#hispanic pines

[leosagi-real]

THIS WAS SO THEM

[dammjamboy]

I LOVE AU'S!!! i might have gotten a little carried away though ;;;

alt versions under the cut! including a version with the translated ciphers ^^

[aceistheplace86]

Hello :3

Could I request a mullet stanley x hispanic! Reader HCs? :D

Hi! This was fun! I hope you enjoy it! (I pulled a few things from being around my step grandma)

Mullet Stan Pines x Hispanic!Reader HCs

-let’s you wear his jacket

-loves to see you wear it

-absolutely adores your cooking

-it makes him feel like home when he’s always on the run

-teases you about his hair.

-if you like it he’ll joke about cutting it all off

-If you hate it he’ll joke about how it’ll “never go out of style”

-super protective over you even though he knows you can take care of yourself

-definitely beat the crap out of a lot of guys “in your honor”

-smells like a combination of your cooking and smoke

-thought about leaving several times because you deserve better than him

-denies that he stayed up late a few nights crying over the situation he got you in

-gets frustrated that he can’t give you a stable place to live in. Frustrated that he can’t give you a good life

-maybe his father was right

-you are his rock and his inspiration

-he knows Spanish (mainly from being in prison.) but happily learns more for you!

-loves when you take care of him when he’s sick

-when he starts up the Mystery Shack he uses some of the scary stories from your country

-you get him into telenovelas (he denies that he enjoys them)

-doesn’t know whether to feel attraction or fear when you scold him in Spanish

-you kinda force him to cook with you

-he is so confused by the cookie container with the sewing supplies. “A man should never be tricked in his own kitchen!”

-hates whole house cleaning day(s)

-absolutely obsessed with you idc

-never stops talking about you

-ever

[mallleus]

OMG i LOVE your headcanons of Stan with a Hispanic spouse and I wanned to rant a little bit since I'm from Costa Rica and wanted to share and know what you think about it, we have some desserts that I found funny for them to try out like the arroz con leche you can eat it hot or cold so it can be like el caldo de pollo but in dessert

-its okay chiquilines hay arroz con leche!

Dipper/Mable/Stan: :D

-Fresh out the olla!

Dipper/Mable/Stan: D:

There's also tamal de Maizena that looks kinda like yellow squares and it's pretty tasty, also the helado de sorbetera

Also in the parties telling Mable about the los dulces 15s and now making the dress and all for her future 15 party

Also disguising sometimes like for Halloween or to scare the Tourists in the shack dressed as la segua or el cadejos

And with the fun remedies my grandma have black tea, lime and honey to ease the throat and it does work or Do gargles with baking soda dissolved in water that works for Phlegm's

Also a specific for Stan, el cofal, it's a Muscle rubbing cream it's white and it really help for backache or Shoulder pain neck pain etc

Also thought in the "estan" to call him when the spouse it's angry, in my family it's the long full name so would be kinda like "ESTANLIIII PAAAAAAAINS"

I love this ask, send more Stan with Hispanic! Spouse reader

[zpiderwebs]

Mexican!Pines family AU has been on my mind for a few days now..

If I pick up a pencil and open my sketchbook, it's over.

I'm just imagining them..make a bill piñata and go crazy at it...

Stan calling Soos "Mijo"..

Oh man, tears in my Latina eyes🧟🧟

This makes my Mexican heart jump with joy HEHEH love making my favorite characters js like me :3

[skyj80]

what are your top characters you headcanon as Puerto Rican? also, is there any method to who gets hit with the Puerto Rican beam?

YIPPEEEE I LOVE THIS QUESTION!! 🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷

I aint gonna lie, the method is hella random and changes depending on the character so next to each character I will explain my process! A lot of it is just vibes and self projection, but some have a fr fr reasons

Casey jones - I've thought this since I first watched the 2012 version as a child! I also see the 2018 version as being part Puerto Rican. The Casey Jones vibe ™ gives the super energetic cousin at a reunion

Luz Noceda - she is canonically afro-latina which is so awesome! She is confirmed Dominican which is also so awesome! The Puerto Rican headcanon comes in because in the background of s3 ep1 there is a Puerto Rican flag in the basement! I believe her dad (Manny) may have mixed Dominican + Puerto Rican

Mabel + Dipper - They remind me of me and my brother

Greg Universe - idk but I think he has a bunch of big pun tapes

Kunikida Doppo - I want him to be

Rigby - He is afro-latino. I know it. His papi is the Puerto Rican parent

Reki Kyan - 100% projection lol he is just a puerto rican kid with a dream

Sasaki shuumei - He's got the latino charm. He def calls miyano Spanish pet names and invites miyano to family reunions (Miyano doesn't know how to handle sasaki's overbearing titi's and all their questions)

Sally Face - His mama was Puerto Rican! I also think his whole crew is hispanic (Larry - Dominican, Ash - Salvadorian, Todd - Mexican)

Javi Rivera - He is canonically hispanic but I don't think the movie is specific so I say Puerto Rican (his actor is Puerto Rican so that is cool too)

Bakugou Katsuki - His mama is latina idc what anyone says. Mitsuki (Bakugou's mom) low-key reminds me of my abuelo. (Bakugou would watch his mom and dad dance bachata in the kitchen as a kid and would fake gag) Also, look at how he cooks. C'mon.

Raine Whispers - Yo idek how to explain why they are SO Puerto Rican you just have to trust me

Tengen Uzun - I say so

Yuji Itadori - He told me

I can go in depth about specific Puerto Rican headcanons for each character cause im crazy but I'll spare y'all that. (And if u hc a character as Puerto Rican and they aren't on this list I can probs come up with Puerto Rican headcanons for them too so like if u want some headcanons send an ask pls pls pls)

[ferocioustrout]

daily romance wisdom: straight catholic girls will tear themselves apart for one chance with a mexican twink

[teenidlegirl]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ COP!MIGUEL MASTERLIST. ❜

ઇ ˚ ݂ ֹ ꒰ cop!miguel 𝓍 teacher!reader ꒱ ! ۟ ׅ ♡

ׄ   ׅ ྀ 𝓢𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. officer miguel o’hara is a hardworking man. protecting the city of nueva york and a single father to his 10 year old daughter. he rarely picks her up from school until one day he does and finally meets the beautiful teacher.

ׄ   ׅ ྀ 𝓒𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. modern!au, strangers to lovers, found family, slow burn, tension, mutual pining, fluff, angst, eventual romance, eventual smut, hispanic/latina!reader

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐗

( series is on a HIATUS so no new parts ! )

˖˙ ౨ৎ : taglist is CLOSED ( temporary ) !

© teenidlegirl. don’t steal, plagiarize, or translate my work. ♡

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut. 

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass. 

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp. 

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste. 

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips. 

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over. 

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment. 

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically. 

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[tswhiisftteedr]

Carmilla x reader NSFW? Specifically, eating out after a long day at work. The two going a few rounds from the pent-up stress?

I’m pissed, please take care of me ☆ One shot

☆ Employer!Carmilla Carmine x Employee!Fem!Reader:

After a shitty day at work, you and your boss who is simultaneously your girlfriend, decide to let the days stress go by ‘working out’ your frustrations.

