

A few little statues here and there adorned his room, the smell of vanilla and a tinge of a liqueur you had never smelled before filled in your lungs pleasantly.

He went straight to his desk after closing the door behind him.

"May I remove this now?"

His hands rummaged through the haphazard stacked up papers while you removed and hung up the coat somewhere, not really waiting for his reply.

Your eyes still wandered around as you sauntered over his desk.

"With a place like this, I'd be gladly turn into a hermit. Are you by chance an undercover prince?"

Miguel chuckled and pulled out his pen while sitting properly on his throne

"Close. But no. I'm the Duke."

Your brows rose in surprise but quickly vanished into an amused smirk as soon as he started removing his vest and fiddled with the tie around his neck.

The knot tightened the more he struggled with it. You stepped closer and slid your hands briefly on his chest to have a good feel of him.

Solid, well worked, and a hundred percent real. Your fingers hooked in the tie and pulled him gently towards you.

His lips parted to then swallow an invisible lump at the action alone. Dexterous hands quickly managed to untie the tangled fabric around his too dressed up neck, freeing him from his temporary torment. His perfume was another smell to add to the wondrous list you discovered tonight.

Woody, a hint of cinnamon and a fine vanilla tobacco.

"Didn't know the Duke of Nueva York was afraid of horses."

He grunted and rolled his eyes.

"I'd rather not discuss that."

You chuckled while fetching your small hand purse. You pulled out a piece of hardened paper sealed and signed by a doctor, and placed it before him.

His eyes gazed at it curiously, to then widen softly at the different array of condoms you pulled from the sides of your boots to then seat on his desk.

"You might pick one after you've read my medical checks."

"Quite the safety buffet you have there."

Your shoulders shrugged, "You never know with royalty and I like to be safe."

He nodded with a tiny smile as everything was in order, the card had nothing but a couple of days old. Madame Lewis always insisted in doing regular checkups, and it paid off. You had learned how to recognize the symptoms of some popular diseases by now. Knowledge was sure a powerful tool.

He eyed the condoms and released a brief and deep chuckle. Upon silence you put them back in your purse and faced him once more with a sultry smile. Your spine slanted enough towards him to give him a better look of your mounds.

He wasn't immune towards a lady's charms. Your eyes caught his taking a quick peek.

"So... what now? What will you have me doing?"

"I don't know." his cheek rested against his knuckles and stared your form, even though a courtesan, your taste in fashion was refined and by the quality materials of your clothings, he assumed you were a middle class paramour, "I didn't plan on this, if honest."

"Oh? I see." Your eyes darted through the many papers in his desk, "You do seem the type to plan it all though."

"Of course, someone has to. Excuse my maners, but I forgot your name completely."

A smirk came to your rouged lips,

"How can you forget something that has never been given to you, my lord?"

His nostrils heaved merrily upon your comment while his head nodded approvingly.

"Touché."

You scoffed, "Violet."

"Violet what?"

"Just plain Violet. Yours?"

It was his turn to scoff in disbelief. Were you living under a rock?

"I apologize but, I refuse to believe you don't know my name yet."

It was your turn to laugh, "I'm sorry but, even if my clients won't shut about politics and royalty , I still don't know your name, your grace. It always escapes the confinements of my mind."

His eyes wandered a bit over your face, but quickly averted them, to focus on the flirty frills of your dress. You knew exactly where to flaunt and where to leave it au naturale. He'd be a liar to not say you were one of the prettiest courtesans he had seen so far. He had them twice in his life, and with this a third.

"It's Miguel."

"Oh," you tested his name in your tongue, it tingled with excitement, "I suppose it suits you."

"Does it?"

Miguel stood and served two glasses of mezcal, his hand offered you one. He approached the door and called for an assortment of fruits and other light snacks, then returned to his seat.

"I've never met a Duke named Miguel before. But it sounds... almost delicious to say so."

"Delicious?" He drank his shot in a go, a pleasant growl escaped after the liqueur burned good in his throat.

"Pleasant even." You followed into drinking your shot, face souring for a moment. His tongue swept over his lips, tasting the remnants of mezcal on them.

His gaze turned bolder with the passing of seconds, staring intermittently at your chest, face and neck.

After a couple of minutes a maid knocked, interrupting his line of thoughts and put the tray on a nearby table, gave a curtsey and left you alone again.

"How would you rate my performance as a Duke?"

The question as unexpected and random as it was, escaped his mouth. He was still into work mode and clearly not used to have company. It threw you off for a second.

Your brows rose in disbelief and amusement, "I assure you, that you won't like the answers, your grace."

That's when his shoulders shook with a brief yet genuine titter.

"That bad, huh?"

You shrugged while placing the glass in the table to lean his way, pushing your breasts to a more open sight. Inviting him in.

"Yes. But you aren't paying me to talk about work. Are you?"

"What if I am?" He slouched even more comfortably on his seat.

"Then I believe one bottle of this" You pointed at the mezcal, "won't be enough for neither of us."

-----

The clock had ticked eleven pm, conversation soon branched into different topics, from the ridiculous names some clothes were called, to a bit of surface personal information.

"How old are you turning, my lord?"

You popped a green grape into your mouth as he downed another glass if mezcal. The outer corset had been long gone, same as pretension and the accessories on your hair.

Even though still reserved, his whole demeanor had allowed itself to relax. He ate what he couldn't back at his own party and the mezcal bottle had decreased it's contents.

"Thirty two. Why?"

"Just curious. It has come to my attention that the Duke of Nueva York isn't a wrinkly old man. I'm quite surprised, if honest."

"I will be one in a couple of decades. That if work doesn't kills me first."

He had to order another platter of charcuterie since the first one was entirely devoured by him.

"It won't. You seem too stubborn for it."

He chuckled, "You're none to talk about being stubborn."

You scoffed, faking offense, "I call it perseverance, and at least I know how to manipulate a map, my lord."

He didn't know if it was the alcohol slowly turning up his senses or your company that against all odds, had been one of the few things memorable for the night. He had lit up the fire to warm the room.

"The map was outdated." he grumbled without actual anger behind it.

You just nodded with a playful smile while sitting before the fireplace to get a bit of warm. He remained sat on his chair, legs comfortably sprawled open on top.

"Of course it was, your grace, I hope it'll be updated soon so you don't get lost again."

The soft cracks of the wood reigned over the sudden silence. The fire's auriferous gleam bathed your silhouette, investing an ironically beatific sight on you.

"Hopefully not. I won't have the luck to count on your help, I'm afraid."

Your shoulders twinkled with the fire's light as they accompanied your sweet laugh and his eyes closed for a moment.

The day had been quite the feat, but before all of it played as a movie in his head and his mind recurred to the internal and ever pondering monologue, the warm touch of your hands in his thighs grounded him immediately to the present.

Right in the moment where your bare fingers roamed the territory of his clothed legs and hips.

"How are you able to keep this... physical condition?" your hands gave a brief and marveling squeeze and a twitch traveled all over his body.

"Hard work." He heaved when you stopped to rise on your feet, eyes glinting upon confirming he was looking.

Slowly, your fingers danced above your chest to then drag them through the fabric ans reach for the back buttons of your dress with expertise, freeing yourself from the inhibition with each unclasp, to finally remove the first layer.

"I see. It has paid off, I admit."

His lips curved proudly to quickly and subtly licks his lips.

His pupils were blown open when his unabashed stare darted from your mouth to the peeking taut nipples that pushed against the see-through fabric of your chemise, begging to be released.

Lovely, generous and perfect size for his hand.

If his demeanor wasn't trained for self-control, he'd definitely look like a precocious youngster, unable to talk because a woman was getting naked before him.

The right side of his head rested on his index and middle finger, his thumb rubbed in circles in the juncture of his jaw. Watching and enjoying the parsimonious and erotic dance your hands did to remove your skirt, revealing nothing but the long, sheer cream colored chemise that left everything yet little to his growing volatile imagination.

The bustier only donned your waist with a perfect dip to accentuate your also generous hips. His hands would undoubtedly fit perfectly in that curve.

Hid eyes darted to his hands but immediately resumed to your show to not miss anything important. Meaning everything. The lack of underwear in your body stirred up the crawling in his skin.

A calculated turn and bend to reach for your shoes gave him a proper display of what laid under the little remnants of clothes still clinging to you. Purposely torturing his psyche with the corruption of mind and thoughts.

How would you feel like in his hands?

Nothing but smooth and lovely skin. The stockings embraced your supple thighs in a way that for a brief fraction of time, he wished to be the elastic band around them.

He didn't know who to blame for his sudden flustered and urgent state. He could blame the top quality mezcal for making his skin thrum and burn with enough heat to turn it highly receptive to external stimuli.

Your shoes were removed, and soon your hands, deftly undid your bustier.

Or the lack of physical and willing altercation in his lavish bed eons ago.

Or you, for actually entertain him with more than he had originally thought.

Not even he was so sure about his tiredness anymore. Not when you prowled your way towards him, hips swaying in a sultry motion, breast bouncing softly at each step.

His breath hitched when the chemise was gone and you kneeled between his thighs. Dainty fingers unbuckling and undoing his belt and trousers single-handed and deftly. Nothing but the stockings adorned your form.

"As much as I'd love to keep talking," the inner flesh of his bottom lip was trapped in between his teeth as your warm and soft hand ventured within his trousers and grazed the velvet skin of his still trapped erection, "I also believe money must be earned properly."

