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leclsrc · 1 year ago

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do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

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

word count: 10.5k

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

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

“Portugal is not boring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

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

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

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

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

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

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

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

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

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

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

“Try fourteen,” you argue.

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

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

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

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

“I am not a big reader. You?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

He squints. “Beer?”

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

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he responds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feel good?

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m cumming—!

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

“I said fuck me.”

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

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

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

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

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if your dad walked in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look pretty.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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sagechanoafterdark · 9 months ago

Text

Shoot Your Shot, Cupid

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader Word Count: 3,770 Warnings: mature language, unbeata'd, soft Bucky, lets assume Sam set him up for this one, female coded reader, happy ending because we all deserve it, TIME SKIIIIIP, best friend with good intentions that shows up for one job and then disappears, speed dating, one obnoxious man, all the soft feelings.

Hello Kittens, and Happy Valentine's Day. It's been a while since I wrote... well anything and I was working on this for a couple of months but I think it's come all together now. Hope you enjoy it!

This couldn’t get much worse.

Tricked by your best friend.

Nay, betrayed.

By someone you implicitly trusted.

There would be no forgiving this.

Never, not ever.

The dinner and drinks invitation a few days before the start of February was met with trepidation on your part. All Christmas season you’d feigned interest as Mellony, your best friend, thrust every single co-worker, neighbor, and wait staff at you to find you someone to share the holiday with.

You couldn’t blame her. After all, Mellony was blissfully happy with her fiancée and only wanted the same for you.

All that you could forgive.

But this?

This was a complete and utter betrayal.

A deep and unimpressed frown marred your face as Mellony took the sticky name tag off the table with her perfectly manicured nails. Peeling the back with an ear-to-ear grin and pressed it against your chest. “There,” she exclaimed with joy, lacing her fingers together. “Now you’re all set.”

Looking down at the beautifully scrawled letters framed by little hearts you couldn’t help but curl your lip and whine, “Mel, you promised.”

The blond snorted and rolled her enormous puppy dog eyes, “I never promised anything.” Looping her arm through yours she practically began to drag you through the convention center doors and past the sign that sealed your fate.

Cupids Bow Speed Dating Event.

“Yes, you did,” you reaffirmed. Glancing around the room packed full of men and women in a combination of sweaters, suits, and cocktail dresses. “You promised not to try and set me up with anyone again.”

“This is my speed dating event. It doesn’t count.”

“I can assure you it does.”

“Nooooo,” she practically sang, turning around on her heel with that adorable mischievous smile of hers. “I promised that I wouldn’t set you up with anyone I knew. Everyone here was vetted by my team. I don't know any of these people.”

Grumbling she began tugging you towards the stage as intro music began to play softly from the DJ booth. Mellony paused, gripping your hand tight and looking down at you as the DJ introduced her, “Please, stay? I just want you to find someone.”

“Mel,” you hissed with disapproval. “I don’t need to find someone.”

Whether or not she heard you was unclear as the music swelled and Mellony put on her famous razzle dazzle smile and waved at everyone as she took the microphone and the presentation began. Your eyes swung to the crowd of people, more than three dozen people silhouetted against the stage lights and it made you shiver.

This was going to be a disaster.

Twenty minutes later your mind was glazed over with the audacity of men.

With every new ding of the bell, you found yourself becoming more annoyed. The match-making event progressed easily. People were divided into groups based on results from a questionnaire, something you distinctly remember Mel presenting to you as a fun Cosmo quiz, while one group remained seated the others rotated around the room.

By some stroke of luck, you were one of the people destined to sit. But that also meant that total strangers would be coming to your table to chat with you.

In all your years of singledom, you’d thought you’d heard it all. Too fat. Too loud. Too smart. Too opinionated. Those were old hat by now, and you weren’t immune to the bitter words from unimportant people.

“I suppose you’re an attractive woman,” the suit across from you said thoughtfully. His eyes never met yours, instead looking around the room likely for the next victim of his charm. “But I’m not really into your hair color. How would you feel about dying it?”

The question hung in the air as you waited for the man to look back at you. When his beady eyes returned to your face you couldn’t hide the disbelief, waving your hand in the air with an icy finality, “Absolutely not. You can go.”

He didn’t wait. Standing so quickly the chair scraped against the floor as he haughtily walked towards the bar. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as you pulled out your phone and began to scroll social media waiting for the next bell in fifteen minutes.

Not the wildest thing you’d ever heard, but the gall of some people astounded even you sometimes. This also wasn’t the first event you’d been to that Mel had put on, you’d come to one or two as she’d begun her match-making service so you knew the ins and outs pretty well. But getting the same questions over and over was getting old fast.

What do you do for a living?

Where are you from?

What’s your family like?

What’s your perfect date idea?

BOR-ING!

Just once you’d like someone to ask you a real question, something thoughtful instead of the surface questions you’d find on social media.

You couldn’t believe you wore your favorite dress for this nonsense.

The bell dinged once again and the shadow of a new man sat in front of you.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” you said not looking up from the device in your hand.

“Come here often?”

“To a dating event? No,” the words were flowing out of your mouth easily. Canned responses for canned questions.

There was a heavy pause, “You seem bored.”

“That’s because I am.”

A muted scoff came from the other side of the table, “What would make it more interesting then?”

A long sigh escaped you as you continued scrolling on your phone, “If someone would ask me a question of substance, maybe I would give them a chance for conversation.”

Again a long stretching silence from the other side and you had to resist rolling your eyes.

“Alright,” he rumbled, leaning back against his chair. “Then what’s one gift you always wish you’d gotten, but never did?”

That had your thumb pausing on the endless scrolling you were doing. Finally, your gaze flicked up and your brain stopped working for a brief moment as you took in the disgustingly attractive man sitting your opposite.

Coffee color hair, and a chiseled jaw dotted with a five o’clock shadow would be enough to make even the most choosy of a woman’s breath catch. He was wearing a bulky leather jacket in a building that was pushing 80 degrees, which was odd but not overly strange.

But oddly enough you felt yourself getting drawn in. Not by his cheekbones, the cut of his jaw, the dimple in his chin, or even the semi-scowl he wore.

No, it was his eyes. Bright blue soulful eyes, that sparkled a little as he sat across the table from you. Eyes that told a story all their own and drew you out of your scrolling for the first time that night.

Pursing your lips slightly you thought, “Hmm, I’d have to say it’s a puppy.”

His eyebrow arched slightly, clearly surprised by your answer, “A puppy?”

“Sure,” you said with a slight shrug. “A puppy is something I’ve always wanted but never gotten as a gift from anyone other than myself.”

“What kind of puppy?”

“Oh I don’t have a preferred breed,” you informed, tilting your head a little at the odd conversation. “But as a child, it was what I asked for every year as a present. But I never got one.”

His lips turned up in a half smile and you thought you were going to melt in your seat, “Asking for one every year and not getting one, sounds a little disappointing. Was that just a Christmas thing?”

“Nah,” you laughed a little, fingers picking at a little piece of lint on the edge of your dress. “Christmas, birthdays, Easter didn’t matter. If gifts were being given, it was at the top of my list. Every year I’d be running to the tree and picking up presents, looking for one big enough. It’s a running joke with my friends that I’d marry the first man to give me a puppy for Christmas.”

A brisk laugh escaped him, his lips pulled into a charming smile that had nervous butterflies leap up in your chest. “A puppy for Christmas,” he rumbled thoughtfully. “I’ll have to remember that.”

The response made goosebumps prickle along your skin and you held back a shiver, wetting your suddenly dry lips, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s a gift you always wanted but didn’t get,” you paused briefly a coy smile stretching your lips.

His smile turned into a smirk as he once again leaned back in his chair, blue eyes darting back and forth over your face as he thought about it. It was going well, your impish smile growing along with his own. That is until his smile began to fall, bright blue gaze darting a little more frantically over your face before he licked his lips and an unexpected tremor sounded in his voice, “I think, I think it was a sled.”

“A sled,” you asked, leaning forward a little in intrigue. “Like a big plastic one with the handles? Oh no, I got it you’re definitely an inflatable snow tube kind of guy.”

A balk of laughter sounded from him, making hidden laugh lines appear at the corner of his eyes as they brightened with your playful banter. “Nah,” he exclaimed, waving a hand. “More like a wood and metal one. It had bright red skis and a wooden seat top. That sled was all I wanted as a kid.”

An amused giggle slipped from you, “I had a wagon kind of like that as a kid, it was a radio flyer.”

His fingers snapped as he pointed at you with a little bit of excitement, “That’s it! A Radio Flyer sled, with a rope handle and foot steering bar. Though I don’t think I’d ever get one now. I’m a little too old to go sledding down a hill.”

“Age is all about perspective.”

He snorted, “Tell that to my driver's license.”

Genuine laughter bubbled up from inside of you as you leaned forward in your seat, a teasing retort on your lips. Before you could speak, Mellony rang her little handbell and people began to switch places again. But your blue-eyed stranger lingered at your table.

“Talk to you again?”

He sounded, hopeful. “Yeah,” you croaked out pathetically. “Talk to you again.”