Warnings: Mature Content, Explicit/Graphic Language, Praise kink, Oral Sex(Both Female Parties Receiving), Bad Spanish, NOT PROOFREAD.

Words: 2549

Note: So this a combination of 3 requests, sorry @hyenalover2630 if you don’t like this cuz that’s not what you asked for, I did a one shot instead of headcannon so sorry agin but I though rounding up similar requests would be a smart move. Also this one shot is a bit on the shorter side so that’s that.

Author Note: Soooo, I’m back from the dead, 38 request in my inbox, 15 of them being just Adam requests lol.

☆ more under the cut. ☆

Finding yourself in hell was more than just a lousy situation—it was a downright nightmare. Amidst the chaos, the moral decay, and the ridiculous housing prices, you were desperate for any job that could keep you afloat. You applied everywhere, except under Valentino; you wanted no part of that mess.

So, it wasn't surprising when you ended up as a grunt in the marketing department at Carmine Inc. But you were a hustler, always quick, efficient, and responsible. Your work ethic didn't go unnoticed, especially by the big boss herself.

You couldn't help but admire her in many ways. She was a badass, running a successful business with an iron fist, yet she had a sense of fairness. And let's not forget, she was easy on the eyes, which only fueled your crush.

After a meeting she personally set up, you scored a promotion to be her personal assistant. But even with the big leap, you didn't slack off. Your efficiency was still on point, and Carmilla appreciated it.

As your role in the company evolved, so did your connection with Carmilla. It all started with those little touches—a hand on your shoulder here, a pat on the head there—that seemed innocent enough at first.

But soon, those gestures became more frequent and intimate, like her guiding hand on your waist or the way she'd ask you to stick around after hours for a chat and a drink.

The formalities started to fade away, with Carmilla calling by your first name and encouraging you to do the same, replacing your usual ‘Mme. Carmine’ by the overlords name. It was like she was inviting you into her inner circle, blurring the lines between boss and friend.

As the months passed and you continued to excel in your role as her assistant, Carmilla couldn't help but notice a shift in her feelings toward you. Your hard work and dedication were undeniable, but it was more than that. She found herself drawn to you in a way she hadn't expected. Plus, the fact that you were a beautiful woman did help in growing her attraction for you.

It became increasingly obvious to Carmilla that you harbored feelings for her as well. Your nervousness whenever she was around spoke volumes, manifesting in stutters and how you would visibly warm up whenever her gaze met yours. It was a telltale sign of the attraction brewing beneath the surface.

Furthermore, she couldn't ignore your subtle cues for validation and compliments. You seemed to thrive on her words of affirmation, going above and beyond in your tasks just to earn a simple ‘great job’ or ‘I'm proud of you, Y/N’ from her lips. ‘And who could blame you? With Carmilla being the hot Hispanic woman she was, who wouldn't want her singing their praises?’

After two months of silently pining for each other, where Carmilla was keenly aware of your feelings while you remained oblivious to hers, she decided it was time to break the stalemate. She orchestrated a meeting after hours, summoning you to her office to address the unspoken tension between you.

As you sat down, she wasted no time in getting to the point. With a mix of nerves and determination, she confessed her own feelings, revealing that she had long known about yours as well. It was a moment of vulnerability for both of you, but also a turning point.

The conversation didn't end there. Carmilla proposed taking a chance on each other, suggesting that you go on a date that weekend to explore the potential of your connection further. You agreed, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension at what lay ahead.

The subsequent dates were nothing short of magical, filled with laughter, deep conversations, and shared moments of intimacy. With each passing day, your bond grew stronger, and it became increasingly evident that what you shared was more than just a fleeting attraction.

By the fifth date, it was abundantly clear to both of you that you wanted to take things to the next level. Over a candlelit dinner, you shared your hopes and dreams, expressing your desire to make things official. And as you toasted to your newfound love, you knew in your heart that you had found something special amidst the chaos of your workplace.

Despite the enchanting aura that surrounded your relationship with Carmilla that usual had you on cloud nine, today proved to be shitty day nevertheless.

First, there was the debacle with the rogue shipment. Some brainless thugs decided to mess with a Carmine truck, oblivious to the glaring logo emblazoned on its side. Needless to say, they met their demise, but not before causing a heap of trouble.

Then came the catastrophe with the catalog files—a rookie managed to obliterate an entire folder of vital content. The painstaking recovery process left you on edge, uncertain if the files would return unscathed or corrupted.

And if that wasn't enough, that blasted Vox bastard had the audacity to cancel yet another meeting with Carmilla, marking the third time in a row. The gall of him, treating her time as if it were disposable. You couldn't stand that attention-seeking-whore man-child with his oversized ego and incessant need for validation.

As the day dragged on, you finally collapsed onto your bed, still fully dressed save for your shoes. Frustration, exhaustion, and pent-up tension weighed heavily on your shoulders. It was a relief when Carmilla entered the room, her expression mirroring your own.

With a sigh of resignation, she joined you on the bed, her presence offering a sense of comfort amidst the chaos. In that moment, without a word exchanged, you found solace in each other's presence, united in your shared frustration and exhaustion.

Sighing heavily, Carmilla reached for the bottle of beezeljuice resting on the nightstand, taking a generous swig before passing it over to you. You accepted the bottle, mirroring her earlier gesture as you took a deep gulp, relishing in the familiar burn as the liquid slid down your throat. It was a small but comforting ritual, a shared moment of indulgence amidst the chaos of the day.

As the evening steadily slipped away, the weight of your troubles began to dissolve, replaced by a gentle warmth that spread through you like wildfire. You found yourselves leaning closer, your bodies pressed together as you sought solace in each other's embrace. Your lips met in a heated kiss, passion exploding between you like a bolt of lightning.

Your tongues danced a fiery tango, exploring every inch of each other's mouths with a fervor that belied your exhaustion. As your hands wandered, exploring the curves of each other's bodies, you couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of hope. Despite the challenges and tribulations that the afterlife threw at you, you were a force to be reckoned with.

"Acércate, mi amor," Carmilla murmured against my lips, her voice low and sultry as she pulled you closer. "Today has been a living nightmare, but your presence makes everything better. You're the wind beneath my wings, my sweet girl."

Her praise was music to your ears, making your heart flutter and your cheeks flush in delight. To hear her speak such kind words, to know that you brought light into her day was like floating on cloud.

Unable to contain your desire any longer, you broke your kiss, your breaths ragged and hearts pounding in sync. Carmilla's eyes smoldered with hunger as she reached for the buttons of my shirt, skillfully releasing each one until it pooled at my feet. Your undergarments followed suit, leaving you naked and vulnerable in her capable hands.

In turn, you mirrored her actions, slowly peeling away layers of her clothing until she stood before you in nothing but her ballet slippers and stockings. Her skin glowed under the dim light, her statuesque figure an ode to her grace and power. As you gazed upon her, you felt a raw, unbridled hunger stir within you, a primal urge to taste her.

"Mi alma," Carmilla whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation. "Can you be the good girl i know you are, take care me? Will you be a sweetheart and eat me out?."