Damn him for being such a primitive man to surrender so quickly under your touch. For purposely starving his body from the sensations he was going through at the moment.

Damn you for stroking his ego when your countenance lit up in surprise upon watching his cock springing alive in it's full and healthy glory a few inches away your face.

He shrugged nonchalantly and his eyes glued on your next movement

"Consider yourself lucky, my lord. I usually do not engage into the arts of oral pleasures," Your hand took a gentle yet firm hold of him, stroking enough to make him release a pleasurable yet quiet moan, "I'll make an exception for the night though, you're to be celebrated after all."

He gulped a blown breath before it could escape as you marked his skin with soft kisses until you reached his flushed tip.

"Happy Birthday, your grace."

And, oh damned you for taking the challenge between your lips and remind him how much of a man he was.

---

The bird's chirping was louder the more seconds ticked, but it was enough to finally ground consciousness to your body.

You bolted awake. Fear seeped in upon not recognizing instantly your surroundings, but when the bell rang with the memory, the urge to leave increased tenfold.

As heavenly as the bedsheets felt against your skin, you flinched from them and gathered your things, but hips protested. Despite having the experience, none had prepared you for taking The Duke.

A man that was currently missing and out of the rooms sight. The curtains were draped in enough to block the sun's glory to hit you right in the face. You changed as hastily as you could. After all his bed was behind closed doors.

Shit

Even though the walk of shame was unavoidable the least you could do was to look the least tussled as possible. Once you were dressed you searched in your purse, a couple less condoms in your repertoire, to finally reach for the tooth powder and clean your teeth.

One of the many important rules you had self imposed in your licentious life had been broken.

Do not overstay.

As it could only bring nothing but trouble your way. You didn't want a lover, much less to engage into a life that only happened to good and obeying women.

And you weren't good, according to none but your own musings, nor obedient. You secured your shoes and straightened up your posture as you draped your shawl over your shoulders that still tingled with the Duke's capricious hands.

Miguel had been a gentleman, he never once did something you didn't feel comfortable with, yet still, his pleasure was the main focus of everything. It wasn't personal, nor intimate, just plain old business, like you always made it.

You found him reading the newspaper on his desk, a cup of steaming coffee next to him along some other foods that without admitting made your mouth salivate.

His eyes rose to meet you

"Good morning."

"Morning. I overslept, my apologies, sir."

You bowed your head and he sipped his cup.

"It's fine. I didn't know what would you like, so, got you a bit of everything."

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously with a frown at both the food and him. A bit of crumbs of a round sweet bread still remained on the corner of his lips.

"I appreciate your... attentions, my lord. But I'm good and I've got to go."

His body was dressed up in a light vest, his shirt rolled up yo his elbows and pants, ready for another day of work.

"Of course."

He stared at your concern for a couple of seconds before standing up and reaching for his wallet.

He pulled a couple of hundred crown bills and placed it before you. The sooner you got paid, the sooner you'd get home, take a long bath and finally go get that perfume before sleeping properly the day away.

Your hands counted it in, and your frown furrowed upon finding two hundred extra.

"Your grace? Here." You placed the bills on the table where he could see them, "You put some more by mistake."

"Oh, no, it wasn't. They're, uh... they're yours. A gift."

His lips curved softly in a small smile that quickly vanished upon your next words.

"A gift for doing what you hired me for?"

Miguel blinked, "I didn't mean it that way. It's an extra for-"

You didn't know if nervousness or anger was coursing through your veins, but it was unpleasant and you needed it out of your system.

"Let's get something clear, your grace. I'm aware my job is anything but reputable. But I do not take charity nor pity from anyone. Much less royalty."

He gulped, genuinely confused and taken aback from your reaction.

"I-I apologize. thought that you-"

"That I'd accept it? No. you're sadly mistaken. I know life circumstances have pushed me to choose this path of living, but do not dare insult me. Do not mistake my work for affection you can buy."

You left the money on the table and rushed to the door.

"Wait! Violet!"

by the time he reached this bedroom doors, you were already descending the stairs, head high and proud despite the unbelieving and horrified expressions by the staff at your haste to finally leave.

His shoulders slumped with a dragging groan as he remained on the doorframe of his room.

"That's not what I meant at all..."

A misunderstanding with a courtesan was the perfect way to start his day. Gabriel had mentioned him a couple of times to never give extra money to the professional entertainers, selfless kindness wasn't a concept in their life's vocabulary and it could be often mistaken as something else.

Like what just happened.

"Gooddamit."

But there was little to do about it and his mind dragged him out of it to pull him on the working mode again.

----

In his many years of friendship, it was rare when Peter behaved evasive, and fiddled with his hands a bit too much. His friend's pacing over his office had Miguel dizzy.

"Can you stay the hell still and spit it out at once?"

Miguel's terse voice only provoked an annoyed groan on Peter.

"You..." Parker's nostrils flared up with a plucky sigh and faced him.

"The Prince is organizing a little vacation to his villa. He wants us there."

A bushy brow from the Duke raised to then roll his eyes and resuming his work into signing papers and reading reports.

"And?"

"W-What do you mean and? You know whose going?"

"Not really, nor care. I won't go."

Peter's teeth 'tsk'ed' at his reply. "You are to be there. The Prince invited you specifically, and you know how Osborn gets when you ignore his whims."

"Yeah, no wonder why his father doesn't trusts him with Nueva York and I have to correct his stupidities."

Miguel slicked a hand ovef his hair to accommodate the straying strands off their order.

"Right. You have to call Dana."

"She dumped me on my birthday and she's too far, remember?"

"Well, you'll need someone to go with. Everyone is tired of seeing you alone and sulking during those reunions."

"I've got-"

Peter interrupted, knowing his words at this point. "Priorities, I know. Want me to find you someone?"

"Appreciated but no. I already have someone in mind."

Peter blinked and immediately sat before him

"You do?"

"Yes. Where is Gabriel?"

"Traveling outside the city. He'll join us in the trip later"

"Ese cabrón siempre evadiendo responsabilidades... Let me know when returns." (That fucker's always avoiding his duties.)

"Do I know her?" Peter clasped his hands before him, trying to pry more information out straight from the horse's mouth.

"No, which is good and bad."

"You need to start speaking sense, Miguel."

"It's good cause none around here knows her, and bad precisely for that. But since you're eager to help me, you'll do exactly that."

He handed Peter a small paper piece with a name.

"Violet? What's with this?"

"It's the name. Give it to Lyla. She'll look her up. Need an address by the end of this week. Tell her to look up in the neighbor districts.

"What if-"

"There's no what ifs in here, Parker. Split the search."

"So this means you're coming?"

"If I say yes, will you shut up?"

"Say no more. I'll look for this Violet to you."

"If you find her do not approach her. Let that to me."

Peter didn't know whether to be excited or scared. But he trusted Miguel.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder, what had happened the previous night? Even better yet, who was this Violet?

-----

Taglist:

@kate-ohara @del-ightfulling

#t writes✨#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel ohara fanfiction #miguel o'hara smut #the immorality of love

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paradiseismine · 2 months

Text

Late Night Talking - Trevor Spengler x Reader

Love note from Nina: Aaaand I’m back again with some more Finnie cuteness and filth, lovelies. My boy Trevor is way too underrated around here, so it’s about damn time we turn those tables.

Pairing: Trevor Spengler (Ghostbusters Afterlife/Frozen Empire) x f!reader

Warnings: mostly smut, but also some fluff. Also maybe this is kinda long (?) sorry not sorry etc

Summary: you visit the Spengler’s residence for a dinner party and end up having a lot more fun than you intended, if you know what I mean

Edit: part 2 here

Your mom and Mrs. Spengler had become best friends, all of a sudden - neither of them had had much luck on that when they moved to the city, but ever since they first met in a 7/11 a month ago, they were inseparable.

It was a Saturday evening, and your mom was dragging you along to Mrs. Spengler’s house, for a dinner party of some sort. You weren’t in the mood, but she seemed so happy to finally have a new friend, you just couldn’t say “no” to her.

So, all dressed up in a cute black dress and strap sandals, you rang the doorbell.

- Oh, hello - a tall lanky boy with messy black hair opened the door. - Good evening, Mrs. y/l/n… And you must be y/n, right?

You nodded, smiling sweetly, as your mom greeted the boy as well.

- Hi, Trevor! Your mom told me all about you - she said, giving him a warm hug after she handed you the huge cake tray she was holding.

It was pretty heavy - your mom wouldn’t show up to dine at someone’s house without bringing dessert - but you could manage to hold it.

- Callie, there you are! - she squealed as she hurried to meet Mrs. Spengler in the kitchen, leaving you and Trevor behind.

- She loves your mom - you said to Trevor, chuckling.

- My mom loves yours too - he chuckled. - Hey, can I help you with that? - he continued, gently taking the cake tray off of your hands.

- Thank you Trev, that was quite heavy - you said, relieved. - Should we bring that to the kitchen?

So you both put the cake in the fridge and helped your moms with everything - from setting the table to organizing the kitchen.

You had a great time eating and talking to Callie, Trevor and his sister, Phoebe. After dinner was over, the moms opened up a bottle of wine and sat on the living room to talk, while Phoebe went to her room to sleep.