You watched as he stood from your table and made his way across the room to his next table while another man took his place at your own. A feeling of disappointment swelled as you lost sight of him in the crowd of people, the feeling intensifying as this new man briefly introduced themselves before launching into a long Tinder-level introduction.

Two more men sat at your table, barely holding your interest outside of normal pleasantries before Mel rang her handbell in rapid succession. “Alright everyone that’s the first round,” she called from her place at the podium. “We’re going to break for thirty minutes. There are hors d'oeuvres and refreshments at the bar. Please feel free to mingle!”

The room of people began to stand and mill around as an uproar of chatter began. Your eyes picked out a couple of men from your group, pairing up with others and heading to the bar. Cordial smiles turned into pleasant touches and sweetheart eyes as they went.

The Cupids Bow Dating Event was a success and you couldn’t help but feel the swell of pride for your friend.

“Hey, Sourpuss,” Melody greeted, looping her arm through yours. “You having fun yet?”

Your mind drifted back to your blue-eyed stranger, “A little.”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this. But the point of speed dating is to, you know, find a date. I was watching you, and you gotta talk to more than one person,” she sassed.

Your mouth turned down to a frown for a brief moment, “I talked to someone.”

“Oh yeah? What was his name.”

Your mouth opened and closed a couple of times as you realized quickly you’d never even got Mr. Blue-Eyes name, “Shit.”

“What?”

“I didn’t even get Mr. Blue-Eyes name!”

“It’s Bucky.”

Turning around there stood Mr. Blue-Eyes himself, err… you meant Bucky. There was no doubt your embarrassment showed on your face, but the little nervous laugh that slipped out sealed the deal.

Bucky smiled at you, “That is if it’s me you were talking about?”

Wetting your lips you shifted, suddenly nervous before meeting friendly blue eyes, “Yeah,” you squeaked before clearing your throat. “I mean, yes. I’m sorry I missed your name when we talked.”

He was nodding for a brief moment, his eyes darting over towards the bar before taking a few steps closer to you and leaning down. “There’s a restaurant down the street. They’ve got pretty good sushi. You want to get the hell out of here?”

“Oh, my god yes!” The tips of your ears felt hot as you wished the ground would open up and swallow you whole but Bucky didn’t seem to notice your embarrassment. Instead, he offered up his right arm and you looped yours into it without hesitation.

Melody’s brow shot up out of surprise, “B-but that was only the first round! There are still two more.”

“I don’t think we need a round two,” Bucky said, the same charming smile pulling at the corner of his mouth and making his eyes crinkle.

“Yeah,” you laughed, in a teasing tone. “This round just might go to Cupid after all.”

Three years later.

Lights twinkled in the living room of your apartment, it was god awful early and you’d carefully planned today. Christmas day and you’d been waiting for this moment for two years now. Quickly and quietly you snuck out of the bedroom where Bucky lay wrapped up in the blankets and made your way to the front closet.

It was hard being sneaky when your boyfriend was a super spy. But after a lot of careful planning, misdirections, and a lot of help from Sam, you’d managed to do it and Bucky was none the wiser.

Tiptoeing towards the hall closet that Bucky never used you opened the squeaky hinged door in just the way so it made no noise. Reaching blindly into the black of the closet you felt around, past the dozen unused coats, jackets, scarves, and hats your hand met the back of the closet wall. Sliding quietly until your fingers brushed the cold metal you were looking for.

Jackpot.

Fingers wrapped around your prize as you gave a firm but gentle tug. A pristine, adult-sized, bright red and creamy wood seat Flex Flyer sled emerged complete with an enormous red bow.

Stifling a giggle you set it down.

“What are you doing?”

A shriek tore out of your throat as you jumped what felt like twenty feet in the air.

“James Barnes,” you scolded, heart beating a million miles an hour. “What have I said about sneaking up on me?”

“You were being sneaky first,” he said, brows drawn together as he tried to look around you. “What you hiding doll face?”

“Nothing!” You lied, spreading your arms and legs to hide your surprise gift.

It was at that moment you heard the vibration from Bucky’s phone clutched in his hand, the man tried to not look sheepish as he not so covertly pressed the silence button.

Suspicion immediately filled you, “Bucky? What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” He shot back, his brow knits in suspicion.

It was a standoff.

The two of you staring each other down in the dark of the hallway in your matching Christmas pajamas. Someone knocking on the front door startled you both before Bucky cursed under his breath, pointing at you, “Don’t follow me.”

His instruction surprised you as he brushed past you in the small hallway. You scoffed under your breath, “You’re in your PJ’s Buck, how far are you going?”

Bucky paused before going around the corner, “I mean it.” There was another soft but hurried knock and he cursed before disappearing.

A tisk of disapproval escaped you, but urgency filled your movements the second he was out of sight. Hands shaking slightly you hurried, pulling the sled out from the closet with as much silence as you could muster before dashing the Christmas tree. Stuffing the sled behind the tree, a few bulbs swinging back and forth as you fumbled to fluff the crumpled bow on Bucky’s surprise.

A cacophony of hushed grumbles and whispers came from the front door, you could have sworn you heard Sam as the door closed with a thunk and the lock turned. In a matter of seconds Bucky was coming around the corner again, an enormous gold box gripped in his hands affixed with a brilliant glittering green bow.

It was clear that Bucky didn’t see you immediately as he juggled the wobbly box and tried to remain quiet as he did so.

“Whatcha, got there?”

Bucky startled, socked feet skidding to a halt just at the corner of the couch as the box wobbled in his hands again. Frustrated and accusatory blue eyes narrowed, “What are you doing in here?” He asked in a hushed whisper.

“What are you doing in here?”

“You better not be shaking presents.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “I’ll have you know I haven’t shaken a present since I was ten. What’s in the box, Jamie?”

Bucky flinched a little, his one weakness was when you called him Jamie. His shoulders sagged a little as his grip on the box tightened, “This was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Oh I’m surprised,” you said with a laugh. The mantle clock began to ding for the early morning hour. Five AM came so early now. “Do you want to open our gifts now?”

Bucky pursed his lips, body jerking as the box tried to throw itself from his hands. “I think now is best.”

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach at the prospect of what the box could contain. But your eyes flitted over to the space behind the tree where you’d stuffed Bucky’s surprise and the anxious feeling grew tenfold as you thought about the question you were going to ask him once he’d seen it.

Clearing his throat Bucky nodded towards the Christmas tree and the traditional present opening space. Dutifully you sat down in the chair, eyes darting over behind the tree to where your gift sat. “Um, mine's not wrapped.”

“That’s alright,” he said, setting the box at your feet as it rattled all on its own now that it was on the floor. “Where is mine and we’ll do them on the count of three.”

“Alright,” you agreed, fingers tapping the edges of your box. “Yours is behind the tree.”

You saw his eyes dart over to the tree and then back down to you, “On three.”

“Alright,” you agreed, fingers poised to rip at the bow on top of the gift. “One.”

“Two,” Bucky echoed, taking a step closer to the tree.

“Three!”

Your fingers began tearing at the bow on top of the gift box as it rattled against the floor. Pushing back the loose gold paper and terrible tape job before, POP!

Two of the most adorable brown eyes you’d ever seen stared up at you. You were stunned for a moment, staring down at the cutest little paws and wet nose you’d ever laid your eyes on.

“OHMYGODAPUPPY!!”

The shrieking sob spilled past your lips as you pulled the squirming pup into your arms, its tiny tongue licking and sniffing all over your face and mouth. Tears spilled from your eyes as the little bundle in your arms wiggled, squirmed, and kissed your face everywhere; its bottom wiggling so much they tumbled out of your arms and into your lap.

“Oh my god,” you blubbered, holding the precious little one to you. “Bucky! He’s so cute. Oh, it’s a she. She’s so cute, James. Oh god! Oh my god, I love her so much. I can't—I can’t believe this! This is real right? Do I get to keep her? Bucky?”

Looking up Bucky was angled away from you, the lights of the Christmas tree gleaming off of his arm as he held onto his new sled. His fingers found the tag as he stared at it in the dim lighting.

He sniffled briefly before he began to read, “Roses are red, violets are blue, do me the—the honor—the honor of spending my life with you?”

Teary blue eyes turned towards you as you held the squirming puppy in your arms. “Doll,” he squeaked out with a sniffle as a few tears began to slip. “You…”

Looking up at him from your seat you reached into the side table drawer pulled out a distinctive black ring box and opened it. Inside, a single simple gold band that had Bucky’s breath catching.

“Will you,” you croaked out, clearing your throat a little more and juggling your new bundle of joy in your arms. “Will you marry me, James Buchanan Barns?”

A laugh escaped Bucky as he lowered the sled to the floor, and then himself. Bucky knelt before you, down on one knee, and reached forward towards the little puppy squirming in your arms. His fingers brushed against a tiny piece of string attached to the bow, you’d missed it but he lifted the dangling object for your inspection. A beautiful golden ring with what had to be the most enormous diamond you’d ever seen.