Without hesitation, you knelt before her, her scent enveloping you as you parted her legs and settled between them. Your fingers traced delicate paths along her calves, sending shivers down her spine.

As you approached her core, Carmilla's fingers threaded through your hair, guiding your head between her legs with an air of completely control that sent shivers down your spine. You reveled in her power over you, knowing that she desired to be in charge, to assert her authority in this moment of vulnerability.

"That's it, mi vida," she purred, her voice a seductive symphony that resonated throughout the room. "Show me how much you love pleasing me."

Your tongue flicked out, teasing the sensitive skin at the apex of her thighs, drawing a gasp from her lips. Her hands tightened in your hair, urging you forward as you dove between her legs. The taste of her was divine, almost making your head spin.

Carmilla moaned softly, her thighs clenching as you explored her folds with reverence. Each stroke of your tongue was deliberate, each flick a testament to your devotion. Her groans of pleasure echoed around you, a symphony of lust that only heightened your desire to please her.

“Eso es todo, lo estás haciendo tan bien, fuck! Keep going, my beautiful girl.”

As you delved deeper, your tongue probing the depths of her pussy, Carmilla's moans grew louder, her body arching with each stroke. Her fingers twisted in your hair further, grinding you against her with a firm hand that you hungered for. This display of dominance was intoxicating, igniting a fire within you that mirrored her own passion.

"Just like that, mi corazón," she encouraged, her voice thick with lust. "You’re being such a good girl for me.”

Your actions became more fervent, your lips and tongue working in concert to bring her pleasure. Her hips bucked in response, her sighs and gasps filling the room with the soundtrack of our passion. You reviled in her reactions, feeding off her energy as you explored every inch of her tender flesh.

Carmilla's breath hitched, her grip on your hair stronger than ever before as she neared her climax. Her body trembled beneath you, her whispered praises— ‘That’s my girl’, ‘So proud of you, you’re doing such a great job’, ‘I love you so much my beautiful girl’— urging you onward.

As she reached her peak, Carmilla's back arched, her moans filling the room like a thunderous roar, “¡Ya me vengo!”. Her body convulsed, her climax washing over her in waves of ecstasy. You took pride in the role you had played in her release, revelling in her praises as she came down from her high.

Panting, she pulled you upward, her lips claiming yours in a searing kiss that left no doubt as to the power she held over you and the loved you share. "Great job, my love," she breathed against your lips. "Your tongue truly is a work of art."

Then, without warning, Carmilla reversed your roles. With a swift motion, she pushed you onto your back, her eyes gleaming with newfound determination. Your heart raced as she positioned herself between your legs, her gaze never leaving yours.

"Now, it's your turn," she growled, her voice deep and sensual. "Spread your legs for me, Y/N."

You obeyed without a moment of resistance, your nerves jangling with anticipation as she lowered her head. Her tongue darted out, tracing a path that sent shivers cascading through you.

Each touch was electric, her tongue exploring every inch of your body with a precision that left you breathless. Her absolute control and expertise was entrancing, and you craved more. Your hands gripped the sheets, seeking purchase as she continued her exploration.

With every lick and suck, you grew closer to the edge, your moans mingling with her satisfied hums. It wasn't long before you could bear it no longer, and with a “Go for it, sweet girl”, your body thrashed beneath hers as you climaxed. Waves of pleasure washed over you, leaving you weak and breathless.

When you finally came down from your high, Carmilla lifted her head, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Perfect," she purred, her voice a siren's song that enchanted you as if you were a sailor.

As soon as your senses were regained, Carmilla had wasted no time in resuming her ministrations. Her tongue dove back into the folds of my heat, her appetite for pleasure seemingly insatiable. You writhed beneath her, unable to contain the surge of pleasure that coursed through me.

Her fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as she feasted on you with unwavering passion. Your moans filled the room once more, intertwining with her satisfied grunts. The intensity of her attack overwhelmed you, pushing you to the brink once more.

Overstimulated by her persistent attention, you cried out as you climaxed once more, your body shaking with the force of the experience. When you finally came down, panting heavily, Carmilla released you, her eyes shining with victory.

"Now, that's what I call some well spent frustration," she said, her voice still thick with desire yet quite comforting and sweet. "What do you say we take a moment to catch our breath?"

You nodded, your body still trembling from the intensity of the intercourse. As you lay there, your hearts pounding in sync, you couldn't help but marvel at the relationship you shared. Despite you differences, your love had brought you together in a way that felt both natural and exhilarating.

Carmilla's hand traced lazy circles on your stomach, her thumb brushing across your navel as she gazed into your eyes.

The quiet was a welcome relief, but there was something eating at you that you just had to vent about. "Okay, but seriously, that Vox dude is a major asshole, right? I mean, he's practically begging for a meeting and then bails three freaking times in a row. Am I the only one who thinks that TV demon is just a whiny little prick?”

"Mi amor, the beacon of my day and the guiding star of my night—" Carmilla responded emphatically. "I couldn't fucking agree more with you. That guy, and his associates, are just a bunch of overgrown kids with way too much damn power for anyone's good. If it weren't for you and my daughters, I swear to Santa Maria I'd probably have blown my fucking brains out by now dealing with their goddamn irresponsible behavior.”

After Carmilla's passionate outburst, silence descended once again, but it didn't last long. Before you knew it, both of you were erupting into fits of laughter, finding humor in the absurdity of it all.

You both instinctively drew closer, holding each other tighter than before. Despite the shitty day you had endured, there was comfort in each other's embrace.

As you nestled against each other, a thought crossed your mind: ‘maybe karma was real after all.’ If finding reassurance in Carmilla's arms was your reward after such a terrible day, perhaps the universe's scales were fairer than you had previously believed.

Thanks anons and @hyenalover2630 for requesting!

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Reblogs help!!! (Request Are On Pause)

[leosagi-real]

DID I EVER POST FORDCELER HERE???????????

[dammjamboy]

i realize i never posted these doodles here.. i plan to draw dipper mabel and abuelita eventually ! but enjoy these for now :^]

[miercoooles]

Didn’t Know You Had That In You

Summary: After a tiring qualifying race, you return to the pit and overheard your co-drivers talk about whether or not they would date you.

Pairing: Sergio ‘Checo’ Perez x Fem Leclerc Driver!Reader, Charles Leclerc x Sister!Reader, Sebastian Vettel x Platonic!Reader, F1 drivers x Leclerc Driver!Reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: a lot of time skips, use of y/n, mutual pining, teasing, English isn’t my first language (so advance apologies for the terrible writing again)

A/N: I don’t see enough Checo fics so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Also this is entirely fiction, I remember what happened during the races 2014 - onwards in F1, but for the sake of the story I had to change it (please don’t come after me).

Comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

You first joined F1 as a reserved driver for McLaren Mercedes the moment you turned 20, and it was like a dream come true. Although it was difficult for you to adjust at first as it was a male-dominated sport, you managed to quickly hit it off with Jenson Button and Kevin Magnussen who are the main drivers for your team. And after months of being in the 2014 season, you were introduced by your teammates to the rest of the paddock and even became friends with some of them. So it was safe for you to say that you are already part of the F1 family.