That left you and Trevor alone in the kitchen, talking. It was already close to midnight, and by the laughs you could hear from the couch, you were not going to leave the Spengler’s home for a long time. Halloween was just around the corner, so you asked Trevor if he was into horror movies.

- Hm, kind of… - he responded, finishing his glass of soda. - I think they’re way too unrealistic sometimes.

- Ugh, wish I felt like that too… Movies like Poltergeist and The Conjuring totally freak me out. I’m just afraid of ghosts, I guess.

Trevor nearly choked, but you couldn’t understand why.

- Do you like slasher movies though? - he asked, trying to move on with the conversation.

- Yeah, I love them! - you answered, excitedly. - My favorite one is Friday The 13th!

- The first one?

- The best one, right?

- Absolutely - he laughed, then pointing to your moms in the living room - I think they’re gonna take a while there… Wanna go upstairs and watch a movie? It can be Friday the 13th if you want.

- Of course, I’d love that! - you said and walked over to the living room with him.

- Mom, Trevor and I are going upstairs to watch a movie, ok?

- Sure darlings, go there and befriend! - your mom agreed, her voice sounding a bit different already. Good thing you were driving.

You two went up the stairs to Trevor’s room, still talking about horror movies and your personal favorites; but you noticed he would talk just as excitedly about any subject. The conversation was light and comfortable. Trevor was so nice to talk to. He was also really good looking. Something about his lanky figure, dark hair and dark eyes really stood out to you.

Up in his room, you couldn’t help but walk around and notice the various objects he had in there.

- Whoa, do you like Arctic Monkeys?

- Their “AM” album is, like, most of my will to live. - he chuckled. - So yeah, I like them a bit.

- That’s an instant classic if I’ve ever seen one, right?

Turns out, you and Trev had A LOT in common. You were into the same movies, the same music and even the same places to hang out. He was working up the courage to ask you on a date already.

- So, uh… y/n, would you… would you like to go to that record store downtown with me… Sometime? It doesn’t have to be like a date or-

You put your index finger to his lips, and his eyes went wide.

- But can it be a date, though? - you whispered, your finger leaving his lips as you put your hand on his cheek.

- S-sure - he stuttered. He was much taller than you, even with the heels you were wearing.

- I would love to - you smiled, your hand still on his cheek. - I could talk with you all night if you’d let me.

- Me too - he smiled, putting his arm around your waist and leaning in a bit. - Y/n… can I-can I kiss you? Or does asking that totally ruin the mood?

- Of course you can! - you laughed. - C’mere.

You leaned in and your lips touched his, lightly. You touched your forehead to his and looked him in the eyes. He pulled you even closer by your waist and kissed you again, way more eagerly this time. His tongue asked for entrance and you permitted it, in pure ecstasy.

- Hm - he broke the kiss - maybe we could move this over there? - he said, his head pointing to an armchair on the corner of his room. You nodded, your lips parted and swollen from the kiss.

Trevor sat down on the armchair and you sat nearly on his lap, but sideways, so your butt was down on the armchair and your legs were all over his lap.

He put his hands on your bare knees and caressed them gently as you continued to kiss, more slowly than before. Your dress was a few inches above your knees. Nothing too modest or too slutty, but Trevor secretly wished you were wearing the sluttiest dress possible, just so he could feel you up without actually lifting up your dress and risking getting slapped across the face.

Little did he know you were craving that touch. You lightly guided his hands a bit further up your thighs, giving him the permission he wanted. To touch your soft skin and get intoxicated by you.

You kept kissing him passionately, your hands wandering from his cheek to his neck to his chest. You grabbed the collar of his T-shirt and pulled him even closer, wanting to savor him as much as you could. He let out a soft moan on your lips, so discreet you wouldn’t be able to hear it if you two weren’t all the way upstairs in his room.

Things were getting hot and heavy pretty quickly, but isn’t it always like that when you’re young? His hands were gently caressing your upper thighs for a minute, as if he was mentally debating a way to ask you to take off your dress, but gave up on that idea.

His slender fingers gently slid your panties to the side, only to meet your soaking wet pussy. You hissed and moaned in his mouth as he kissed you hungrily while slowly playing with your clit. His touch was so light, it made you ache for more; but at the same time, it was perfect. He continued for a couple minutes, your moans in his ear increasing. That had to be Trevor’s new favorite sound.

- Trev - you called, your voice faint and breathy. He looked into your eyes. His gaze was dark and full of lust. His swollen red lips were slightly parted, ugh, he was so beautiful… - If you keep going, I-I…

But you couldn’t finish that sentence. Your back arched and your mouth cracked open, your body completely taken by that orgasm. Your eyes were closed for most of the time, squeezed in pleasure, but when you peeked through them to look at Trevor’s face, he was grinning like the devil. He got you good and he knew he did.

- You’re so pretty - he said, mesmerized, his fingers still touching your pussy until you closed your legs and he realized you had ridden out of your orgasm. - and you look even prettier when you cum.

You sat there in his lap for a moment, head on his shoulder, resting a little from such an intense sensation. Trevor had quite a cocky smile plastered on his face, seeming proud of himself for making a pretty girl cum. For getting the chance to make a pretty girl cum and succeeding.

- Alright, so not only you’re all tall and handsome and stuff, but you also got magic hands? - you said, your hair ruffled and your voice breathy.

- Magic hands? Really? - he laughed.

- I’m serious. - you said, laughing with him. - But now I feel the need to… reciprocate, you know?

Trevor’s breathing quickened. You sat on his lap properly now, one leg to each side of his waist, straddling him while cupping his face for another round of passionate kissing.

His kisses found their way down to your neck, gently nipping on your skin, making you shiver and squirm. His fingers started toying with your dress’ straps until he felt confident enough to pull them down slowly.

The black lacy bra you were wearing underneath was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but the sight of your breasts is what made his mouth water. With your dress already down to your waist, he put his arms around you to try and unhook your bra. As boys normally do, it took him a few tries, but he finally got it off of your body, his hands quickly covering your breasts again, fondling them.

Your skin was so soft and smelled so good, his kisses returned to your neck and continued their way down to your chest. Your nipples were so hard already, he simply had to take them in his mouth. One at a time, he licked and sucked gently, earning some pretty urgent moans. You knew you had to keep the volume down so your mothers wouldn’t hear you two, but that couldn’t stop you from moaning softly, just enough for him to hear. Your body was a feast and he had never been this hungry in his whole life.

- I-I thought it was my turn, Trevor - you said, softly, his lips still kissing the skin around your nipples and his hands groping your waist firmly. Damn, this boy was definitely going to drive you crazy.

Kissing his lips once again, you reached for the hem of his T-shirt and slowly pulled it upwards. He helped you take his shirt off, and his bare chest was surely a sight to be seen. Back to the kissing, your hands now wandered from his cheek, to his neck, to his chest, to his belly and…

- A-are you sure? - he asked, as you were about to touch his belt to unbuckle it. He didn’t want to pressure you into anything.

- I am pretty sure - you said with a smile, playfully kissing his nose. - Can I?

He nodded eagerly, so you unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants and pulled them down. Trevor just sat still and watched as your beautifully manicured nails were touching his belt, then his pants, then his underwear.

You knelt down in front of him, using a pillow under your knees for comfort, and pulled his body closer to the edge of the armchair. You kissed his lips one last time, then his neck, scratching his chest lightly with your long nails, causing him to moan and bite his lips to avoid making too much noise.

You kissed down his chest, your nails now scratching his waist, and finally got to his underwear.

- Can I pull these down too? - you said, your big eyes pleading.

- Yeah - he said, barely breathing. - Please.

You gave him a naughty smile and pulled down his boxers. It was impossible not to lick your lips at the sight of that cock. The perfect length, the perfect girth, and that perfect pinky tip begging to be sucked. So you did it.

You took Trevor into your mouth hungrily, as your mouth was already watering just by taking his underwear off. Your head was bobbing up and down his thick shaft, as he tried his best to hold back any louder moans.

Suddenly, he grabbed some of your hair in his right hand and pulled your mouth off of his dick gently.

- Did I hurt you? - you said, looking worried.

- No, no, princess - he answered, scared that he might’ve offended you. - It’s just… you’re so so good… and so pretty… I’m afraid I won’t last, you know?

- It’s ok babe - you reassured him, caressing his bare knee. - You pleasured me selflessly, and I’m doing the same. If you want to cum now, then do it. I’d love to get a taste…

Your mouth went right back to sucking on his dick, your both hands now also added into the mixture. After a minute or two, it was too much for him to take.

- Y/n - he called, softly. You looked him in the eyes, mouth still around his shaft. You knew what was going to happen next. - I just… Please, can I cum in your mouth?

- Mhm - you agreed, not slowing down or stopping anything you were doing.

Trevor let out a muffled groan as he came in your mouth. You swallowed his warm seed at once, gently licking his tip clean afterwards.

- Fuck, you’re a goddess - he said, his voice faint, his eyes rolling.

You laughed a little and wiped the corners of your mouth.

- And you’re a darling. I’m glad you could trust me.

- Y/n - your mom called out from downstairs. - Is the movie over already? I think we should get going…

- In a minute, mom - you yelled in response.

You turned back to Trevor as he handed you your bra and put his own shirt back on.

- I had a great time with you today, Trev. Hope we can hang out sometime.

- Of course, I’ll text you - he started - there are already so many places I thought we could go together… You might just be the best company for basically everything. Specially late night talking.