Your shocked watery gaze met Bucky’s impossibly blue eyes, “Only if you say yes too.”

The puppy leaped down from your lap, content to explore their new apartment as you slid down and onto Bucky’s lap. Arms wrapping around his shoulders and kissing him harder than you ever had before. Warmth blossomed in your chest as Bucky’s lips parted briefly with a light moan, kissing one another with dizzying urgency.

Gasping for air the two of you parted briefly, planting pecking kisses against one another lips.

“Is that a yes,” he husked, his hands sliding up and down your back.

“Yes, it’s a yes, Jamie.”

Grinning up at you, Bucky cradled you against him, “I didn’t know if you’d say yes.”

“Of course I’d say yes,” you whispered, holding onto him tightly. “After all, you did get me that puppy I’ve always wanted.”

A laugh escaped Bucky as he held you tightly and buried his face against your chest, his shoulders shaking in what could only be a relief, “Fuck, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Blue-Eyes.”

END

#bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barns x reader #bucky barns x y/n #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #mcu #TFWS #winter soldier #avengers #bucky barnes #marvel

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toptophat · 14 days ago

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2.6 thoughts!!!!

Spoilers for anyone who hasn't finished it yet!

It was a freaking blast, a rollercoaster of emotions, I honestly thought that Mr Reca, with how cuckoo he was in the trailer, was gonna be the antagonist, turns out he's a quirky memokeeper (who may still have his motives but for now he was definitely an ally) I guess, much like the galaxy rangers, there is no uniform, because I honestly thought they all would have some resemblance to Black Swan, but I can't wait to see more memokeepers, as well as more galaxy rangers

Speaking of galaxy rangers, ok!! Rappa and Boothill were the real protagonists here!!!! Poor trailblazer became a side character to these two champions and I love it!!! I've already made it clear that I adored Rappa from the moment her drip marketing dropped, I initially found her strange way of referring to everything as ninja stuff hilarious and quirky, I thought "are all galaxy rangers gonna talk funny?" But that was my first impression, now I wanna [forking] cry!!! I was already skeptical of this "Master Kucha" from the way he spoke! I didn't know that he was basically like the only parental figure she had, she's one of Dr Primitive's (Evil Ninja Osaru) test subjects in a hidden lab (Ninja capital) having to undergo harmful tests and torture (Ninja trials) this, coupled with the fact that her only source of free time and entertainment has been a ninja manga, she may have developed some sort of mental/ identity disorder, she's been living in a fabricated reality and no one can help her because they don't see the full picture, even her backstory has been distorted by her own retelling making her some sort of unreliable narrator in her own story. Dr Primitive is truly a despicable monster, torturing people and distorting an innocent girl's mind. There's a bright side to this tragedy though! That innocent girl is now our Rappa, and although her mind has been messed with, she still became a righteous galaxy ranger, kindhearted, unmatched skill, hellbent on hunting down the cruel doctor and she definitely lives up to that title too!!! So I'm rooting for her!!! And the moment we got to fight alongside her at the end after hearing "No Dazzle No Break" was gorgeous (can't wait to finish building her so she can continue to show them the way of the ninja!)

Once I finish reading her character story, I'll make a further analysis

Speaking of which, I'm actually gonna make 2!! One for both of our stars of the show, Rappa and Boothill, two people who had to revisit their past, and come to terms with their present and future, living up to the ways of The Hunt! I already deeply respect these two, the more I get of them, the more I can't help but respect them more!!! And I'm definitely excited to get more of them!! Galaxy rangers are the best!!

Boothill's up first because obviously I've already read his backstory so his POV was like an added 5 course meal!!! But I do wanna talk about his best moments (aside from the obvious highlight that blew me away) Firstly, we got more of Boothill the identity stealer (First Pom Pom now March 7th???) Actual Robinhill moments??? (I'm more of a GunsNRoses person now but it's still really cute) The way he was so relieved that he could "fake swear" again instead of the banana cussing was hilarious, Star Rail don't do this to my man, at least give him the "Ninja slang" treatment, let him swear 😭😭 And Boothill owned the dancefloor in the DJ Robin cutscene!!! We have a rapping ninja and a dancing cowboy, could this get any better!!! And obviously, there's the Lore!!!! Which was actually insane !!! I literally wanted to avoid spoilers in order to experience it blindly and it was worth it!!!! I wanted to [fudging] cry, it was so well done!! Andrew Russell and Kendell Byrd knocked it out of the park with their scenes!!! I freaking love Boothill and Rappa so much 😭😭😭 they're both life my dude!!!

This is just what I needed!!!

#hsr 2.6 #boothill #hsr boothill #boothill honkai star rail #boothill is life my dude #rappa #hsr rappa #rappa honkai star rail #rappa is life my dude #galaxy rangers are life my dude #hsr #honkai star rail #spoilers for 2.6 #hsr spoilers

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porcelainseashore · 10 months ago

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Ghosts from the Past (1)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agent! Leon Kennedy x Dancer! Informant! Fem! Reader

Summary: 7 years after leaving behind everything you’ve known, you’re suddenly thrust into facing a ghost from your past, Leon. Navigating where you stand with him brings up old memories, painful truths and countless questions. At the same time, you have to deal with a bunch of strange occurrences at your dance company. Set after Resident Evil 4 Remake.

Warnings: 18+ Swearing, Recreational Drug Use, Alcohol, Eventual Smut, No (Y/N), Canon-Typical Horror and Violence, Blood, Injury, Torture, Infection, Medical Experiments, Psychological Trauma, Nightmares

Content: Post-Resident Evil 4, Exes to Lovers, Partners to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, Romance, Fluff

Author's Note: This fic takes place after Part 1 Teenage Headache Dreams so feel free to give that a read first. Note that I might get a little creative with RE lore and chapter updates could be longer than before, so please bear with me. Thank you to all those who gave feedback and followed me on this journey so far! 🫶

AO3 Link

Chapter 1: The Invitation

7 years.

7 years since you last saw him.

But he hasn’t stopped haunting you.

You were stumbling your way through the sweaty crowd in one of the nightclubs you usually patronized. The thumping electronic beats resounded in your ears, as throngs of people writhed and shook to the music, raising their open palmed hands towards the DJ, like they were praying to some demigod. The room was bathed in a swathe of dark red light, and you were parting it like a sea of blood.

Dark kohl liner accentuated your eyes and your lips were the color of bruised plum, smudged slightly due to the humidity of the place. Your body was slick with perspiration, glittering under the lights, and it was barely covered by pieces of lace and a leather harness. A random guy pulled up next to you, whispering lewd nothings in your ear as you shoved him aside nonchalantly.

You were drugged up, high out of your mind, but everyone else was anyway, so why did you even care? Something instinctual told you to get to the middle, no matter what. So here you were, pushing your way through unapologetically, like you were on some unspoken mission.

And there he was. In the center. Blonde hair, blue eyes, t-shirt and jeans, just like you remembered him, as if time had not passed at all. As if it was only yesterday.

He stared at you intensely, wearing a scowl on his face, unspeaking. You noticed how tired he looked, like he just wanted to end it right there and then. So tired.

Maybe it was like those indigenous myths you had read about in class when you were young. The saying was that if one faces death, death has no choice but to grant them a final dance. Were you now in the shoes of death, frozen to the spot, watching him so he could cross over to the other side? Except, he wasn’t dancing. He remained there, completely still, eyeing you emotionlessly.

“Leon…” you mouthed, as your voice was drowned out by the blaring sound system.

The next moment, he disappeared into thin air like a shadowed specter, a faded memory of what you once had.

Suddenly, everything around you erupted in flames, the bright light dazzling you and the scorching heat against your skin causing you to shrink away in fear. Your lungs felt like they were suffocating as you coughed vehemently due to the thick smoke that enveloped you. What the hell was all of this?

As you attempted to make a run for the exit, you noticed piles of bloodied-up bodies lying on the floor, surrounding you in a tight circle. Tripping over them, your eyes widened in shock as you began to recognize who they belonged to. There lay your parents, Leon’s parents, Kayla and the rest of the cheerleaders… the count went on as you frantically tried to shuffle yourself backwards, away from the source of terror, until you heard a deafening screech tearing through your eardrums.

BRRRNNGGG!!!

The sound of your alarm clock jolted you from your sleep. Hitting the ‘off’ button in response, you cursed out loud as your body shuddered uncontrollably. Your blanket and sheets were wet and clammy with puddles of your sweat. Trying to calm yourself, you took a quick gulp of water from the glass sitting on your bedside table and started to slow your breathing down.

Why were these dreams getting more and more frequent? You’d see Leon each time and then everything would turn to shit. There was just so much carnage and destruction back there, it nearly felt real.

You turned accusingly towards the framed photo of you and Leon back when you had posed together for your college graduation, still standing upright on your bedside table. Gripping it tightly till your knuckles were white, you opened one of the table drawers and chucked it inside, watching it clatter into the darkness as you shut the drawer back roughly.

Fuck, Leon! Why? You cried out internally, begging him to stop with the nightmares. Cradling your head in your hands, you broke out into sobs, whilst at the same time chiding yourself for not moving on from him all these years.