Soon came your first ever race in Silverstone. Finishing fourth in the race, news broke out and spread like wildfire headlining that you are one of the few and currently the only female driver in Formula One, and since then you have received lots of sexist and misogynistic comments that made you feel uncomfortable and made you think twice about the career path you have chosen.

Shortly after that, you began detaching yourself from your crew and the entire F1. But when you thought no one cared that you were distancing yourself because no one approached you, you felt heartbroken. And if they did care enough to notice, no one ever brought anything up which hurt you more. That was until the Force India driver Sergio Perez, who you have gotten to meet once or twice within the four months you’ve been in F1, confronted you about your sudden change of attitude.

You were shocked at first that he was the first one who brought it up considering you weren’t really close with him, but that small gesture was enough to make your heart flutter. “Hey what’s up? You’ve been separating yourself away from us recently.”, he asked, his English broken as his thick Mexican accent became prominent and his eyes filled with concern.

You looked away, biting your lower lip as you tried to hold in the sob you have been carrying for weeks now. When the Force India driver sensed that you were close to tears, he pulled you close into his arms, embracing you tightly as he comforted you. “It’s alright, you can let it out.” He whispered into your ears as he caressed your back with one of his hands, while the other softly cradled your head.

When you felt his warmth surround you, you let everything out quietly as he held you close to his body. Your body quivered as you cried and nuzzled closer to him while he stayed there, whispering soothing words in your ear. You stayed there for a few moments before pulling away from him and thanking him quietly before leaving him there standing.

After that encounter with Sergio, you did your best to avoid the Hispanic around the paddock and pit, but you started interacting with the rest of the drivers again. You have been seen mostly hanging around your teammates and sometimes with the German Red Bull driver Sebastian Vettel.

In your unbiased (totally) opinion, Sebastian was the most down to earth driver you have ever met. He’s sweet, funny, caring, and just utterly wholesome. You first started talking during the German Grand Prix, it was mostly formal and just him trying to get to know you. But by the end of the 2014 season, you both became best friends and completely inseparable that other racers thought you two were dating to the point that they would tease you whenever you two are together. Although you have both established that your relationship with each other is purely platonic.

A thing about Sebastian is that his love language was physical touch, so he’d show affection by wrapping his arms around your shoulder, holding your hand, kissing your forehead, and crushing you with his hugs (which you love so dearly). He would obviously do the same to others, but with you it was different. He was definitely clingier to you and more overprotective of you than the rest. And if comfort was a person, it would be Seb for you.

When the 2015 race season came and you replaced Kevin Magnussen as one of the main drivers for McLaren when he announced his retirement while Sebastian moved to Ferrari along with Kimi Räikkönen. Although it was known that Kimi was the Iceman of Formula One, you somehow managed to make your way through his heart and melt his cold exterior. Thus the three of you are always seen hanging around one another and earning the nickname ‘The Paddock Princess and her Ferrari Princes’.

And despite the fact that you found your platonic soulmates amidst the crazy and busy environment of the paddock, you still constantly longed for someone. Someone who you see every race, who you battle with during races. And you usually found yourself thinking of the day he comforted you when no one would, his touch and words haunting you.

Today was one of those days where your heart ached to be hugged by him and be around him once more. When Seb found you in the McLaren garage, your eyebrows furrowed as you chewed your bottom lip while zoning out, he knew that something was bothering you.

He sat beside you, leaning his head on your shoulder, looking at you through his eyelash as he spoke. “What’s got you deep in thought?” Though he had an idea of what you were thinking of, he just asked for confirmation and to check if you were alright.

His question drew you back to reality. You blinked a few times before turning to look at him, quirking a brow at him. “When did you get here?”

“Just a minute ago. You didn’t answer my question though.” Seb replied nonchalantly.

“Sorry, I zoned out. What was your question again?”

“I asked what’s gotten you deep in thought.”, he repeated once more, his eyes not leaving yours.

Sebastian knew about your first meeting with Sergio, he also knew that you had been pining on him ever since. So when you told him about what was bothering you, he just smiled and gave you a side hug, patting your shoulder. “It’s alright, liebling. I know how much you miss him even though you still feel guilty about leaving him.”

You smiled despondently, knowing you won’t have a chance with him after making a horrible first impression while he tried comforting you. And Seb being your best friend who doesn’t like seeing you sad, he had to think of something that would reunite you to your crush. And so he went to consult with his teammate on what they could do to help you overcome your shyness with your crush.

A few days have passed since you have had your conversation with Sebastian, and you have noticed that he became weird towards you like he had something mischievous planned out for you. You shrugged it out thinking he’s just being his cheeky self to cheer you up.

However, today was different. You won your first ever pole position in your whole career. It was an achievement not just for you, but for your whole team. As you got yourself out of the car and finished your post race requirements, you ran to your team who hugged you from the barrier and patted your helmet as they cheered and congratulated you. You pulled away from them, returning to your car as you removed your helmet and gloves. But before you could even start, you were trapped in a bear hug by none other than your best friend, Sebastian, who had ended up in third.

“Congratulations, liebling! Your first ever pole, how do you feel?” He interrogated excitedly, pulling away from the hug. You chuckled at his excitement for you which resulted in him looking at you confused.

“Did I say something funny?” He asked, looking lost, and you shook your head. “No, it’s just… Shouldn’t that be the interviewer’s job to ask me how I feel?” You answered, pointing to the interviewer as they prepared.

“Yes, but I’m your best friend.” He responded, standing proudly at his statement. “ And as your best friend, it is my duty to ask you first! Shouldn’t you be more excited than what you’re giving me now? Are you disappointed? Nervous? Do you feel well?” He continued, shaking your body and bombarding you with questions to which you dismissed as you removed your helmet.

“I’m okay, Basti. Stop worrying too much.”, you assured, patting his shoulder. He gave you a perplexed look before nodding slowly, unconvinced of your answer.

There was a short period of comfortable silence between the two of you as you watched him remove his gears. “Be careful, I might melt if you keep watching me like that.” The German driver teased, making you scoff and roll your eyes as you mouthed the word ‘cocky’.

He chuckled at your attitude before he saw a certain someone behind you, removing his gears too. “Look who got P2.”, Seb whispered, gesturing behind you. You subtly looked over your shoulders to see the man you were infatuated with, run his hand through his fluffy brown hair which made you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Sebastian laughed at your face when he saw your cheeks and nose dusted with a light tint of pink as your close friend knew the effect the Force India driver had on you. And so he and the Iceman devised a plan that would make the two of you talk again.

When the third placer finished his post interview, Checo made his way to the interviewer, giving Sebastian a fist bump on the way. As the Ferrari driver made his way to you, he saw you observing Sergio intently as he talked to the interviewer, your green orbs swirling with longing and affection for him, that was not easily noticed by anyone who did not know you. But Seb smirked as he watched your unsaid feelings for the Hispanic driver unfold through your eyes.

When the Mexican concluded his interview, Seb knew it was time for his plan to be put into action. So as you made your way to the interviewer, Seb stretched out his leg making you trip on his foot. But before your face planted to the ground, the Hispanic caught you in his arms.