You grabbed his phone off his desk, typed in your number and handed him the phone. Realizing what you just did, he smiled and held out his hand so you would give him your phone and let him do the same.

After the exchange of phone numbers and a quick good night kiss, you two got downstairs and pretended nothing had happened.

- There you are - Callie said as she saw both of you. - What did you guys watch?

- Friday the 13th - Trevor lied for both of you. - It was her favorite horror movie, and one of my favorites too.

- Aw, how cute. I’m glad you guys are friends now - your mom said, grabbing her purse. - But those old slashers have some awkward sex scenes, don’t they? We heard their moaning from down here.

- Glad they make movies more gory and less sexually charged nowadays, right? - Callie agreed.

Your moms were drunk and probably wouldn’t remember much about tonight. Thankfully, ‘cause your face and Trevor’s got just as flushed as if you had spent the entire night sipping wine.

#finn wolfhard smut #finn wolfhard x reader #mike wheeler x reader #imagine #mike wheeler #miles fairchild #smut #trevor spengler

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legend-the-dumb-jock · 2 months

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Weight Gaining Surgery

Thomas looked over the sunset beach. He loved the feeling of sand between his meaty toes. He has to get back to the gym though. It was time for workout #3. Everyday he went to the gym 3 times in order to maintain his fit and athletic physique. As we walking back to the gym he passed an alley where he heard some shuffling and then without warning. Everything went dark.

Thomas could hear beeping and what sounded like a drip. His head was killing him. Opening his eyes he was blinded by the fluorescent lighting above. He squinted and brought his hands to his eyes and rubbed them. But when he done so he felt something heavy. Something wasn’t supposed to be there. He popped his eyes over and under the hospital blanket there was large protrusion that was rested on stomach. When he tried to move it. He began to panic. It was fleshy and had hairy on it. Ripping back his blanket he was in horror as a gut was sitting out from his body!

He heard some people talking and he looked at the hospital curtain. And without warning it was quickly yanked back. “Ok residents. This is our subject who just went through the weight gaining surgery. You’ll notice the distended abdomen of the subject. This patient has been given injection that alter how the body gain weight. Our subject here will only gain visceral fat now. And because of the nature of this surgery, we have also irradiated the thyroid so it will not work in the highest capacity that it had previously. And you’ll see the progress this subject has already made ..”. One of the residents piped in “holy moly this guy will be huge !” Thomas was so shocked. What was going on!? Weight gaining surgery!! Irradiation!! He never signed up for any of this !!

“What the hell is going on here !! I never signed up for any of this !!” Everyone turned to look at him. “Ahh. It seems our patient is awake. Don’t worry everyone this is a common occurrence. When waking out of the medically induced coma.” The dr turned and began to talk to his residents again. “ and remember students. With a weight gaining surgery the patient has to be at the new healthy weight for their body before discharge can occur.” Thomas began to shout “I’m fucking huge ! What have you done to me !” He attempted to get up from the bed but found his arms and legs restrained. Thomas began to sob. What was happening. What is going on!?

The dr led his team to the door and dismissed them. He could hear the same resident in the hallways still saying “damn that guy is going to be huge!”

The doctor turned back to Thomas. “Well Ali, it’s time to get you out of bed so you can walk! We can have you just sitting around around all day.” Thomas was shocked. “Who is Ali?! My name is Thomas!!” The dr chuckled at him. “ it’s ok Ali. You’ll start feeling better one week get you up and start moving around.” The doctor I strapped his ankles and his wrists. Thomas looked at his right arm and seen a medical band around his wrist said “Ali Manoli”. Thomas scream “this isn’t me!” The doctor just looked at him and said “well the wrist says your are. Now come on get up!” He grabbed Thomas by his wrists and pulled him out of bed. Thomas moaned and grown feeling how much weight was hanging off his body. He was breathing heavy and when he looked down his stomach bulged out big.

The doctor made Thomas was round the room. The whole time the large stomach leading the way. When he was done he flopped down on the bed. The doctor brought him two bottles. “Ok Ali. Part of your treatment for the weight gaining surgery is you have to drink these.” Thomas shoved them away. “I’m not drinking that! I told you! I’m Thomas!” The doctor got a stern look on his face. “Listen I know you think you’re someone else. But you’re not. And you can either drink this willingly. Or I can put a feeding tube in you and have you restrained.” Thomas had tears coming his pumper cheeks. He picked up the bottle and began to drink the thick fluid. It was sweet. When he was done with one he was handed the other by the doctor and he drank it all. When the bottle began to make an empty sound Thomas dropped the bottle and belched loudly. “Good man. You see it wasn’t so bad.” Thomas felt so full. He let out another belch. “W…what…” he was breathing have. Trying to catch his breathe. “What was that!” The doctor was throwing the bottles in the trash can. He picked up the paper work on the board and without looking at Thomas said “they were mass gaining shakes. 2500 calories a peice.” Thomas’ mouth fell open “WHAT!” He screamed. The doctor just giggled under his breathe. “Ali. You got the weight gaining surgery. And because of the surgery we have to make sure your body is at the new healthy weight that your body will need to be at because of this surgery.” Thomas became belligerent. “You mean you’re trying to make me fatter !!? What are you thinking! I told you I never signed up for this!” The doctor just held his hand up. “And once you have gained the required weight for discharge. The required weight you need to be at to be healthy again. You will be discharged.” Thomas was shaking with rage. “Oh yeah? And how much exactly is that !?” The doctor looked back down at the clip board. “Hmmm looks like you’re around 245 right now. So another 55 pounds.” Hearing this Thomas blacked out. 300!!

The next few days weren’t easy for Thomas. He refused to drink anymore of the shakes. It ended up with him being restrained. A feeding tube put in place. When he woke up after he blacked out there was a full meal tray waiting and he refused to eat it. They were expecting him to eat a ridiculous amount of food ! But this baby of defiance ended with being forced to have 3 of the gained shakes a day. Thomas was always full and moaning from the weight of stomach.

The doctor had started injections as well. Thomas asked what they were for when he seen the doctor approaching him. Work several syringes. One injection placed in each foot the doctor explained was to encourage sweat and hair growth. Another injection in the pubic area. To increase sweating and an injection in both pits. All designed to make him sweat like crazy. “These are long lasting extended release injections. 1 injection guarantees results for 10 years. 3 more rounds and you’ll be finished!” Thomas sobbed the entire time this happened. And one final injection shot into his hip 4 times a day that he didn’t know the reason for.

After 4 more weeks the came into the room and beemed with delight. Thomas was waking up from sleep and noticed his restraints were gone. And his feeding tube had been removed. He struggled to sit up. Immediately moaning from how full he was.

“It looks like you’re finally healthy enough to go home Ali. It looks like you actually went a little over the mark and hit 307!! I’m so proud of you!” Thomas couldn’t beleive what he was just told. He had been restrained and force fed for the last month. This was the first time he was able to see his feet when he kicked them out. Standing up and laying down he would never see them from the size of the tank he now has. And he was shocked to see how hairy they had become. And over the couch of the month. The injections had even darkened his skin and make him extremely hairy everywhere else.

Thomas moaning as he stood feeling the full 307lbs on his body. His back even popped. The doctor came at him with another syringe. Breathing heady he managed to ask what the shot was. “Oh just the thing standing between you and your release.” The doctor injected him and felt a sense of euphoria momentary. His body tingled. “There. You see that wasn’t so bad. This final injection was as designed to keep you healthy. With your weight gaining surgery completed we have to make sure your body stays at this new healthy weight. This shot just made it so that your permanent minimum weight is now 307 lbs no matter what you do. But with that thyroid obliterated. You’ll be gaining even when you don’t want to.” Thomas was resigned. He couldn’t fight anything that had been done to him. When he was taken to the check out desk the receptionist asked what his name was and he responded “Tho…A..Ali Manoli”. He was resigned to his fate and discharged under a new name. A new race. And much heavier different life.

———————————————

This story was inspired by an amazing story written by @fatisthenewshape

#surgery

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muwapsturniolo · 2 months

Text

✯Bestfriend's Brother✯

Summary: Nick has a crush on his best friend's brother and doesn’t know how to tell her.

warning: nothing really lmao

MWW1 MWW2

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Nick was down bad.

He was currently stalking a certain boy on Instagram. Who was the boy? His best friend's older brother Florence. Florence was very attractive to Nick. He was 6'3, had nice brown skin, locs, and was a drummer.

To say Nick foamed at the mouth was an understatement.

He clicks on Florence's story and sees a video of Florence sitting on the ground as Y/n retwists his locs. without thinking twice, he calls Y/n's phone.

"Hello?" Florence's deep voice rings out. Nick basically jumps out of his skin, goosebumps rising on the back of his neck. "Hey Florence is Y/n busy?" Nick manages to get out.

"Yeah she's rig- Ow! Stop yanking so hard!"

"Stop fucking moving then!" Y/n's voice is heard in the background faintly. "Yeah, her heavy-handed ass is here. She's retwisting my hair so she couldn't answer the phone. Could I take a message?"

"Just wanted to know if she could hang out is all." Mumbling is heard before Florence responds. "She said come over. She's almost done ripping out my- Y/n imma fuck you up!" Nick giggles hearing the siblings fighting. He hangs up the phone, quickly changing and catching an Uber to the house.