Bzzzt bzzzt. The burner phone on your desk interrupted your thoughts abruptly.

You sighed, picking yourself up from the bed and groggily trudging towards it. Flipping the phone open, you were greeted by yet another cryptic text from your handler.

The Chancery. Cocktail event. Tonight 7pm.

Right. Not like she would give you any more information on what this was about. As an informant, you were on a need-to-know basis and had to be happy with whatever scraps you got.

Your mind took a trip down memory lane of how you even landed in such a position in the first place. Ever since that fateful day where you decided to leave and never turn back, you used up whatever savings you had and ran all the way from the Midwest of America to the capital of Germany. There, you naturally fell into the arms of the renowned Silje Völker dance company, who had welcomed you so warmly you even forgot about her peculiar, icy demeanor back when she had scouted you from the dance showcase.

You thought moving to another country and making a new life there would help ease the pain of losing Leon, but you were wrong. Still, it couldn’t be worse than remaining in the place where the catastrophe happened and everything reminded you of him.

Then, about a year ago, some men in black suits handed you their card, reaching out with a proposition. Work for the US government as an informant. We need people like you, they said. There was something fishy going on with Silje, a wealthy, eccentric heiress, and artistic director of the dance company you were part of. She even owned the theater where your training and performances were conducted, and that venue was now under suspicion. As you had worked your way up to become one of her principal dancers, you were now in a prime position to gather the information they needed.

They were just so convincing. It reminded you of what Leon had said when he was younger. About wanting to protect the innocent and make a difference in the world. With that, you didn’t even think; you just said yes.

Yes. To honor the memory of the boy you loved. Yes. If only you could have just said that one word to him, and to whatever he wanted. Yes.

So now you sought to betray the woman whom you saw as your surrogate mother. Your mother who had helped you find your way in a foreign country, where you were all alone, afraid and distraught. The one who nurtured you into the woman you were standing here today - bold, cunning and adaptable. It felt like life was playing a cruel trick on you. One you could not win.

After rushing through your daily routine, you gathered your things, slipping off an elegant, black cocktail dress from your hanger and stuffing it into your day bag, before heading out to the theater where you normally spent your waking hours training.

You greeted Silje, or Frau Völker - as she preferred to be called by the other dancers, except you and a select few - on the way in. Silje was a tall and wiry lady, with an aristocratic air about her. She consistently wore her platinum white hair in a tight bun, which pulled tautly against the skin along her jawline. For as long as you’ve known her, she never once took off her pitch black sunglasses, whether outdoors or indoors. Her dull-colored clothes covered her arms and legs fully and expensive leather gloves lined her hands at all times. Despite her fragile figure, she commanded authority and projected an intimidating presence.

As you entered the dance studio, she stopped you, gesturing to the dress peeking out of your bag. “Going somewhere special tonight?”

Nothing could remain hidden from her astute gaze for long.

“Oh, just an international exchange at the embassy,” you lied through a perfect smile.

“How patriotic,” she crooned. You had gotten used to her dark humor and sarcasm by now, so you didn’t pay much attention to it as you shrugged in response.

“Well, enough chit-chat. We have a lot of work to do.” She clapped her hands twice to raise the awareness of the rest of the dance company. “Let’s go through the second part of the Rite, shall we?”

“You-” She pointed a bony finger in your direction. “Need to make those jumps lighter.”

You nodded, acknowledging her criticism that she dished out to you in front of everyone.

“Be in the air, not tied to the ground, my dear.”

As she flashed over a wide, toothy grin, for a split second you were sure that you saw razor sharp fangs emerging from them. However, they were gone the moment you looked back again.

━━━━━━━━━━━

That evening, you exited out of Friedrichstraße station, one of the main shopping districts in central Berlin. The bustling streets were brightly lit against the darkening sky, as you darted in and out of the swarm of human traffic to get to the embassy. Your heels clacked along the pavement as you made a right, hurrying towards a closed off street, which was heavily fortified with barriers and fencing.

From afar, you could make out the five-storey, gabled building with beige stone slabs, and the American flag hanging over its front entrance. One of the guards checked in with you, jotting down some notes against your name on his clipboard as he ushered you indoors.

Dropping off your winter coat and day bag at the makeshift cloakroom, you slipped a couple of spare coins into the tip jar and headed up to the function room. Lively chatter and background music spilled out from its open doors into the corridor you were in.

You checked yourself anxiously in a reflective surface nearby to make any last minute adjustments. Since your handler hadn’t revealed much of why you had been requested, you wanted to make sure you looked the part and fit in, in case you needed to do some sweet talking with, what you might guess, the elite members of society.

Your hands were trembling ever so slightly as you smoothened out imaginary creases in your shimmery, black satin dress which clung snugly to your body, emphasizing your curves. It had a low, backless design that teased just the right amount of bare skin without raising a scandal. Despite that, you were still debating whether it was too little or too much. In fact, the length of the dress reached so close to the floor, it was a wonder you hadn’t had an accident while walking around in it yet. Maybe you should alter the hem of it in the near future.

The sound of the hallway clock chiming at 7 sharp disrupted your inner monologue, as you realized you should adhere to your punctuality. Making the final touches to your loose, tousled bun and swabbing your lips with a light layer of rouge stain, you finally broke away and entered the function room.

Drinks and canapés lined the long, white banquet tables to the side, while men in snazzy suits and women in fine threads gathered around in their cliques, conversing with each other. It felt like you had gone back in time and were thrown into some 70s gala party, where you didn’t know a single soul.

A waiter stopped in front of you carrying a tray of bubbly champagne in tall flute glasses. “Madame?” He offered you one from his delicate hand.

You nodded gratefully, taking it before situating yourself at a corner of the room, sipping your drink slowly. Glancing at your watch, you observed that 15 minutes had passed since the supposed meeting time of 7pm. Scanning the room proved fruitless as you didn’t find anything of note.

Where was your handler, Bergmann? What was this party for? You wondered.

At some point, you felt a shadow loom over you from your left shoulder, but you didn’t have a chance to react until it spoke.

“Talk about seeing a ghost from the past.”

Your ears perked up at the voice that you would recognize anywhere, except it sounded deeper and gruffer this time.

No, it couldn’t be…

Alarm bells started to ring in your head, as you tried to convince yourself that this was one of your nightmares again. Maybe you had fallen asleep on the U-Bahn and now you were lucid dreaming.

You pinched your arm, not daring to look in the direction of the source of the voice. This was just a dream.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna help.”

Or not.

Your breath hitched as you turned sharply to your left, coming face-to-face with a pair of electric blue eyes set in a hollow stare, the dark circles under them giving away his fatigue. His chiseled face was marred by a cut he was nursing on his bottom lip, and his mop of blonde hair was almost like how you remembered it, but longer at the bangs and lighter in color as if it had been bleached in the sun. He was also suited up, black this time, but you could tell he had grown bulkier and more muscular underneath.

How was this possible? What was going on?

You couldn’t even begin to comprehend the scene in front of you, as everything around the room began to spin and your vision blurred. There was the sound of a glass breaking, and the last thing you were conscious of was a strong set of arms wrapping around you, followed by a yell, “Give her some air!”

Then darkness came to claim you.

━━━━━━━━━━━

There was something wet on your face and what felt like a cold breeze, causing a shiver to run through your spine. Then, you sensed a light tapping against your cheek.

“Hey, hey. Wake up.”

Your eyes fluttered open and you were met again with those vivid blue eyes. As you came to, you realized that you were out on one of the balconies, your head propped up by his suit jacket while you lay on the ground.

He held out a glass of water in his hand. “Here.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows until you came into a sitting position, before taking it from him gingerly. Your body was still shaking as you drank from the glass and at this, he took his jacket and placed it over your shoulders to cover you.

“Thanks,” you managed weakly.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, while carefully helping you to your feet.

There was a moment of silence as both of you eyed each other without a word. However, it seemed as if he wasn’t surprised to see you, which was weird.

“Leon,” you stuttered. “How-”

The balcony door slid open.

“Ah, there you are!” A young man with a communication earpiece, whom you assumed was one of the staff members, called out.

He glanced between the two of you knowingly. “I see you’ve gotten acquainted.”

“Bergmann will see you now.” He signaled towards the elevators past the crowd.

Leon gave him a quick nod. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered in your ear as you followed the man leading you towards the top floor of the building.

Passing by an unassuming door on the fifth level, he rapped it thrice and you heard the distinct tone of Bergmann informing you to come in. He pushed the door and held it open for both of you before he left.

A woman in her late 40s with curly, auburn ringlets and donning a light gray pantsuit greeted you and Leon.

“Kirsten Bergmann,” she introduced herself while shaking Leon’s hand.

“Leon Kennedy.”

“Of course,” she smirked. “USSTRATCOM’s golden boy.”

You were confused, but started to piece together bits of the conversation. Leon had been alive and working for the government this whole time?

“So you’ve met my informant.” Bergmann motioned at you. “She seems to have a flair for making a spectacle of herself recently.” She frowned disapprovingly, referring to the incident that happened earlier that evening.