He helped you up and asked if you were okay. You did not hear him and looked at him quietly as your brain tried to process what just happened, your cheeks turning into a deep shade of red from embarrassment. You heard Sebastian’s laugh from behind and you snapped your neck to look at him, giving him a scowl.

“Are you hurt?” A soft voice asked you once more. You turned around to see your crush looking back at you already, his eyes filling with concern as he scanned you to see if you were scathed. You shook your head softly in response. “I’m unharmed.” You replied, beaming a smile at him. “Thank you for… uhm… For catching me.” You continued, blushing as your hand made its way to your nape, rubbing it as you tried to hide your embarrassment.

“No problem.” He answered, laughing. Checo found your current situation adorable as your cheeks tinted with the shade of red. “I’m glad you're okay. And congrats on your first pole, yeah? You were amazing out there.” He complimented, grinning brightly at you as he patted your back.

You felt your cheeks heat up once more from his words before giving him a small thanks. When he left, you made your way to the interviewer and answered their question. Once it was done, the three of you took a photo, you sandwiched between the two men. You looked up to see Checo staring at you before looking at the camera and smiling.

Finishing the photo op, you and Sebastian left together, bidding your farewell to Checo. And once you were far enough from their sight, you smacked the back of his head a wee bit too hard. “Ow! What was that for?” He asked, scrunching his eyebrows while rubbing the area you hit as he followed you to the Ferrari garage.

“You idiot! You think I don’t know that you tripped me on purpose? That was so embarrassing. How am I supposed to make up for that?” You exclaimed, pacing back and forth, not even bothered by the looks the Ferrari engineers are giving you as you worry that your second impression was even more embarrassing than the first one.

Kimi leaned against the wall and drank water, watching everything with amusement as he saw you panic about whatever it was that was happening. Seb only laughed before placing his hands on your shoulders, stopping you from moving. “How about you take him out for dinner?” He suggested, grinning slyly. Your eyes widened at his proposition, shaking your head before smacking him once more.

“No way in hell am I going to do that. I already embarrassed myself in front of him twice. What if he rejects me? What if he starts laughing at me? Kimi, please help me stop him from spewing out more stupid ideas?” You turned to the Finnish as his teammate won’t stop pestering you.

Kimi cracked a faint smile as he saw your distressed state, walking to you before hugging you, “You worry too much you know? If he does reject you, at least you tried. Is that not what matters?” He comforted you, trying to assure you while he caressed your back. You silently thought of what he said before pulling away and nodding.

“Whose side are you really on, Kimi? But you’re right.”

“When were my ideas ever wrong?” Vettel interjected, smirking.

“Don’t push it, Vettel. If it wasn’t for you, I would not be in this situation in the first place.” You threatened, jabbing his chest with your finger and the Ferrari drivers just chuckled.

“Go, liebling. Ask your Prince Charming out.” Sebastian teased, wiggling his eyebrows. Kimi whistled, encouraging you more.

“By the way, congratulations on your first pole, kiddo! I knew you could do it.” You heard Kimi yell as you walked away from them. You turned around and smiled at Kimi, making a heart with your hands before going on your way to find the Mexican driver.

Searching every garage in the paddock, you found him sitting outside the Force India tent, drinking water.  You stood in front of his team’s tent as you thought of ways on how you could approach him, not seeing that he was already looking at you.

When you stopped in your tracks in front of your crush’s tent, he immediately noticed your presence. He crossed his legs over the other, tilting his head and smiling softly, as he watched you stand over at the entrance pondering over something.

When he first met you, he was enamoured by you. Not because of your looks but because of your determination and dedication. He knew how it was incredibly hard for women to enter a male-dominated sport that was rising into fame. But when he saw you, something about you just immediately wanted him to be closer to you.

There was something about you and the way you carried yourself with elegance even when you are surrounded by males who are always at each other’s throat. The way you made everyone comfortable and laughing after the race. So when he saw you disconnecting yourself from the rest of the paddock, he knew he had to do something. He was usually a quiet and reserved type of guy, but to you, it was different, he only wanted to preserve your smile that never fails to pull his heart strings.

On the day he confronted you, never in his wildest dream he thought he’d be bold and courageous enough to pull you close as he let you cry in his arms nor did he ever expect to be in such propinquity with you, not that he was complaining. He caressed your back, guiding you to lean on his body, steadying you.

Not being able to stop himself, he placed a small and soft kiss on your temple, his lips brushing your forehead lightly before whispering comforting words into your ear. He felt you stiffen and he thought he overstepped his boundaries that you were going to run away. But he smiled as you relaxed into his arms once more as you recovered from your crying.

The moment you pulled away, silently thanking him before leaving him standing there, he wanted nothing more than to chase after you, but his fear of crossing your limits made his legs won’t budge.

After that small but meaningful interaction, his heart constantly searched and yearned for you. He would find himself walking around the paddock, looking for you. And when he did see you, you were often hanging around with your teammate Jenson or with the Ferrari drivers, Kimi and Sebastian, mostly the latter. Though Sergio won’t admit it out loud, he would always feel a twinge of jealousy in his chest whenever he sees Sebastian’s close proximity to you as he wished it was him in the German’s place.

So when he saw you right now standing in front of Force India’s tent, he grinned, feeling butterflies in his stomach. He placed his cup on the table beside his chair before standing up and striding towards you.

“Hola, what brings you to enemy ground?” The Mexican started with a teasing tone.

You hadn’t noticed that you had been spacing out until you heard and saw Checo in front of you. Your cheeks turned into a light shade of red due to embarrassment from zoning out, resulting in a chuckle from him.

“Hi! Uhh…” You trailed off, looking away as you turned shy in his presence. He hummed, signalling you to go on and tell him what you were meant to say.

“I wanted to ask if you would like to have coffee with me? Just a little thank you for all the trouble you’ve gone through because of me.”

There was a deafening stillness that came after your question. If it was possible for your face to turn any more red, it was definitely right now. You wished and prayed for the ground to swallow you alive as the silence prolonged every minute.

Hesitating to look up, you saw Checo’s face that was taken aback.

“You don’t have to, I was just thinking of returning the favour.” You followed up, running your hand through your post race hair, feeling more nervous than ever.

As he gave you no answer, you turned your back and slowly walked away from him, disappointed. Checo recovered from his shock as soon as he saw you starting to walk away. And not wanting to lose another chance with you, he grabbed your wrist, halting you from your movement, and spinning you around to look at him.

“I would love that.”, he responded, smiling in relief.

“But I’m not sure your boyfriend would like that.” He continued, gesturing at your best friend who had been watching the entire thing.

You furrowed your eyebrows, confused at what the Mexican was saying then looking behind you and to see Sebastian, grinning widely and completely amused at your situation. You threw daggers in his way before turning back to the person in front of you, your nervousness washing off as you finally understood.

“Basti? My boyfriend?” You asked, chuckling as if the idea of you dating your best friend was ridiculous. When you saw Checo’s straight and confused expression, you giggled before turning serious.

“He’s not my boyfriend, Checo. If anything, he’s my platonic soulmate and my brother from another mother.” You explained, suppressing a smile at the thought of Sergio being jealous of Sebastian.