He arrives quickly, the home of the siblings not being too far from his own. He walks inside and follows the sound of arguing. "You're yanking on purpose!"

"No, you're just tender-headed and don't know how to sit fucking still!"

Nick opens the room door and the siblings look at him in surprise. it's almost uncanny how much the two look alike, but It makes sense with the two being twins. That's mainly how Nick and Y/n became so close, both of them relating to being a twin.

"Nick! " She shouts excitedly. She stands up, giving him a side hug before going back to doing Florence's hair. "I should finish up soon! Then we could go out or something." Nick nods and settles down on the beanbag in the corner.

The two fall into a conversation, the subjects changing quickly. as they talk, Nick can't help but to keep eyeing Florence, watching as his jaw clenches when Y/n separates the hair, or how his arms flex in his muscle tee when he hands Y/n a hair clip. The two males suddenly make eye contact and Nick freezes, does he give him a smile? Should he play it off like he was looking at something else?

Florence grunts and rolls his eyes making Nick want to curl up into a ball. Did he just make himself seem weird? Is Florence annoyed with him? Maybe he should leave and blame it on not feeling well.

"Ok!" Nick jumps and looks at Y/n who pushes Florence away from her. " You're done, now pay up!" She holds her hand out. The boy rolls his eyes, "go to my room and grab my wallet."

Y/n skips out of the room, leaving the boys alone.

"You like parties?" Florence randomly asks. Nick points to himself, "Me?" he questions. Florence chuckles and stands up, stretching his body out. Nick watches as his shirt rides up, the happy trail coming into view.

"Yes, you Nick. I wanted to know if you were up for a party this weekend."

His mouth runs dry at the question. He hates parties, but if Florence is inviting him, maybe he could go?

"I'll go... Is Y/n going?" Florence nods, taking his phone out. “Yeah,”

Nick swears he hears Florence mutter “unfortunately” but he has to be wrong. It has to be his disappointment that his best friend is tagging along that's making him hear things.

He begins to feel bad.

What’s wrong with him? Why does he want to be alone with Florence so badly?

He shakes his head, ridding those thoughts and smiles at Florence.

So here they are, at the party. Nick had lost track of Y/n a long time ago, so he stayed in the corner nursing a drink and scrolling through his phone.

"I invited you to this party to socialize Nicholas." He looks up and sees a half-lidded Florence. It's clear as day he was smoking, the weed making his eyes red. "Y/n was swapped away by a group of girls so I just stayed here." The taller of the two hums before taking Nick's hand.

"Dance with me then." Nick quickly shakes his head, going on a spiel on how he doesn't dance. "come on, you're not Corbin blue, dance with me!" He begins to drag Nick where everyone is. Florence starts moving his body to the beat of the song, trying to get Nick to do the same. Nick slowly begins to do so, his actions still shy.

The song changes to Intimidated by Kaytranada and H.E.R, and the two of them begin to get closer, Florence's hands grabbing his waist. Nick's heart begins to race and he goes to pull away, but Florence pulls him closer, "Relax, just dance with me." He whispers in Nick's ear.

Nick sucks in a breath and does as told. Their bodies move together, swaying with the beat.

Don't wanna waste the feel (feel) Like we could make it real

Nick can't tell if he's hallucinating or not, it looks like Florence is getting closer to him.

Don't run away when you could be lovin' me

He's not hallucinating, Florence is in fact getting closer to him. He can feel his breath fanning over his face, mainly on his lips. Nick's mind begins to run a mile a minute, is Florence going to make a move on him? Is he even Florences type? Nick is so in his head, he doesn't notice Florence smiling at him.

Don't overthink when you could be lovin' me

"Nick"

He snaps out of it and looks at the taller boy, only to be pulled into a kiss. It shocks him at first, but he feels his whole world blossoming into color. The music and chatter around them now sounding muffled.

The kiss lasts for a few seconds before they pull away from each other, breathing softly.

"Y/n can't know."

That was around a month ago.

Within that month, the two males spent time fooling around behind Y/n's back. Always giving lingering looks, small touches of affection, and even makeout sessions when Y/n is sleeping.

Nick knew it was wrong to be going behind Y/n's back like this, especially because they made a deal with each other.

"No dating each other's family members."

But, he couldn't help it. He could never get Florence out of his head. He always found him attractive, from the first day he met him. He knew he had a crush on the boy, but he never wanted to break the pact he made. Unfortunately, his best friend's brother was the one for him.

Here they are today, currently making out in Florence's room. Y/n had to go get groceries, so she told Nick to just wait for her to come back. The two took the chance, both knowing how long the girl could take in getting groceries.

Little did they know, the store had nothing the girl needed.

"Hey Flo have you seen-" the two jump apart hearing the girl's voice in the room. They look to the door and see her staring with wide eyes.

"Y/n..."

She quickly walks away, Nick jumping up and following her. "Y/n wait! Let me explain!"

"How long Nick?" She turns abruptly and crosses her arms. Nick hates being on the receiving end of the dirty look she's giving. he's so used to giving the look with her to other people.

"A month..." he confesses softly.

"A MON-" she stops herself from yelling and takes a deep breath. "You have been going behind my back, making out with my brother for a month straight? Nick we made a pact!"

"I know! I know, but Y/n just hear me out!"

She shakes her head, being stubborn about the situation. "No! I don't want to hear anything! You broke a promise! How would you feel if I slept with Matt or Chris?!"

" Ok well Florence and I have never slept with eachother-GOOD-" Nick gives her a look. " -But honestly, I might be grossed out at the thought but I wouldn't be mad about it...especially if you were happy," he answers honestly. He didn't want Y/n to be mad at him, he would honestly cry if the girl suddenly decided to stop being his best friend.

She stares at Nick, still pissed off but she doesn't have her defensive stance anymore. "Why my brother? My twin!"

"I developed a small crush on him when we first met... I know you don't get it Y/n but you would know what I mean if you weren't related."

Y/n scrunches her face up at the thought, "ew no! Nick shut up that's my brother! He's not even cute! He's ugly."

Florence rounds the corner, his shirt now on much to Nick's dismay. "We are literally twins Y/n. If I'm ugly that means you're ugly."

"No you're ugly, I'm cute as fuck... And shut your mouth! At the moment I don't like you!" Florence rolls his eyes and walks over to Y/n, pulling her into a hug, "Awww come on. You can't be mad at me. I'm your favorite brother! And I really do like Nick."

"You're my only brother dumb ass-" she hugs him back, relaxing in his hold. "- And I guess this is ok... I just don't like the fact you guys hid this from me."

Nick frowns at her words, " I know and I'm sorry... I love you." She smiles at Nick and pulls him into the hug. The three stand there, embracing each other with smiles on their faces.

"Alright let's lay down rules! No kissing in front of me, I might die, and no hogging Nick! He was my friend first, so you only get him on weekends and maybe when I'm sleeping!" Florence chuckles and kisses Nick's cheek.

Y/n punches Florence's arm making him wince, "What did I just say?!" She rolls her eyes and turns to Nick with a smirk on her face.

"And since you're dating my brother, that means I can stop turning Matt down!" Nick gives her a look but agrees anyway. "fine, that's only fair but the same rules apply!" He turns to Florence only to whip back to Y/n, "Wait! Matt has been flirting with you and asking you out?!"

She giggles and skips away to her room, "You two go back to making out, I'm going to text Matt and plan a date." With that her door closes and the two boys are left together.

" Want to go back to my room or should we piss her off and make out on the couch?" Nick laughs and pulls Florence towards the couch.

"This is payback for her not telling me about Matt."

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3RD FIC FOR MUWAP WEEK. i love this sm yall dont get it!!! I hope y'all don't mind that I made y'all nick's best friend and gave the love interest a name, I just really wanted to use the name! Also, I lowkey see Florence to be lukka sabbat but that's just me, imagine florence however yall want!!!

TMRWS FIC....

✯Malevolent✯

TAGLIST🍑

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@st7rnioioss @carolinalikesthings @mattslolita @suyqa @xxloveralways14 @pepsiimaxx @judespoision

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avoxrising · 5 months

Text

The Feral One • Ch 27

Finnick x Y/N

Series Masterlist Link

Will you die? Will you live? Find out in this chapter lol

Content Warnings - mentions of drug addiction, surgery/injury

Johanna was hospitalized the day of your surgery after a nurse caught her stealing morphling from a supply station. Finnick was so worried about you that he didn’t notice how high she was the whole time she was with him. All he could focus on was you.

The brain surgery lasted six hours. Finnick silently cried outside your room the whole time, wishing he could be by your side during it. Mags and Annie found him distraught in the hallway a few hours in.

“Finn,” Annie sighs, sitting down next to her mentor. “She’ll be ok. Beetee is really smart.” Mags also sits and pulls Finnick’s head onto her lap.

“They won’t even let me see her,” he explains. “She’s completely alone in there.”

“You’ll see her soon,” Annie tells him.

“What do you want to do when we all go home?” she asks, changing the subject.

“I’m moving out,” Finnick states. “I can’t stand to be in victors village anymore. I never want to see that place again.”

“Mags and I can come with!” Annie exclaims. “Where are we moving to?”

Annie successful distracts Finnick for the remainder of your surgery. He only notices how much time has passed when Beetee approaches him, still in his scrubs.

“We were successful,” he states, causing Finnick to smile for the first time in ages.

“The doctors are going to keep her sedated for another week but as long as her vitals remain stable, you should be able to see her in a few days.”