You bowed your head in embarrassment, but Leon appeared completely indifferent.

“Anyway, Hunnigan will be joining us on comms shortly.”

With that, she turned to one of the screens in the room which had been switched on and was showing a connecting symbol. A few seconds later, a bespectacled lady with her hair neatly tied back appeared on it.

“Hunnigan here. Shall we get to it?”

Bergmann took the lead on the discussion.

“My informant will be an invaluable asset to Agent Kennedy’s mission. She has nestled herself deep within the target company and gained the trust of Ms Silje Völker, who has started to, on her own accord, disclose further information in confidentiality to my informant. All the intel has been fed back to HQ.”

Pressing a button, Bergmann brought up a blueprint map of the theater on another screen, except this had additional markings on it in your own handwriting.

“As you can see, exploration of the target site has shown multiple hidden passageways, false doors and even additional depths absent in the original plans. A copy of this has already been forwarded to all of you.”

This time, Bergmann turned to face you, folding her arms as she continued.

“In addition, my informant has secured various key connections that will prove the validity of our findings and help Agent Kennedy gain a foothold on getting access into the target site easily.”

“We are certain this is the base of operations,” she added, almost triumphantly.

“And I shouldn’t have to remind you how this case needs to be handled with the utmost discretion,” she warned, gazing strictly at Leon and Hunnigan.

“We have to ensure that US-German relations remain solid and the last thing we want is for this thing to blow up in the public. Much less in the capital.”

“Understood,” came Hunnigan’s unwavering reply. “I’m sure Leon will be able to manage that.”

“Perfect,” Bergmann replied, looking rather satisfied with herself. “My informant will work closely with you on this. There are sights to see, people to meet, and she will accompany you-”

“With all due respect, I don’t need a babysitter.” Leon suddenly piped up from the middle of the room.

You watched in astonishment, your jaw falling ajar, as he insulted you in front of your colleagues. His harsh words stung you inside. It seemed as if he hated you, and wanted nothing to do with you. But why?

“I am more than capable of finishing this myself,” he continued firmly.

Bergmann’s brows furrowed and her nostrils flared, as she looked at Leon like she was about to reprimand a child. “I assure you, she-”

“Take her off the case,” he demanded.

“Agent Kennedy!” Bergmann raised her voice. “That’s not your decision to make.”

From the intercoms, Hunnigan concurred, “I’m sorry, Leon. It’s been endorsed by the higher ups.”

“This is fucking bullshit.” He smacked his hand on a nearby table in defeat.

A tiny smile appeared on Bergmann’s face and you knew she had a trick up her sleeve. “Besides, Agent, how good is your German?”

He glared at her pointedly. “Good enough.”

She laughed mockingly and proceeded to speak with him in German, using a mixture of complex and colloquial sentences, which you noted that Leon was having a fair amount of difficulty processing. Then she turned to you, indicating that you should answer, and you complied with her order obediently.

“She’s fluent, even passable as a native.” Bergmann remarked smugly. “You, on the other hand, won’t last a day with that grasp of the language.”

Leon didn’t respond, but instead resorted to shooting daggers at her.

“Well, now that part’s over and done with, let’s move on to the logistics.” Bergmann stated simply, as if the previous altercation had never occurred.

She pushed forward, briefing you and Leon on the capacity in which you two should work together, how to approach comms, backstories and the like, including the next steps required in the task ahead.

At the end, she requested you to step outside and wait for Leon on the ground floor, as she relayed further details to him that you were not privy to. You had grown accustomed to this sort of treatment, even if you didn’t like secrets being withheld from you. So you waited patiently on one of those stiff, high-back wooden chairs in the lobby, for the man you thought had been a ghost all this while to find you.

How did he survive? Why didn’t he say anything? Was he still upset about the past? Is that why he had treated you with such venom at the meeting? You had a million questions running through your head. Nothing made sense. Maybe the only reason why you weren’t having a mental breakdown at the moment was because you knew you had a job to do.

“Something on your mind?”

You whipped around, startled by the unexpected intrusion. It was Leon, regarding you with curiosity despite the constant scowl on his face.

You sighed, catching your breath and lowering your hands that had been clutched at your chest. “Wanna start talking?”

“Not here,” he replied. “Somewhere less open.” He glanced around before adding, “More rowdy.”

You nodded, understanding that he wanted a place without prying ears. “There’s a grimy bar that’s always packed to the brim in Neukölln. No one will give a shit there.”

He scoffed. “Sounds like my type of bar.”

Pointing at his attire, you commented, “You gotta get out of that suit though. Not unless you want to attract some attention.”

He leaned against the wall, allowing his bangs to fall over his eyes as he folded his arms and smirked at you. “Suits me.”

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy fluff #re4 leon #re4 remake #resident evil 4 #resident evil #fic: ghosts from the past #porcelainscribbles

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simsfvr · 27 days ago

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This is Tiago Pecholobo for Simply Lilac BC by @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants Tiago Pecholobo is a man with a chest as hairy as his last name suggests (Pecholobo translates to "Wolfchest") and a pompadour that defies gravity.

This charmer is a master in the art of wearing open shirts (because why button up when you can dazzle?). His gold chain isn’t just an accessory, he wears it like a "Bachelor of the Year medal" (a title he’s awarded himself for the past five years, naturally).

As if that weren’t enough, Tiago proudly showcases a collection of figurines so bizarre they could have their own horror movie. He affectionately dubs it an "artistic conversation starter", although it often leaves people speechless.

Tiago is searching for the love of his life, and after years of fruitless searching and relationships shorter than the number of closed buttons on his shirts, he doesn't want to miss the chance to try his luck with Lilac.

Name: Tiago Pecholobo Age Group: Young Adult Pronouns: He/Him Orientation: Hetero Skills: - Traits: Cringe, Overachiever, Hot-headed Aspiration: City Native Likes: affection, jokes, backyard music, pranks, deep thoughts, white, gossip, flirtation, singer songwriter music, hip hop music, blue, metal music, complaints, alternative music, carnival beats music, physical intimacy, electronica music, dj booth music, compliments, potty humor, silly behavior, arguments, small talk, soul music, gray. Dislikes: black, lullabies radio music, deception, winter holiday music, easy listening music, kids radio music. Gifts: goat, lump of clay, photo camera Misc: His motto is: Where there's hair, there's joy… and I've got an endless supply. He loves to wear lipbalm.

Watcher

Are you comfortable with your pixel person:

Flirting with other contestants? (The bachelorette will have the ‘player’ trait cheated and her boundaries set to no jealousy, so it will not impact your sim’s relationship with her.) Y

WooHooing other contestants? N

Flirting with/and or woohooing NPCs? Y

Flirting with the host? Y

Changes to traits via gameplay prompts? (ie. Evil to Good, depending on what your Sim does, or adding traits) Y

Becoming an occult? Y

#the sims 4 #ts4 #simply lilac #tiago pecholobo #sims 4 #the sims

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walkingintheheartbreaksatellite · 1 year ago

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Lover

(Harry Styles x Fem! swiftie! Reader)

Summary: Harry asks Taylor to perform Lover at his wedding as a surprise to his wife.

Contents: Mild angst, cringey fluffiness, dirty joke(bestlifeonline.com), mentions of insecurities, mentions of past relationship, cursing

(Ya’ll can thank Miss. Taylor Alison Swift for this idea. Came to me during the Eras film.)

I did it. Sitting at this table with Harry, during our wedding reception, all my dreams have come true.

“Y/N… Y/N!”

I shake my head, turning my attention to Harry who’s looking at me expectantly.

“Hm?”

He laughs and squeezes my hand.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Mrs. Styles?”

I blush and shrug my shoulders.

“I don’t know, just kind of lost in my thoughts honestly. We’re here… We made it H. Like can you believe that?”

He smiles and shakes his head, squeezing my hand. Before he can respond, the DJ announces something over the microphone.

“Ladies and gentleman, please join me in welcoming the happy couple in their first dance! If the bride and groom could make their way out to the dance floor!”

Harry stands and takes my hand, leading me to the dance floor with a smile. He positions his hands and wraps them around my waist as I wrap my arms around his neck. The music starts to play but every other second, it skips.

I start to tear up, frustrated that my perfect moment could be ruined. Harry sighs and kisses my forehead before he lets me go and heads over to the DJ’s station, no doubt to figure out what’s going on.

I see him physically sigh from across the room and I frown, looking down at the floor as I try to hide my tears. A few minutes later, he takes me back into his arms and holds me close with a smile.

“I thought-.”

He shakes his head and just presses his forehead against mine before he whispers softly.

“It’s fine. Trust me.”

Before I can respond, I hear someone tapping on a microphone. I turn my head to the small stage and see none other than Taylor Swift. With a guitar in her hand.

“Is this thing on? Oh okay cool it is! Hi guys! My name’s Taylor and I’ve been given the tremendous honor to sing this song for these two amazing people here. It means so much to me that this song means everything to them and their relationship. Please join me in welcoming Mr. and Mrs. Harry and Y/N Styles.”