He nodded at your clarification, his body relaxing. “Okay then, I would most definitely be up for coffee with you. It would finally be nice to finally have an encounter with you that doesn’t involve you getting hurt first.”

As years went by and when 2018 came, the drivers you bonded with left one by one until the only ones you were close with was Sebastian, Kimi, and Checo. Your old teammate Kevin Magnussen returned to drive for Haas, while you continued your contract with McLaren.

But still being the only current female driver in F1, the sexist comments followed you around. And adding fuel to the fire, your younger brother, Charles, joining Sauber Ferrari for Formula One sparked a lot of judgement from others especially when they found out that you were related to one another. Though it made life in and out the race more enduring, you did not mind as the thought of you racing against your own brother was more thrilling.

Presently, you are holding a contract with Ferrari alongside your brother for the 2023 season and you are currently preparing for the Miami qualifying race.

If you had to be honest, you are completely terrified of today’s qualifying since the practice races went terribly for you, not that you expected anything better. But at the same time, you were excited because your brother managed to stay on top despite the issues with the track.

When you finished preparing, you stopped over Charles’ garage and wished him good luck, hugging him and ruffling his hair. He grumbled and groaned about his hair being hard to fix but nonetheless smiled at you before embracing you once more.

You made your way to your car, getting in and putting your gloves and your steering wheel in their proper places. Prior to that, you said your little prayer, sighing softly that nothing bad would happen.

As the race started, everything went smoothly until the last lap when Charles had an accident, crashing into the barriers. And although you wanted to stop the race and run to him to check if he was okay, you had to finish the race as you were the fourth quickest.

“Is Charles okay?” You radioed to your engineer as you crossed the finish line. When your engineer confirmed that your younger brother is safe, you let out the breath of air you had been holding.

When the race concluded, you made your way to your brother, tackling him to the ground.

“You psycho, you scared me to death.” You reprimanded him, huffing. “But, I’m glad you came out safely.” You proceeded, placing a kiss on his forehead before standing up and helping him up from the ground.

“Sorry, you know how hard it is to control the car when the turns in Miami are wide.” He mumbled, rubbing his nape from embarrassment and you just nodded in understanding.

Soon after the whole qualifying, you had no idea that everyone would be gathering in the Ferrari motorhome. So when you went back to the tent, exhausted and ready to pass out, you were shocked to hear voices from different people as they talked about different things.

You camped outside where the Ferrari is located, sitting on the ground, not wanting to ruin their boys’ get-together as you eavesdropped on them waiting for someone to speak up.

“So, I have a question.” You heard Pierre start. You did not have to see them to know that they all looked at Pierre as they waited for him to continue his thought.

“Would you or would you not date Y/N?”

Even with the silence, you knew that the boys were confused and appalled at the random question they were thrown with. You stifled a laugh, staying as quiet as possible, not wanting to announce your presence.

“Excuse me? What do you mean would you or would you not date my sister when she’s literally my sister? Also, aren't some of you taken already?” Charles complained, his Monegasque accent thick.

“I mean it as a hypothetical question, Leclerc. It’s not like I’m asking them to break up with their current partners and get on with your sister.” Gasly snarked sassily, and you knew that Charles would have rolled his eyes at his best friend.

No one made a noise for a whole minute, worried about what Charles’ reaction would be if they answered honestly.

“Don’t you think she’s a wee bit old for us?” The current youngest driver answered. You silently scoffed at Oscar’s question, wondering how old they thought you were. You were about to barge in when you heard Esteban counter.

“She’s turning twenty-nine as far as I know. Am I right Charles?”

Your brother hummed in agreement with the French, clearly annoyed because of the topic. It made you smile to know that your brother is still overprotective of you even though you were older than him. You unconsciously moved your hands to your necklace, playing with the ring on it as you anticipated for their answers.

“Since no one is answering, let’s do a poll. Raise your hand if you are willing to date Y/N Leclerc.” Pierre announced, impatiently.

A few drivers put their hands up including Carlos, Lewis, George, Zhou, and some others, not that you could see them anyway. When Pierre was satisfied with the amount of hands raised, he continued. “Now whoever won’t date her, raise your hands.”

The rest of the people who did not raise their hand on the first question, lifted their hands up. But there was one person who did not participate in the poll and Pierre noticed it. Pierre told the others that they could put their hands down as he made his way over to the 33 years old Mexican Red Bull driver.

“You have been awfully silent, Prime Minister of Defense.” He taunted. Checo, who looked lost, knitted his eyebrows at the Frenchman who was pressing him for answers.

“He’s married, Pierre. Even if it is just a hypothetical question, he won’t answer that.” Max Verstappen, his teammate, intervened, rolling his eyes in the process.

Max was right when he mentioned that Sergio is married, but no one knew who he was married to because he managed to keep it off the radar, both from his fellow drivers and the media.

At this point, you knew that there was a fight that was about to erupt between the drivers, so you stood up from the ground and dusted your pants before entering and involving yourself.

“What are you doing boys?” You asked, acting clueless like you had not heard that they were talking about you.

Most of them stayed silent, even your own brother could not look at you and as much as you wanted to laugh, you had to hold it in to not break your cover.

“Well, I was just wondering whether any of our friends here would want to date you.”

“And how is it coming along?” You questioned, leaning against your brother.

“Some of them would want to date you, while others don’t. But I’m really curious about Checo here since he didn’t choose one at all.”

You raised a brow at Pierre’s statement as you fought back a smile. “Is that so?” He nodded and then the air was once again still.

“How about you, Y/N? Would you date Checo?” A voice broke out, making you whip your head at the Spanish Aston Martin driver.

Before you could even answer, Charles already intervened. “Hey, you can’t ask that question to a lady.” He pointed out, his ever so feminist side coming out to protect you.

You patted your brother’s shoulder, calming him down, before answering coolly. “I can neither confirm nor deny the answer to that question. He’s married, Nando. I don’t want to be a homewrecker.”

“Okay, how about this? Imagine he’s not married and is currently a bachelor, would you date him then?” Alonso stated, fixing his question.

You were stunned to say the least when Fernando persistently asked the question. You stayed quiet until Pierre started pestering you to answer the question before sighing, knowing that his stubborn-headed nature won’t stop until you give an answer.

Everyone was staring at you as they waited for your answer. You took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose, finally replying. “If he were single. Then yes, maybe I would date him.”

You buried your face on your palms as you hid your embarrassment when you heard them all squeal and go crazy at your response, teasing Checo along with it. If you were embarrassed, imagine how much more if you were the Mexican driver.

“Okay, enough. Now leave the poor man alone, yeah?” You shook your head as the boys nodded, still teasing Checo.

You went to your driver’s room to change your clothes as you had dinner reservations tonight. When you came out you saw that they were all still there. You walked past them, feeling their eyes check you out. You had a glimpse of Charles, sneering and clenching his jaw and fist as he watched his friends ogling his sister.

“I’ll be out, boys. Please don’t make a mess of the garage.” You reminded them, before turning around to leave them.

But before you could exit, you halted in your tracks, looking over your shoulder. “Chéri, I suggest you get ready if you still want to catch our dinner reservation.”