“Will she still be feral?” Annie asks. Mags swats at Annie’s arm and mumbles how we aren’t supposed to use that word.

“We don’t know,” Beetee states. “We will have to wait and see.”

Your eyes slowly open, revealing a hospital room. What happened? The last thing you remember was being in the sewers…

OMG were you dead??? You begin to panic at the thought, causing one of the machines to start beeping.

“Hey,” you hear someone say but you can’t turn your head to look at them. Your body feels too heavy.

You attempt to respond but the only noise that comes out is a weak moan.

“You’re ok,” the voice says. “You’re in the hospital. You were injured in the sewers and had to have surgery.”

“Finn?” you groan, recognizing the voice.

“Yes love,” he responds. “I’m right here.”

A doctor enters the room and begins to unhook you from some of the machines.

“Welcome back Miss Y/L/N,” they state. “You’ve been out for three weeks. We can go over what happened with you later but for now you need to take it easy.”

The doctor takes some notes before leaving the room, stating that your vitals were good and you were healing perfectly.

“Finn,” you wheeze.

“Yes love?,” he worriedly asks. “Do you need anything?”

“It hurts,” you reply, still unable to move.

“You had two surgeries,” he explains. “You lost too much blood in the sewers and they had to perform surgery to heal your wounds. A week later they removed a mass they found in your brain. That was the timer Peeta talked about. They can’t give you any more morphling unfortunately.”

“Did we win?” you ask.

“Yes,” Finnick responds. “We’re free.”

Taglist:

@randomgurl2326 @mystargirl-interlude @uther-pendragon-is-an-ass @yourdailymemedelivery @americanprometheuss @l3xi3luv @noisyalmonddreamer @nordicvxid @teaganthemorningstar @samatokisunfinishedcigarette @justtrying2getby @lvsticm @notplutos @innercreationflower @nexxus13 @kachelleee @helluvafire @haymitchabernathyslover @memeorydotcom @frostsword @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @giverosespls @honethatty12 @just-levyy @dd122004dd @nekee-lilac02 @impeterporker @nox-the-gay-nerd @redsakura101 @hopefulatrocity @eddiemunson4ever @fangirlvibez @kittimbo @zucchinimalfoy @sleepy-roman @secretsicanthideanymore @writerofadream @finnysmusic @mayonesavegana @lilifl0wer @finnickodaddy @abbersreads @fox-bee926 @ginger-swag-rapunzel @isasalom @yizhoutv @livingdead-reilly @imaegonstargaryenswife0 @faephoria @omwtkydttfym @iris1587 @sarcasm-and-stiles @10ava01 @impossessedbyjeongyeon @littleanubis21

*if the tag didn’t work please check your settings to make sure other blogs can tag you

#hunger games #finnick odair #hunger games fic #the hunger games #finnick odair x reader #finnick x reader #finnick imagine #finnick #thg finnick #finnick fluff #finnick odair fluff #mockingjay part 2 #the feral one

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thegoblinboy · 11 months

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Never Say Die [3]

Part one | part two | you are here | part four

Steve wobbles into the room, as expected its just as bare as the rest of the house. There weren’t even curtains on the window yet. The bed was barely put together, Steve’s guess was Hopper quickly put the bed frame together the night before just so him and Joyce could sleep on a proper bed. He wobbles next to the adult a bit as he faintly hears everyone’s voices from the living room. Not a shocker there. They were all bound to start talking about how or where he came from sooner or later. His hair is deflated, he catches a glimpse of his reflection from a fully body mirror that was only propped up against the corner. Not properly nailed into the wall. He can’t help but imagine Joyce using it to get ready for dinner dates.

Hopper pretty much carry’s him the rest of the way. Squatting down a bit to help him lay down. “You good kid?” He asks. His voice is gruff, and Steve could tell that within the six months he’s been gone Jim Hopper was one of the numerous things that changed. He seemed light, like he wasn’t carrying the world as heavily as he used to on his shoulders. There were worry marks permanently etched into his forehead, but that was like a birth mark for the man. The guy was a worrier. And he had every right to be.

Steve nods his head with a pained grunt. Flopping himself back carefully into the pillows that were placed purposely on the bed. He huffs a bit more as he gets his body situated. Barely able to keep his eyes open all of a sudden. “Yeah- sorry I think the jet lag is hitting. I haven’t slept longer then two hours since-“ he pauses. Not finishing his sentence. Hesitating in a sense. He frowns, changing the subject with ease. “Are you sure you’re okay with me sleeping in your guys bed?” He didn’t want to be a bother.

Before Hopper can answer Joyce is walking in with fresh clothes. The ones Steve were wearing have been on his back for a few days now. To concerned to get back home to go clothes shopping. “Robins going to go and get you some fresh clothes. Figured she could bring them over tomorrow after she heads home for the night.” Joyce rambles a bit. “Though you’re fine. You just came back from a war that none of us even knew existed. You deserve rest.” She smiles sweetly.

Steve still feels guilty but nods anyway. Putting on his best smile as he runs a hand through his hair. Feeling disgusting, he was definitely going to beg them to allow him to take a shower later. “Ok- but where will you guys sleep?” He asks defeated.

“Out in the living room, not like we haven’t slept on a floor before.” Joyce laughs gently. “Or Hopper will get the recliner in and he can sleep there while I sleep on the couch.” She hums gently.

“Absolutely not, we have a blow up mattress. I’ll get it situated once the kids are gone.” Hopper grumbles, Joyce looks smug as if she knew that already. As if she was messing with the other man. Steve laughs softly, unable to help himself. Moving and curling up ready to pass out. Dozing off within seconds, the slight migraine he had earlier kicked his ass.

When he wakes up, he doesn’t even realize he fell asleep. Quickly sitting up in the bed with heavy breathes. Unsure where he was. Pulling his shirt off from his sweaty body was the first sign of business. He felt like if he left it on any longer he was going to die from heatstroke. Turning his head, he glances out the window. Panic dissolving as he remembers where he was. He was at Joyce’s place, with not one single Russian in sight. He was safe. He moves rolling out of the bed. Rubbing his face as he glances to the side seeing that it was nearly three in the afternoon. If there was a word for over over sleeping that would be exactly what he just did. Groaning he turns around rubbing his face, leaving his back to the door for a second.

He hears the door creak open and he’s stiffening up as he quickly turns on his heels. But apparently not fast enough, as Robin stands in the door way holding a pile of clothes. Mouth wide open. He quickly moves tossing a shirt back over his body. Hiding the numerous scars, bruises, and the one tattoo that he got tied down to receive. His heart races as he awkwardly folds his arms around his chest. Unable to look at the other, not wanting to see the glossy look in her eyes. “What did they do to you?” Her voice is shaky. She’s frozen in her spot.

Steve takes a deep breathe as he walks forward. Moving his hands out to hold hers, that we’re currently holding a old pair of clothes. He meets her eye, “Robin - you don’t want to know.” He says. Seconds after he says the last word, she’s hugging him tightly. Crying all over again.

“I’m so sorry Steve. I should have been more help,” she’s fully sobbing again. Steve winces a bit taking a mental note to never get shirtless in front of the group ever again. He moves a hand gently to rub her back. Kissing her head.

“No- Robbie. You did everything you could’ve. You’re fine. Nothing you could have done could’ve prevented this from happening.” He says softly. Carefully rocking her back and forth. Before he hums, “now. I know you want to hug me but I’m sure that I smell like literal shit right now:” he laughs.

Robin sniffles a bit more, “you kind of do. But you now also have snot all over your shirt it that makes you feel any better:” her laughs are a bit muffled and god did Steve miss this. He hums gently as he plays with her hair a bit.

“Ewww.” Steve pretend to gag before he smiles softly down at her when she pulls back to look up at him. “You’re fine. Now I’m going to go shower, and when I come out I expect you to catch me up on everything.” He grins as he takes the clothes from her hands. Moving to go shower. Grabbing soap from Joyce before hand.

******

Steve expected for everyone to get over the shock value of him being back a lot sooner. It had been agreed upon that he would be hiding out in Joyces and Hoppers home until they figured out what the cover story was for Steve being alive. After all the entire town believed he had died in the star court mall fire. Though, every time someone came over it was like more tears were greeting him then words. Especially from Robin who has definitely been the more emotional one. Clinging to him for dear life.

Dustin on the other hand, seemed a bit more skeptical. Before he was moving and gripping onto Steve for dear life. Right before trading him a new pile of comics. All of the new releases that he had missed since he had been gone. Steve had moved from Joyce and Hoppers room. Refusing to stay in there any longer, and found himself sleeping in a guest room. What was awkward, was living under the same roof with your ex girlfriends boyfriend. Sure. Steve had quickly come to terms with what happened at the prison. But it still stung a bit.

He didn’t have feelings for Nancy any more. Quickly recognized and came to terms with that when he realized that it was Robin’s and Dustin’s faces that pulled him through the every torturous day at the prison. What had once been Nancy’s face pulling him through traumatizing times was now replaced with those who he’s loved way more then he has ever loved Nancy. It was a platonic love, one that he recognized that he was willing to die for if it meant keeping Dustin and Robin safe. Which he literally did.

Near death experiences and a lot of time alone in a cell, Steve learned that there was a lot more important things then a high-school sweetheart who probably never loved him back. He wasn’t sure. What he did know was that Robin Buckley and Dustin Henderson were the two keys to his heart. And both equally the most hugest dumbasses he’s ever met.