I look at Harry, my eyes tearing up as he smiles.

“You did this?”

He pecks my lips and smiles but he doesn’t respond. He just pulls me closer as she begins to play and sing.

We could leave the Christmas lights up 'til January

And this is our place, we make the rules

“Harry… I can’t believe you did this- Did you- Did you plan this?”

He laughs and shrugs.

“Maybe yes, maybe no. You’ll never know though.”

I laugh and shake my head and he spins me around with a loving smile.

And there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear

Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?

Flashback, 3 years before:

“Y/N, I’m sorry this isn’t exactly what I planned… I just wanted tonight to be perfect and now-.”

I smile and shake my hand, placing a hand over his. I look around and spot an ice cream shop across the street.

“It’s okay. I’m here spending time with you. It doesn’t matter what we do. How about we go get some ice cream? Nothing could go wrong with ice cream.”

He laughs and nods, taking my hand and leading me to the shop. We head inside and order our ice cream, then stand to the side while we wait. A familiar song comes on the radio and I start to him and sing along to it.

“You’re my my my… lover.”

Harry takes my hand before I know it, he’s pulling me into his arms and spinning me around the ice cream shop at almost midnight. I laugh and dance with him, enjoying the odd but sweet moment between us.

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

“Do you remember our first date? What made you pull me in?”

He purses his lips before he smiles and answers.

“I dunno really. It just felt right. My body moved faster than my mind did. But we sure surprised them, didn’t we? Dancing at practically midnight in an empty shop, just because we wanted to. We’ve always been like that, haven’t we?”

I laugh and nod as he twirls me around before he pulls me in closer than before, resting his for forehead against mine.

And ah, take me out, and take me home

You're my, my, my, my

Lover

“Y/N… I know I’ve told you this… Multiple times in fact… But you are one of a kind… Everyday I just fall more and more in love with you, whether we’re dancing in the kitchen, watching a movie, attending one of my numerous events or even just sitting quietly together. I love you Y/N. I’ve… I’ve never known what true love feels like until I met you. And I never want to lose what we have…”

I tear up and try to blink away my tears before I peck his lips a few times.

“Dummy… What did I say about making me cry today of all days?”

He laughs and pecks my lips. His hands move to my waist and he lowers me down, dipping me before he pulls me close again.

We could let our friends crash in the living room

This is our place, we make the call

Flashback, Christmas 2 years ago:

“I love your room, H. It’s so boyish and adorable. Makes me almost want to squish you.”

He groans and shakes his head before he plops on the bed on to his back.

“Mum hasn’t touched anything since I left. She leaves mine and Gem’s rooms the way the are and I have a feeling it’s for this exact reason.”

I smile and lay down next to him, resting my head on his chest before looking up at him.

“It’s sweet. You’re her babies. Of course she would leave them. I’m sure my mom would’ve too if we’d had a housing growing up.”

He sighs and pulls me on top of him so i now rest my chin on his chest.

“I shouldn’t have let you talk me out of hosting Christmas. I have plenty of room and a bigger bed! It also would’ve saved me the embarrassment!”

I laugh and shake my head. Before I can respond, Anne, Harry’s mom, pops her head through the doorway with a smile.

“Hey you two! We’ve got snacks and some tea downstairs! Why don’t you come warm up! Gemma wants to finish decorating the tree!”

I smile and nod, getting off of Harry before holding out my hand for him to take.

And I'm highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all

Flashback, 6 months ago:

“Y/N, I promise! We’re just friends! I would never want to be with her again!”

I frown and keep my back to him, refusing to look at him.

“But you know she’s better for you. She fits in better with your lifestyle and it’s obvious she still wants you… Maybe you really are better off with her…”

He groans and grabs my shoulders, turning me around forcefully.

“I’m not with her. I haven’t been for years! Nor would I want to! We’re better as friends! And before I go into all the reasons why it should be you, I’ll tell you why it’s not her. I care for her deeply… But she’s not down to earth like you are. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to work hard for what you want. Everything is handed to her. But you? My god… My Y/N. Your heart, your soul, your determination and your will… You never give up. You put your mind on something and there really is no stopping you. Your promotion at work, moving to London to be with me after only 8 months together. You have lived such a painful life and look at you. You are one of the strongest people I know. You inspire me to be the man I want to be… And that man loves you. All of you. So i don’t want to hear any more about how you think you’re not good enough. Fuck the fame. It’s nothing without love. The only words I want to hear are ‘I do’. Yeah?”

I sigh and give him a small smile.

“I should really know better by now. Every time I feel insecure, you always seem to burn me and love me all at once.”

He laughs and wraps his arms around me, kissing my forehead.

“Good. No more being mean to my girl.”

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

You're my, my, my, my

Lover

Flashback, Harry’s 29th birthday:

“Happy Birthday old man.”

He rolls his eyes and laughs before he hugs me.

“Y/N, don’t start. I’m 29..”

I laugh and hug him tight.

“He’s 29 folks! Twenty noine!”

“We’re never watching that episode of New Girl ever again. Well, at least until you turn 29. I’ll be playing it on a loop that day.”

I snort and shake my head, pecking his lips.

“Y/N…?”

I look him in the eyes an hum. His eyes soften and he smiles.

“Thanks for coming with me… I know it hasn’t been easy… But having you with me…It means everything to me. I love you.”

I smile and peck his lips softly.

“I go where you go.”

Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand?

With every guitar string scar on my hand

I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover

Flashback, a year and a half ago:

“Hey… H? Can you teach me how to play guitar?”

His eyes widen and he smiles before nodding enthusiastically.

“Of course I will, love! But why the sudden interest?”

I shrug and smile.

“I don’t know. I mean I already know who to play ukulele. Couldn’t be much different. And honestly I really want to learn how to play Push. You know how much I love Matchbox.”

He laughs and nods. He grabs a nearby guitar and pats his lap, motioning me to sit. I quickly do as he says and he starts to position my hands on the guitar, strumming it softly as he does so.

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

All's well that ends well to end up with you

Swear to be overdramatic and true to my lover

Flashback, 3 months into their relationship:

“Y/N L/N I swear! You are the most overdramatic person I know! And that’s saying something!”

He laughs and shakes his head as he looks at me, my eyes welling up with tears.

“I’m sorry! It’s just so sad! They could’ve been so good together and look at how miserable they are!”

I wipe my tears and Harry shakes his head, laughing.

“That’s Klaus’ fault! And Caroline’s not miserable! She has Stephan and she’s pregnant! She’s literally a pregnant vampire!”

“They could’ve been amazing and I’m not sorry for crying! This is why I don’t watch this with you because you love to tease me!”

He laughs and hugs me, kissing the side of my head.

“That may be true, but I love you’re overdramatic ways. Cry. I’ll be hear to wipe your tears away.”

And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me

And at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover

Flashback, 6 months ago:

“Psst. Y/N. Y/N!”

I groan and advert my eyes from my phone to look at him, only to see a devilish grin on his face.

“What?”

He smiles even more before he whispers to me.

“What’s the difference between a G-spot and a golf ball?”

I groan and look at him.

“What, was Niall bored again?”

“Just answer the question Y/N!”

I sigh and look at him.

“I don’t know, what?”

He smiles and whispers again.

“A guy will actually search for a golf ball!”

I groan and Harry laughs, throwing his head back into the couch.

“Tell Niall to find some new material because that joke was not a hole in one.”

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

Flashback, 6 month anniversary:

“No matter how many times we go out, taking you home has to be my favorite part.”

I give him a look of shock and his own mouth drops, realizing what he just said.

“No! I just meant! I just meant that.. When I take you home… I give you a kiss goodnight… I always sleep better with a kiss goodnight. Honestly I wish you just lived with me so I could kiss you goodnight and good morning everyday…”

My mouth gapes in complete shock.

“A-Are you.. are you asking?”

He looks in my eyes and purses his lips, giving me a small nod.

“I-I know we’ve only been dating six months but… I love you Y/N L/N… I’m serious about us. More than I ever have been with anyone else… You can say no… I’ll understand-.”

I grab his cheeks and pull him down to my level, wrapping my arms around him as I kiss him passionately. He smiles into the kiss and wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me up slightly.

After a minute or so I pull away for air and Harry smiles, resting his forehead against mine.

“I love you Harry…So much.”

He smiles, pecking my lips lightly before hugging me again.

A couple weeks later:

I wake up to the sun in my eyes and arms wrapped tightly around my waist. I slowly turn to see a sleepy, smiling Harry. He squeezes me in his arms and pecks my lips softly.

“Good morning, love.”

I smile and snuggle up close to him before whispering back to him.

“Good morning, boyfriend.”

You're my, my, my, my

Oh, you're my, my, my, my

Darling, you're my, my, my, my

Lover

Present, the wedding reception:

Harry holds my close, one hand holding my hand as the other remains secured to my waist. As Taylor finishes singing, harry softly whispers the last few lyrics to me before her kisses me. In the moment, nothing else mattered. It’s like it was just us and no one else was around…

6 years later, 6 year wedding anniversary:

I wake up, groaning as I turn only to be met by a small, look alike of my husband.