When you hadn’t heard a peep from your significant other, you turned around to see seventeen of the drivers looking at one another, flabbergasted, eyes accusing one another because of your statement. You watched Charles who was doing his best to hold his laughter as the boys’ dispute broke out.

You looked at the man you were speaking to, his eyes widening as he realised what you just did. “Ah, yes. I had forgotten about that. Gracias for reminding me, mi amor.”, his voice you loved so dearly spoke out.

You smirked when you saw the other drivers’ glance over to where the voice came over, their jaws dropping slack on the ground as your partner revealed themselves.

Your significant other walks towards you, kissing your cheeks before heading out and getting ready for your dinner. Once he was no longer out of sight, the boys started flooding you with questions and inquiries. You gazed at Charles, your eyes pleading for help as the boys crowded you, and he only laughed, giving you two thumbs up in support.

“You’re married to… Checo?!?”

“You’re Checo’s secret wife?”

“Since when?”

“How?”

They bombarded you with more questions until you held your hand up, signalling them to stop. When they calmed down, you and Charles guffawed together.

“You knew?” Pierre asked Charles, looking hurt by the betrayal of his best and closest companion.

Charles shrugged, catching his breath from the laughing fit, “Well, she’s my sister. Of course, I knew.”

“And you never bothered telling me about it?” Pierre pushed further into the topic as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing your brother should have done.

The two approached one another as if they were preparing to fight. You took a step in between them, holding your arms out to prevent the heated argument from escalating.

“Woah, woah. Calm down. Let’s not get into a physical fight, yeah?” You chided, raising an eyebrow at Charles.

The two looked away, their faces red from shame as they realised what was going to happen. They mumbled their apologies before shaking each other’s hand in truce. Charles went back to his post beside you, thus you leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Wait if you’re married, where’s your ring?” Lando piped up.

“I mean Sergio always wears his ring, but I don’t see yours.” He proceeded, tilting his head innocently like a child. 

Once again the question asked brought the eyes of the drivers drilling holes into you.

“Are you insinuating that I’m embarrassed to show the world that Sergio is my husband, Lando?” You retorted sassily. When you saw Lando’s face flushed white as the colours drained from it, you let another laugh loose.

“I’m only teasing. I always have my wedding ring on me, I just don’t wear it during races. Instead I put them on the necklace Papa gave me.” You explained, showing the ring that was hanging with the pendant necklace your father gave you for your 18th birthday. The boys made an ‘o’ with their mouth as they slowly understood what was happening.

When Checo entered the motorhome, he immediately went to you, kissing your cheeks then proceeded to wrap his arm around your waist protectively. You eyed your husband and saw that he wore a light blue long-sleeved button down polo that hugged his body well. Its sleeves folded up until his elbow and left two buttons open. Along with that, he wore grey pants that were neatly pressed and white rubber shoes to finish it off.

You looked at your watch, your eyes widening when you saw it was almost 7 in the evening. You looked at Checo once more, whispering in his ears and he nodded.

“We have to go or else we’ll miss our appointment. Charles, if you still plan on joining us, you should get ready now.” You reminded your little brother who was busy talking to Carlos.

Charles looked at you and excused himself from Carlos as he made his way to his driver’s room.

“So Y/N, huh? I didn’t know you had that in you, compadre.” Alonso started, winking as he teased his fellow Hispanic driver. You laughed as your husband tightened his grip on your hips, his cheeks turning into a deep shade of red.

“I don’t understand what you mean?” The man beside you said, his face forming yet another confused expression.

“Oh, come on now. You managed to pull the most amazing and talented driver on the grid. Surely, you know what I mean?” Alonso continued, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

You laughed more when you felt Checo hide his face on the crook of your neck, his cheeks heating up at Fernando’s comment. You kissed the crown of his head, as he buried his face more when Nando wouldn’t stop.

“Nando, I think you’ve embarrassed him too much already.”

Fernando laughed at what you said before stopping and patting your husband’s back. When Charles returned the three of you bid your goodbyes to your co-drivers before walking out of the motorhome and into your car.

Sergio sat on the driver’s seat while you sat on shotgun and Charles at the back. As Checo drove, he placed one hand on your thigh making you smile as you leaned your head on the window.

“That was fun.” Charles commented, breaking the comforting silence that surrounded the three of you.

You let out a chuckle once more before turning to Checo, seeing that he was already looking at you. His eyes gleaming with pride and joy at the thought of you finally revealing your marriage to your friends.

[mallleus]

Hey, I wanted to show you I made a versión for the Hispanic spouse, I made her costa Rican

You don't know how much I love this

[siliconesickness]

The problem with Encanto headcanons

As a Colombian I LOVED Encanto, but I know people have headcannoned Isabela as lesbian and Mirabel as bisexual among other characters. The issue with that is..

There is no issue.

In 2020 this was such a prominent issue to people and even 4 years later I have no idea why so many people took issue with this. It was fine for people to headcanon Elsa as lesbian, it was fine for people to headcanon Merida as lesbian, but all of sudden it's "forcing representation" and "taking away from the main story" if Isabela gets headcannoned as lesbian?? NOBODY is saying this for Max Goof and Bradley Uppercrust III when the movie was trending. NOBODY was saying it was forced representation when people shipped Bill Cipher and Ford Pines (even though the fact its gay isn't the issue but the fact it was a very manipulative relationship was but many people ignored that). And it's not bad to headcanon any of these things for any of these characters. I just don't understand why it was such an issue when Isabela (who's whole arc is honestly very WLW coded) gets called a lesbian. And its the fact its coincidentally a Hispanic character (I'm not implying ANYTHING.)

Overall, as a Colombian while i dont speak for every Colombian it never was and still isn't offensive to headcanon any Encanto character as queer since many people figured it was. Both the story and the headcanon can coexist. Acting this way won't get you approval from homophobes and transphobes! They still hate us stinkabutt 🤞

TL;DR : there was nothing wrong with headcanoning an Encanto character as queer in 2020 and there still isn't anything wrong with it in 2024.

[lxfinty]

┊𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

xavier thorpe ; wednesday

pairing: xavier thorpe x hispanic!normie!fem!reader

warnings: pure (probably excessive and embarrassing) fluff, like one curse word

request: Can you please write a oneshot for xavier where the reader is a normie and he keeps seeing her everywhere whenever they go out to the town :) he develops a crush and so does reader on the mysterious boy from nevermore until one day he comes to like work at a shop or soemthing??? and when he does reader is also there and they spend time together flirting and pining until one confesses to the other ! ALSO IDK WHY BUT I FORGOT TO ADD THAT READER IS FEMALE AND HISPANIC (i just sent an xavier request ! ) :))))

summary: a few of the instances in which you met xavier before actually meeting xavier

a/n: since the reader is hispanic, there are slight character descriptions to get that across, such as a mention of curly hair and a bit of spanish dialogue (though not a lot bcs I don’t speak spanish and don’t wanna butcher it…). also, this takes place in scenes/places seen throughout the show, but xavier never liked wednesday because it makes more sense in context.

character credit: wednesday series

w/c: 1.5k

part 2: the awaited interactions

Even though you were still a few yards away from actually entering, the area around the fair has 10 different aromas wafting through the air. Flashing lights could be seen in every direction; vibrant colors swatched along every ride and carnival game.