“Wait? You’re telling me you went on top of a fucking trailer and had a whole concert to distract the bats? And you- you went into the loony bin with a psychotic murderer to do a interview?” Steve asks. Trying to wrap his brain around the story Dustin and Robin were telling him. Next to Dustin was Eddie. Who had driven him here, and Steve wasn’t the jealous type but it seemed like the guy kind of took his place when he was gone. Though rationally, he knew he was being dramatic. He definitely owed the guy a thank you for saving the little shits life.

Eddies clapping his hands, a wide grin on his face. “You’ve finally got caught up. After that Vecna was killed and well- this little shit broke his ankle in the process of saving my ass.” He laughs. Moving and looking down at Dustin with a tight smile. A pained one. One that Steve recognized all to well.

“Well-” Steve says with a chuckle. Shaking his head. “I definitely need a drink after that.” He jokes. Moving to stand up and head to the kitchen. Relieved when Dustin and Robin don’t automatically hop up to chase his heels. He’s sure if they kept at it he was going to have to surgically remove them both from his ass.

He moves to the fridge. Pouring himself a cup of lemonade. Carefully sipping on it. No alcohol was in the house, or else he might have done a shot to recover from what ever the fuck he just heard. He leans on the counter, looking down. He really should have been here. His brain is going a mile per minute, and he’s overwhelmed again. Moving to his ear he shuts the aid off, needing a moment to not listen. Focused on his breathing. It was growing more difficult for him to talk about the upside down with them and hold his secrets about what had happened to him.

But it was better none of them knew. That’s what he was convinced of. If he couldn’t protect them from the horrors they had faced here, he would protect them from the horrors that surrounded him.

One tap on his shoulder and his body is moving faster then his brain can think. Body slamming whoever touched him against the counter. His eyes grow wide when he realizes what he had just done. Seeing Eddie wincing, hand moving to hold the back of his head from where it caught on one of the shelves. Steve steps back, quickly turning his ear back on.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. It’s just- I’m just- fuck. I had my hearing aid off and I kind of freaked.” He rambles apologies out. Hands shaking as Eddie watches him carefully.

“You know, that’s exactly how I had been when I was on the run. Always jumpy, scared, ready to to do anything to survive.” Eddie says gently.

Steve looks confused, trying to see what the other was getting out. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re brain is still on survival mode. It’s okay. I understand.” Eddie laughs. Hesitantly patting the others shoulder. “If you met me when I was on the run, I’m sure I would have body slammed you at least once as well.” Eddie admits before he smiles reassuringly. Seemingly a little awkward as well.

“Um- I’m going to just.” He says awkwardly. Moving and leaving Steve alone in the kitchen once more.

And shit. Steve really feels like a whole new level of fucked up compared to what were also very messed up kids.

Ngl I just came up with a idea for the next part 😭 I’m really enjoying writing these, and having them a bit smaller then what I normally write. (Which I hope you guys don’t mind. Normally I write longer parts but with my week being stressful lmao but if you guys do mind I can make a attempt at making them longer) that and I have a busy day tomorrow I figured why not post this a bit early. I’ll try getting the next part up tomorrow but I’m unsure.

Tag list; (let me know if you want to be added, I added everyone who wanted to be tagged :) if you don’t want to be on the list let me know I’m knew to making them)

@totallynotagoraphobic @flustratedcas @shunna @spookednsaucy @steddie-as-they-go @estrellami-1 @xxbottlecapx @gregre369 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thing-a-ling @radioactiveartz @bestwifehaver @idkwwhatimmdoiing @goodolefashionedloverboi @bringmethelow @thescribblerdragon @starman-jpg @lilaclilyroses @resident-gay-bitch @wolfscreations @adhdsummer @victor-thee-corvid @happymediummm @decadentworld @sidebarre @foundintheshallows @jamieweasley13 @yellowdevilkitten @catlovesfandoms @gryffindorsareidiots @thephantomhood @vampireinthesun @awkwardgravity1 @itsall-taken @gezell-igg @chaoskiro @daeb820 @liketheocean @croatoan-like-its-hot @malicia62 @thebrazilianatheist @anaibis @evix-syne666 @an-deeznutz @yikes-a-bee @0o-queendean-o0 @alyelf @starlight-archer @weirdandabsurd42 @zerokrox-blog @lolawonsstuff @mightbeasleep @michael-the-angelo

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steve harrington #bxb #steveharrington #steveddie #eddie stranger things #steve and eddie #hoh steve harrington #Steve harrington body slams eddie a bit #reverse roles #I love it #I’m having a lot of fun writing this

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nataliasquote · 3 months

Text

Ghost Of You | n romanoff

Summary: learning to move on after Natasha’s sacrifice is the hardest thing in the world

Warnings: mentions of grief, loss, Natasha’s death

wc: 3.2k

note: this is an old fic I wrote ages ago, but I used to love it. I’ve given you enough fluff now anyway… also inspired by the song ‘Ghost of You’ by 5SOS.

- ⧗ -

Four months.

It'd been four months since she died.

Four months without Natasha.

And Y/n keep telling everyone she was fine, but there was a part of her that kept saying that her Natasha wasn’t really gone.

And it's the irrational part of her brain.

But she missed that redhead more than anyone knew.

Words couldn’t begin explain how much she missed her.

It was painful. It felt as though the world had come crashing down, plunging everything into total darkness. And when there was light, colour ceased to exist. Because what was a life without a purpose or reason to live?

Her sun. Gone.

Her home. Gone

Nothing left except harsh reminders of what could have been. There was no future anymore. Y/n spent her days in the past, tangled in memories that were wearing with age. A distorted version of her reality that became harder to grasp with every day that slipped by. The memories were slipping through her fingers, no matter how hard she tried.

Yelena was left to pick up the pieces her sister had left behind. A crumbled widow, her whole life a subject of loss, yet somehow she remained an iron fortress throughout it all. Y/n was family, something Yelena didn’t have much of, or knew much about, but she would be damned if anything happened to her now. She wasn’t sure she could handle another loss.

Y/n had taken residence in her spare room, the barren walls now burdened with grief. It settled across the floor like an unsettling blanket, smothering all who dared to step foot over the threshold.

But Yelena soldiered on. It was down to her to pull Y/n out of the pits she had crawled into in her mind, and today no different. The door creaked from lack of use, the room’s darkness only broken up by the light spilling around the old curtains. A body lay curled up in bed, but the blonde knew she was not asleep.

Against her instincts, Yelena made sure her boots were loud on the exposed floorboards, alerting the jumpy woman of her presence. She crouched slowly, a hand reaching out to land on Y/n’s knee softly.

"You ok?" She asked, receiving no movement or change of expression. Y/n’s eyes were heavy, but not with lack of sleep. This tiredness extended further than that; a tiredness of life. “Y/n, it’s me.”

A mumble came as a reply, which Yelena took as a positive. Some days received absolutely no recognition, so a sound or nod was progress.

“Any idea of what you want to do today?” She probed again, moving over to the curtains to draw them back slightly. Y/n winced at the light, another good sign. The outside air was cool and a welcome refreshment as the Russian pushed the rusty window open a fraction.

“Bed and sleep,” came the reply. A possible plan, yes, but not exactly what Yelena was thinking.

“How about we go somewhere today?” Y/n didn’t look convinced. “Natasha would want you to, you know that.”

“Don’t say her name!” Y/n cried, her voice breaking from lack of use and raw emotion. She refused to mention Natasha anymore, too afraid of what was lying just below the surface if she did.

But something had switched in Yelena overnight, and she turned around quickly. “She was my sister. I have every right to say her name Y/n.” That was clearly the wrong thing to say, but what did she know? Yelena had barely been out of the Red Room for two years. Social cues weren’t a strong suit. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just know she wouldn’t want you moping around grieving her like this. She would want you to go out and live your life. See the world.”

"How can I see the world when she was my world." Y/n whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks and soaking into her pillow. "I loved her but never got to show her properly. There is so much more I could have done for her. If I'd just had more time." Yelena crouched down and helped her sit up, offering a tissue to clean herself up a bit.

"I have a suggestion for you. I was talking to Wanda yesterday and we think it might be a good idea if you go back there."

Y/n looked up at her with red and puffy eyes. “Back where?”

“Back home, Y/n. The apartment that you and Natasha shared. You’ve still got lots of your stuff there and I’m sure there’s some things of hers you want.”

Y/n had stopped listening at the word ‘home’. Home wasn’t a place, it never had been. It was a feeling. A person. Y/n would never be able to go home anymore. An empty apartment ridden with memories wasn’t somewhere she wanted to be. Not without Natasha to breathe life into those four walls. Without her it was just dark. Lifeless.

Just like how she felt right now.

Yet her response was surprising. An “ok” tumbled past her lips before she could even register what she was saying, taking both her and Yelena by surprise. She leaned against the wall and pulled her knees up to her chest, staring at a dark spot on the duvet cover.

“Ok? I’ll be there the whole time, don’t worry. How about I give you some time to get ready and I’ll meet you out by the truck?” Y/n nodded, her eyes not moving, and Yelena took that as her cue to leave.