“Hi mommy.”

I smile and take Riley into my arms, hugging her tight as she giggles.

Riley Anne Styles, our honeymoon baby. Shortly after we came home from our honeymoon, I discovered I was pregnant after repeatedly getting sick while I was trying to get my some done. She’s 5 years old and an exact copy of her daddy. She’s a mommy’s girl, and is always close to my side.

“Good morning, my little bug.”

Riley groans as she wiggles in my arms.

“Mommy! I told you! I’m a big girl! I’m not little! Jude is little…”

She pouts and I smile, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“That may be true, but you’ll always be my little bug. Just embrace it, love bug.”

I sit up and get out of bed, carrying Riley as I walk out of the bedroom and downstairs, where the smell of eggs and coffee waft through the house. I set Riley down and she paddles her feet over to her daddy, who’s holding our son, Jude, while cooking at the stove.

Jude Edward Styles. A carbon copy of myself and our unplanned miracle. I was on bed rest my last trimester because of complications and he spent a few weeks in the NICU. He’s our little fighter and a daddy’s boy through and through. He’s only a year and a half but he’s so lively, you can’t but smile when you see him.

“Daddy! I woke up mommy!”

Harry turns around and sighs when he sees me.

“Ri- I told you not to wake up mummy, remember?”

Riley frowns and tears up a little. Harry sighs once again, turns off the burner and moves the pan to the back burner before turning around.

“It’s okay lovie, but remember, sometimes mummy needs to sleep. Remember how she’s been gone because of work? She was really sleepy and she got home pretty late last night…”

“Baby it’s okay. I slept great and I feel fine. C’mere bug, it’s okay.”

I kneel down and Riley runs over to me, flinging herself in my arms.

“It’s okay, love bug. Know one is mad at you. Right daddy?”

Harry smiles and nods. He fixes his hold of Jude before he walks over to us and kneels to my level.

“Sorry love, I just-.”

I kiss his cheek and shake my head, smiling.

“I know, and I appreciate you for doing that. But I feel fine. I missed you and I missed the kids… I didn’t want to be gone so long, especially because of our anniversary but work just kind of got out of control-.”

Harry pecks my lips and takes my free hand in his, squeezing it.

“I know, my love, I know. But you’re home. And I have so much planned for tonight, I just need to take the kids to mum’s-.”

“I love that you made so many big plans, I do… But- Can we maybe keeps the kids tonight? Do our anniversary dinner another night..?”

Harry smiles and nods.

“Of course. I know better after 6 years of marriage and 2 years of dating that you hate fancy restaurants for special occasions. I was going to cook your favorite and we were just gonna stay in and do- things…”

I laugh and shake my head.

“Last I checked, this is our anniversary, not just mine. Do I have any more say in what we do?”

He laughs and nods.

“Well, go ahead Mrs. Styles. What did you have in mind?”

Harry sets Jude in his lap and he crawls over to me with a drooly, toothy smile. I take him into my arms so I now have both my babies in my lap.

“I want a day with all my babies. Like we used to before we both went back to work…”

He smile and nods, before he pulls out his phone. He makes a quick call and just like that, we have a day full of family time. We go to all of our family places, and for the first time in a while, everything felt… normal. We spend the morning at the kid’s favorite interactive museum and then get some lunch before hitting the park. The kids manage to exhaust themselves so we take them home and put them down to nap. Normally, Riley doesn’t nap but she doesn’t sleep the greatest when Harry or I have to travel for work, so we decided to let her sleep.

We set them down in the tent in their playroom, and before I leave the room, I see Jude cuddle up to Riley and my heart melts. I snap a quick picture and fix their blanket to cover them more before I leave the room. I walk out to the living room to see Harry on the couch, his legs propped up on the davenport as he scrolls the the channels. I sit down next to him and curl up next to him, kicking my shoes off so I can curl my knees up. Harry wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close before pressing a kiss to my head.

“They’re out cold. Jude was cuddling Ri when I left and I kid you not H, I almost cried.”

He laughs a little and sighs.

“Missed you lover, we all did. But it was nice getting some one on one time with them. I tried getting Ri to sleep in her bed but she wasn’t having it. She missed you. Always cried after you hung up at bedtime. But mum came over and had a tea party with her. They managed to get Jude to join them but of course, that lead to them fighting over crowns and then he demolished the tea party in his dragon costume.”

I snort and shake my head.

“Of course he did. He’d live in that thing if he could.”

We cuddle and after about an hour, the kids wake up. We play in the backyard and have a nice, family dinner. After bath time, the kids are off to bed. As expected, Riley demands I read her a story and tuck her in, leaving Harry to handle Jude.

“Mommy, read more!”

I sigh and give her a small smile.

“Just one more, bug. Then it’s bed time. Now what are we reading?”

She gives me her normal sneaky smile before dropping her bombshell on me.

“Tell me how you and daddy met!”

I sigh and shake my head with a smile.

“Okay, okay fine.”

I lay down next to her, pulling her close as she snuggles up to me.

“So it was a little over 9 years ago. I was on something that you could call an adventure-.”

“Like Bluey mommy?”

I smile and nod.

“Yes, my love. Like Bluey. Anyways, I was on an adventure. I took a break from work and I decided to travel. I couldn’t pick where I wanted to go, so Papa booked me a flight for somewhere. A whole different country! My first day there, I visited this small coffee shop by my hotel and there’s where I met daddy. He was behind me in line and we ended up talking, and the rest, my sweet girl, is history.”

She giggles and cuddles up to me.

“And then you got married and then I was born? And then Jude?”

Before I can respond, Harry’s voice rings through the room.

“That’s right, lovie. And they’ve been the best years of my life.”

Harry’s leaning against the doorway, smiling with his arms folded. He walks over to the small bed and sits down at the edge of the bed.

“Daddy, were you happy?”

He smiles and leans down, pressing a soft kiss to her head before sitting back up.

“Very. Mummy is my best friend and I love her very much. And she gave me you and your brother. Our little family is all I’ve ever wanted and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Now how about we get some shut eye, little miss? You’ve got a big day tomorrow. You’re going to nana’s!”

She smiles and giggles, nodding before she shuts her eyes. I place a kiss to her cheek and she smiles before turning her back to me to face the wall. I get up from the bed and walk out of the room with Harry, quietly closing the door.

We walk upstairs and start our nighttime routine, smiling at each other as we enjoy the silence. We get into bed and I cuddle up to Harry, who pulls me in his arms. We lay there quietly for a minute until Harry speaks up.

“6 years, how crazy is that?”

I laugh and cuddle up to him.

“They’ve been good to us though. I love you more and more each day. And you know? I can’t wait to see what the next six years bring us.”

He lifts me up and lays me on top of him so I see his smiling face.

“I was thinking… How would you feel about trying for another?”

My eyes widen in shock.

“Baby? H, Jude isn’t even 2!”

“But he’s walking and by the time the baby is born, he will be! Lover, please!”

He pouts and gives me his puppy dog eyes. I sigh and peck his lips.

“Fine, fine. I give in.”

He smiles and pecks my lips.

“Did you have a good anniversary, Lover?”

I smile and nod.

“I did, I really did. It was perfect. Thank you, H.”

He nods before his eyes widen and he lifts me off of him, rushing out of bed and into the closet. He comes back a moment later with a medium sized box, wrapped in blue ribbon. My eyes widen and I frown.

“Harry! I thought we agreed no presents!”

He gives me a weak smile and hands me the box anyways.

“I know… but I couldn’t resist!”

I smile and reach into my nightstand, and pull out a small box before handing into him.

“Neither could I.”

He laughs and pecks my lips. We open our gifts at the same time, but I’m more anxious to see his reaction.

“A locket?”

“With me and the kids in it… I have an old coworker who designs them now so.. I designed one and he made it. That way, when you have to go and you get overwhelmed and can’t call… You’ll still have us.”

He tears up and puts it on before bending down to my level and pulling me into a kiss.

“I love it, Y/N. I really do.”

I smile and wipe his tears before pecking his lips again. He then grabs my present off the bed and hands it to me, gesturing me to open it. I sigh and open it slowly. Inside, is a finished brown box, seemingly to be a music box. I open into and tear up at the sound.

“It’s our song…”

He smiles and nudges his head to the box.

“Keep looking.”

I open it more and as a general music box has, there’s a figure inside dancing. But based on the immense detail, it looks like Harry and I on our wedding day. The box is littered with pictures of us with the kids and some with just us. I tear up and set the box down, pulling him into a hug.

He laughs and hugs me tight, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.

“It’s perfect…”

Harry smiles and opens the box, placing it on the bed before he lifts me up and pulls me into his arms.

“Dance with me.”

I laugh and nod, laying my head on his chest as he holds me and we slowly sway. After a few minutes, I readjust and wrap my arms around his neck, our foreheads resting against each other as he softly whispers to me.”

“Darling you’re my, my, my, Lover.”

———————————🩷————————————

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought!!! If you liked this, please feel free to check out my masterlist!