As you enter the fairgrounds, you look around at the people: adults, kids, normies…outcasts. You knew it was likely for them to come, as it is every year, but it’s still a shock to see the so-called “weirdos” of Jericho doing such normal activities.

Regardless, it’s nice to see everyone together for such events. You don’t completely understand the separation between the town. Sure, the outcasts were different, but they were still beings in their own right. They were freaky by nature, but even then you find their freakiness pretty alluring.

You walk around for a bit, grabbing some food as you pass by certain stands, and sit down at an empty picnic bench. As you eat, you watch the people around you as they talk and laugh and play games. You find this particular pair of people interesting.

They’re outcasts.

It’s pretty obvious by the girl’s all black attire and creepy nature, though you wouldn’t be able to tell the boy was one if it weren't for his association with the former. 

You can’t help but analyze their features. The girl is actually really pretty, if you put her gloomy aura aside. Her hair is completely black and straight, a contrast to your own curls, though it’s in pigtails, and you swear you haven’t seen her blink this entire time. She seems like she doesn’t wanna be here, almost like she’s in a rush.

After you’re done looking her over, your eyes drift over to the guy she’s standing with.

He is gorgeous.

His hair is pretty long for a guy, reaching to about his shoulders. He’s currently hunched over, his hands resting on a carnival game table, but you can tell at full height he's freaking tall. He’s wearing a dark gray trench coat, which is extremely simple, yet somehow he looks like a male model and-

‘¡Ay, Dios! I need to stop fangirling over this random boy right now’ you think and avert your eyes, focusing back on your grease filled meal.

After a few minutes, you can’t help but notice the pigtailed girl hurrying away from the stand through your peripheral view, leaving the long-haired boy all alone. You stare at him again, zoning out to the point where you don’t even notice him staring directly back at you.

You snap out of your trance, quickly looking down at the table for a few seconds before slowly creeping your eyes back over, where he is still assessing you.

He gives you a small head tilt and wave, to which you shyly smile back before cleaning up your mess and heading in the opposite direction.

‘I cannot believe I just got caught ogling at a guy like that…por favor mátame.’

–

After the last encounter with the mysterious long-haired outcast, you honestly didn’t expect to see him. He seemed like the type to pop up once and never show his face again.

You wish you were right.

Today, you’re heading into town to study a bit at a local park. You find the scenery relaxing and way less stuffy than working at home.

As you’re settling down on a picnic table, taking all your necessities out of your bag so you can get started, you notice the blue and black stripes of the Nevermore Academy uniform walking into the general store down the street. 

You think nothing of it, focusing back on your materials and figuring a student going into a store is definitely not your business and absolutely none of your concern. 

About 25 minutes into studying, you notice the stripes once more, but this time it seems as though they are walking towards you. As you focus harder on the person’s form, you recognize the tall body and lengthy hair you’ve seen once before.

You look down at the plastic grocery bag he is holding, and though you can’t see its contents from this far, you’re sure it’s not actually groceries and is more along the lines of something music or art related. 

He just gives off that vibe.

You realize that he has stopped venturing towards you. Actually, he’s stopped walking altogether.

Your glance shifts up to his face to find that he has, once again, caught you staring at him like an absolute creep.

You let out a tiny shriek before ducking behind your computer screen. 

‘The universe must hate me or something because oh my god,’ you think, internally panicking once more. You take a small peek past the lit up screen just enough to see him laugh to himself and shake his head before heading towards…the woods?

“I must have killed Mother Teresa in my past life,” you mumble to yourself softly before resuming your studies, “that’s the only possible reason my luck is at negative freaking eighty right now.”

–

Pilgrim World was…grim to say the least. It was mainly a plot to attract tourists and make money for the town. Young kids did always find entertainment in the, probably inaccurate, history of the town, so you guess it’s not all bad.

For the normal townspeople that is. 

The students from Nevermore were forced to work the grounds each year. Yeah…not exactly “town building,” but it was mandatory for them.

You sat at the Weathervane café with your computer and a warm drink. Learning about the same white people every year wasn’t your type of fun – no disrespect to them – so you opt to just watch others from the window seat, maybe get a bit of work done in the process. You watch kids chase each other; families share pieces of fudge; individuals enjoying their beverages while trolling down the center lane. You were so focused on watching others, you completely forgot about your previous, most important task: to watch the entrance.

Not that you just wanted to stare at townsfolk all day, but you were anticipating a certain outcast’s arrival. You wanted to make sure that you could watch the long-haired boy walk in so that you wouldn’t embarrass yourself by randomly staring like you did previously. But with your low attention span and professional ability to zone out at the worst times, you completely missed the fact that just who you were looking for had not only arrived at Pilgrim World already, but had walked into the café minutes ago.

“Do you want me to wipe down your table?”

That was the question that caused you to jolt in surprise, turning your head to meet the mysterious Nevermore boy.

“I wouldn’t want you to get your computer wet. You know, just in case you need to hide behind it again,” he finishes with a small smirk.

"Cielos, me asustaste,” you exclaim, more as an instant response than an actual reply, and giggle a bit while looking at your lap.

You look up at him after doing so, only to find him softly smiling at you. You open and close your mouth a few times before internally taking a deep breath and looking him in the eyes.

“Hopefully I won’t need to hide from anyone any time soon. But yeah, sure.”

You set your computer on the seat beside you as the boy gives the table a few wipes. Funny thing is, the table was completely clean before he wiped it. Even more so since you dusted it off a bit before sitting.

“No more hiding, huh? I like the sound of that,” he remarks. He finishes wiping the invisible mess off of your table and stands straight again. “Do you need a refill?”

You didn’t even notice that your cup was a few sips away from empty.

“Oh uh sure. It’s just hot chocolate,” you smile and he slightly nods before making his way over to the counter.

You start glancing back out the window, though this time there are Nevermore students roaming around in addition to the previous bunch. Some people are outside handing out fudge while in pilgrim costumes. You had to do that one year…it’s as boring as it looks. You notice the gloomy girl you had seen at the carnival enter the Crackstone house down the road. You could have sworn that it was closed off…

A bump on your table causes you to look away from the historical building and down at the cup that has been dropped off. You pick up the cup and take a sip as the long-haired boy walks away to clean off other tables. You glance at the cup holding the warm chocolate, which is when you see the black marker along the side.

‘Xavier…xxx-xxx-xxxx’

‘Oh,’ you thought as you realized what this was. His name…and number. Your whole face felt warm as your eyes searched for the boy, finding him behind the counter already looking at you.

You smile and tip your cup in his direction before taking another sip and going back to staring out the window.

Honestly, I used this as an excuse to gush over Xavier bcs oml there is no reason I should find this man as attractive as I do. Also, possible pt.2 with them getting closer ???

Another question: somebody asked me if I had a taglist for Xavier, so I was just wondering if y’all would want that? 

I no longer support Percy Hynes White and will no longer take request for Xavier Thorpe.