A shower felt like too much work, so Y/n dragged her hair into a ponytail and let it hang limply, too exhausted to try and do anything with it. The yellowing light in the bathroom only emphasised her dark circles and she eyed her make up bag that sat balanced on the edge of the sink.

Concealer barely helped, as did mascara, but Y/n tried all the same, almost willing herself to look better. If Natasha saw her in this state she would have crumbled, but she wasn’t there so Y/n couldn’t find it within her to care.

Placing her mascara back in the bag, her fingertips brushed over a familiar tube. She pulled it out and stared at it carefully, the writing old and faded on the packaging. But there was no mistaking Natasha’s favourite red lipstick. She refused to use any other shade and it always looked so vibrant against her pale skin. But looking at it now, it just looked so dull.

Y/n pressed her lips to it gently and slipped it into her pocket, where it nestled alongside a folded photograph and a promise ring.

Natasha’s promise ring. The one she used to wear alongside her wedding ring. The wedding ring that matched the one currently strung around her neck, too obnoxious to stay on her finger now.

Their key to everlasting happiness.

But what good was a key on its own? Useless without its matching component, a harsh reminder of what could have been but never will be.

Yelena was sat in the back seat of the truck with Fanny, giving the Akita belly rubs which he clearly loved. She looked up at Y/n and smiled, climbing through to settle into the drivers seat. “Fanny doesn’t know the meaning of stay yet, so I’ll bring him along. But he won’t come inside.”

Y/n nodded, and placed her elbow on the window edge, her cheek falling into her palm. The gentle hum of the engine combined with the smoothness of the road pulled her back into her head, memories swirling around but never fully making themselves known. Y/n was in the muddy middle ground, somewhere between numbness and a breakdown.

After an hour the car came to a stop. She knew this parking lot. Knew which space Nat always kept her bike in. She was always so particular.

Holding the key tightly in her fist, Y/n ascended the metal stairs, ignoring the way the rough edges of the key dug into her skin and left an imprint. She knew how to wiggle it into the lock just enough to get it to turn, muscle memory taking over.

As she opened the door, the living room was dark. A light layer of dust covered all the surfaces from the lack of use, and small slits of lights peaked through the closed curtains. There were books piled on the table and a couple of old beer bottles stranded on the floor. Y/n looked around in a daze, completely absorbed by the change of atmosphere. This place used to be so full of life. But now it was dull and barren.

Her heart skipped a beat as her eyes glanced to the floor. By the door, like they'd just been taken off, was Nat's pair of old converse. They were once black, but now sported a dark grey colour, having been worn so often. She wore them everywhere when she wasn't working.

Y/n bent down and picked them up, looping the laces over her fingers so she could easily carry them with her. The kitchen door was open, so she carried on walking, almost in a trance. Yelena hadn’t entered yet, wanting to give her some privacy in her old home.

The kitchen was brighter as the blinds were open, and everything was just as they had left it. A pile of clean dishes on the rack, just waiting to be put away. Nat's collection of weird keychains that she collected from every place she visited. A pile of hair ties and bobby pins that always disappeared. But most importantly, the fridge.

It was used more like their main photo album. Photos covered the silver metal, miscellaneous magnets holding photos of the couple onto it. There was a picture of Nat kissing Y/n on the beach, the first date we ever went on as an official couple. Even in the one captured moment, you could see how tender Natasha was, cupping Y/n’a face with her rough palms like she was a priceless jewel. Looking at it, she could still feel her touch.

There were a few candid ones from their trip to Europe and even some from their wedding day. But the one in the middle made her heart ache.

Nat laying on a picnic blanket in the park, her hair pulled back in a half up messy braid. She was lying on her stomach with a book open out in front of her, legs bent up behind her with those damn converse on her feet. She had the biggest smile on her face and she was laughing into the camera. Y/n remembered that day so vividly and she started to cry. She could never feel that way again, so happy, so relaxed.

"Damn it!” She yelled, slamming her hand onto the counter and taking a shaky breath in.

"Y/N?" a voice questioned, breaking her out of her mini outburst. Y/n quickly turned around to find the source of the voice, which was coming from the door way. The shoes fell out of her hand as she layed eyes upon the woman stood in the doorway.

Red hair was the first thing Y/n noticed.

Arms wide. A big smile on her face.

Not wasting any time, she ran into her open arms and felt herself being picked up, bodies spinning around like they always used to do. Both women were both giggling and smiling at each other, tears running down their faces.

"Oh my god you're actually here! I thought you left me" Y/n cried, grabbing onto Natasha’s face and planting kisses everywhere. Her nose, cheeks, jaw, everywhere she had missed being able to feel beneath her fingertips suddenly felt so real and she could sense the weight being lifted off her chest. It just felt right.

"I would never leave you baby." Natasha said, before their lips met in a bruising kiss.

"I knew you wouldn't. I knew you'd come back for me!" Y/n couldn’t help but laugh against her lips, the worry and sadness leaving her body, making her lighter. There were truly no words to describe it, but feeling Natasha’s lips on hers and her green eyes bringing so much warmth and safety into her body, Y/n never wanted to leave again.

Music started playing softly and Nat looked at the girl in her arms. "Can I have this dance, my beautiful wife?" She wrapped her arms around Y/n’s waist, who placed hers loosely around her neck as they started to sway. She didn't know where the music was coming from, but she didn't care. All thst was in her brain was the fact that she was here with Natasha. Finally.

They danced to the music, waltzing around the kitchen, eyes fixated on each other. Y/n felt as giddy as she did when they shared their first kiss, her hands feeling the way Natasha’s hair was so soft as it brushed her fingertips. The way her hands felt on her body gave Y/n a sense of relief and she sighed, resting her head on Natasha’s shoulder. She leaned her head on top of her wife’s and wrapped her arms tighter around her waist, still swaying to the beat. They fit together so perfectly, like a key in a lock.

"I've missed this." Y/n muttered into Natasha’s neck who hummed in agreement.

"Me too" she husked. God, that voice. She’d missed that too.

As the song picked up, Nat released Y/n from her arms and spun her around, twirling her around the floor like a ballerina. The redhead scooped her up in her arms and spun around, their laughter filling the once empty room. Y/n was taller than Natasha when Nat picked her up, so she gazed down at her and grinned, the same look adorning both of their faces. Love. Admiration. Relief.

As Natasha slowly lowered Y/n to the ground, they met each other with another kiss. The song slowly faded away in the background and they gradually stopped moving, but stayed in each other's arms.

"I see you found my converse?" Natasha pointed out, and Y/n turned around to see where she was looking.

"Oh yeah. I picked them up because I didn't know you were here." She couldn’t help but blush.

Natasha bent down and picked them up, handing them back over with a soft look in her eyes. "You keep them. They look better on you anyway." She said, flashing her signature smile.

"Are you sure?" Y/n asked, her brows creasing in the middle. “These were your favourite shoes!"

"I can always get some more if I need them."

Y/n looped the laces around her fingers once more and pulled Nat into another hug, just breathing in her scent. There was no perfume to distract her, just purely Natasha. Tears started rolling down her cheeks as the familiar scent she knew and loved filled her nose. The smell of home.

They finally pulled away and Natasha took a couple of steps back, leaning on the door frame as she had done previously.

"You know I love you Y/N. I always have and I always will. Don't you ever forget that." She said, folding her arms and smiling at the woman in front of her.

"I love you too,” Y/n whispered and Natasha blew her a kiss.

"Y/n?" Another voice called from behind her. It was Yelena this time, the blonde having waited for long enough outside. She placed a hand on Y/n’s shoulder and followed her gaze to where Natasha had been stood.

"I love you" Y/n muttered again, tears streaming down her face.

"Y/n who are you talking to?" Yelena asked, worry lacing her words.

"Nat. She's right there." She said, pointing to Natasha in the doorway.

"What? Detka, Nat's not here. What are you talking about?" Yelena asked. Y/n turned around to face her and then looked back to where Natasha was standing.

Or where she was standing. Except now that spot was empty.

She wasn’t there.

"She was there! She was just there! No!" The girl was in distress, shouting and crying as she ran around, checking everywhere in the apartment.

"Y/n what's going on?" Yelena asked hesitantly, her concerned increasing by the second. What had she missed?

“She’s gone! Nat left! She left me again! No, she promised she wouldn’t leave me again.” She was a sobbing mess, collapsing to her knees in the middle of the apartment, no longer caring about the dust that thickly coated the floor. Yelena rushed to her side and knelt down, pulling her into a hug. She rocked the sobbing girl gently, tightening her grip as she felt Y/n clutch at her shirt to ground herself. She was muttering frantically, incoherent sentences flowing into each other.

"Y/n, Nat's gone. She isn't coming back." It was harsh, but Yelena had to say it. The truth stung.

"She was just here." Y/n whimpered. "We danced together. I felt her. She was real!"

"Oh Y/n. That wasn’t real."

"It was real to me!" She pressed her head back into Yelena’s shoulder and continued to cry, laboured breaths dragging themselves through her constricted lungs, clawing at her insides and almost begging to break through her chest.

And the whole time those stupid converse were in her hand.

She never let them go.

They were the last thing Y/n ever got from her.

The only thing close enough to serve as a final reminder.

Of Nat.

Her Nat.

Natasha Romanoff.

Daughter. Sister. Avenger.

Wife.

#natasha romanoff #fanfic #marvel #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #natasha x you #natasha romanoff x you #scarlett johansson x reader #scarlett johansson #yelena belova

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