Tag List:

@be-with-me-so-happily @swiftmendeshoran @babyiamperfectforyou @freedomfireflies @kaminokatie @harrysmimi @violetsandfluff @fruitmans @fruitmansrecs @harringtons-honey @rafaaoli @kimmi-kat @erggggggggg @cayleyhannha-blog @acesofspadess @that-mcu-fan @styles-barnes-bitch @purple9950 @justmystyles @itslottiehere @daydreaming-laur @atharryshouse

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koiiiji · 5 months ago

Text

PRESENT

my favourite russian songs + lookism boys (pt.3)

ПОДАРОК (by akyuliych & МP) = Seo Seongeun

tw ; a little suggestive, reader mischievous, slight body description, added song in the end

00:00 - 00:30

i walk into the party. "what the fuck?" the DJ is a total jerk you're dancing alone, and 'm pouring a colorful cocktail into my cup. you're mine tonight let's untie my bow! i'm your present i'm dancing alone, i don't need you i need the keys to your car i'm dancing alone, i don't need you i need the keys to your apartment

Goo knew that it will be hard to catch you, after all you learned a lot from him and Gun, not even taking into account that you have ears and eyes all over the city. to be honest, Goo himself didn’t understand at what moment you managed to build such a huge informant system, literally making yourself a monopolist in this area - not a single sneeze in this city took place without your knowledge, so Goo knew how useful it would be to make you his secret friend in the fight against Charles Choi. however, he also knew that you wouldn't let anyone who works or worked with Charles get within a kilometer of you, and besides, after his last prank on you… his and Gun’s past actions only added fuel to the fire. he knew that there was simply no point in looking for you himself - he remembered how Gun tried to chase you when they were still working together for Charles and he wanted to bring you back to headquarters.

but it was over before it started. after all, you had eyes and ears everywhere, so you disappeared from any place even before Gun got even a few kilometers there, leaving behind only a few hints that you had once been in one place or another…

that's why Goo had few options to contact you and try to bring you to his office for a conversation. at the moment, he knew about your location for tonight (he spent quite huge amount of money so you wouldn't know about that small incident. just don’t tell him that all your girls are always loyal to you. of course you knew what Goo did.), but he was still puzzling over who should be assigned this case? Logan? no, this mattress is too slow and rude, absolutely not the one who is needed for negotiations. Taejin? another gremlin who has...troubles in communicating with women, as far as Goo could tell, especially after that incident in Chongliang. he couldn't go himself, because he knew that you wouldn't listen to him, so the last and only right option was Samuel! handsome, courteous when needed, and the girls are delighted with him always!! God, Goo was so grateful that among the barbarians he hired in the person of Taejin and Logan, he had a ray of hope in the form of Samuel.

Goo gave pretty clear instructions (read - brief concepts about what you look like, where and at what time he can catch you) and to be honest, Samuel didn’t think it would take much time - he just needed to catch some girl in another overly expensive club and drag her to Goo, right? And why, for the gods sake did Joon send him in the first place, couldn’t that ram Logan really cope with all the work? or maybe Taejin? Samuel talked with this overgrown guy a couple of times, he seemed quite suitable for this job - a handsome, stoick face, covered in all sorts of expensive stuff - which is too vulgar if you gonna ask Samuel - all in branded clothes and even a couple of scars on his arms and body, Samuel heard girls like that. so why the hell was he now sitting in his car, waiting for the green traffic light, to take the last turn on the way to the club.

the club pulsed with life, a kaleidoscope of lights and sound. music was loud, the bass reverberating through the walls and into the very bones of everyone present. bright soffits cast dramatic beams of light across the room, while disco balls and neon lights spun and flashed, creating a dazzling display of color and movement. the beats were relentless, a steady rhythm that set the pace for the night, making it impossible to stand still. everywhere people were moving to the music, their elegant outfits shimmering under the ever-changing lights. there was an intoxicating blend of laughter and conversation, a hum of joy that added to the vibrant energy of the place. on the dance floor, bodies moved in sync, rubbing against each other in the heat of the dance. faces were flushed, eyes bright with euphoria and the liberating atmosphere of the club. the air was thick with the mingled scents of perfume, cologne, and the faint, sweet tang of alcohol. groups of friends huddled together, their voices rising in excitement over the music, while others danced with abandon, lost in the music and the moment. there was a sense of freedom, a collective shedding of the day's worries and an embrace of the night's possibilities. in this space, everyone was united by the rhythm, the lights, and the shared desire to lose themselves in the celebration. it was a world unto itself, where problems melted away and the only thing that mattered was the here and now.

00:30 - 01:15 you only need my car and a penthouse (pam-pam) — house music is playing. i'm smiling at you and we're hanging out in Moscow Seoul on your birthday and it's a shame I'm not on your wishlist you have friends (bitches), spreading rumors about me you're like ANIKV, and i'm SALUKI, i want to wear matching looks and i blend in with the crowd, watching you i'm already drunk on you, and i i walk into the party. "what the fuck?" the DJ is a total jerk you're dancing alone, and i'm pouring (eh) a colorful cocktail into my cup. you're mine tonight let's untie my bow! i'm your present

however, as the head of the third branch, Samuel didn't find anything new here. the picture of a good, expensive club was all too familiar to him. now, he just had to find the reason he came here tonight - you. making his way to the bar through the throngs of people, he periodically looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of you on the dance floor or perhaps in the VIP area or maybe - *collision*

he felt someone’s back crash into his chest. instantly, he turned his gaze to the cause of the collision, ready to tear apart the drunken idiot who had dared to bump into him. but luck was on his side - the fish had caught itself in the net.

a pair of eyes stared up at Samuel, almost level with his own. he was surprised; it was rare for him to meet a girls who didn’t have to look up at him. that fox, Kim Joon Goo, hadn’t mentioned that you would be so tall and so… cute. the light touch of your fingers on his wrist, right where his watch was, accompanied by a sweet, apologetic smile. "oh i'm sorry! i wasn't looking where i was going," - you said, raising your voice slightly to be heard over the loud music as you turned to face him. it was you - the girl Goo Kim had assigned him to bring to his office. Samuel remembered Goo's instructions to be careful with you; you could slip away at any moment. he needed a plan.

Samuel put on his sweetest smile. "it's nothing…" - he paused, waiting to hear your name.

"Y/N," you supplied with a smile at his attempt to flirt. without warning, you grabbed his large hand and pulled him deeper onto the dance floor. the music changed, the beat becoming more intense, the lights flashing in a mesmerizing pattern. Samuel was taken aback. he liked girls who knew what they wanted, but something about your genuine smile, your slender fingers wrapped around his larger palm, the way the lights played on your figure, and that gorgeous dress you wore tonight made him follow you.

you danced with him, touching him, directing his hands on your body as the beat pulsed through the floor. you rubbed against him, your movements fluid and confident. Samuel didn't forget his task - to take you to Goo - but your company was so warm, so pleasant, so intoxicating.

he let his hands rest on your waist, sliding higher, rubbing your belly and ribs, as you turned your back to him. you threw your hands up, grabbing the back of his neck and placing your head on his shoulder, giving him perfect access to the crook of your neck. in that moment, Samuel overwhelmed by the allure of you. time seemed to lose meaning as the music shifted again, this time to a slower, more sensual rhythm. Samuel found himself lost in your presence, the genuine laughter you shared, the flirtatious lines you threw at him, the way your eyes sparkled with mischief and delight. His task felt like a distant memory as he became more intoxicated with every passing second.

"you're quite the dancer," - you whispered, your breath warm against his ear.

"you're quite the charmer," - he replied, his voice low and filled with a mix of admiration and something deeper. you smiled, a playful glint in your eye. "maybe i'm just trying to distract you."

"maybe it's working," - he admitted, his hands tightening slightly on your waist. you turned in his arms, facing him once more. your fingers traced a path up his chest, stopping at his collar. "tell me, Samuel, are you always this serious?"

he chuckled, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "only when i'm not having fun."

"well then," - you said, leaning closer, - "let's make sure you have plenty of fun tonight." your neat hands sank lower, somewhere to the level of the pockets of his trousers, leaving a light, fleeting touch on his hips.

Samuel's heart raced as he looked into your eyes, feeling a connection he hadn't anticipated. He knew he had to take you to Goo, but for now, he allowed himself to get lost in the moment, the music, and the warmth of your company. as you continued to dance, the world outside the club faded away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of shared smiles and electrifying touches.

the night passed on while you and Samuel danced, drank, laughed, and danced again, not paying attention to the people and music around. It seemed to him that tonight his hands explored almost your entire body, at least as far as the situation allowed, but you didn’t lag behind him. your deft fingers touched him here and there, making Samuel almost purr with pleasure when your claws touched his neck, gently stroking. as the night wore on, you leaned close to his ear, your breath warm against his skin. "i need to use the restroom. be right back," - you said, flashing a playful smile before disappearing into the crowd. Samuel watched you go, a smile tugging at his lips. he felt a strange mix of exhilaration and satisfaction from the evening. after a while, he glanced at his wrist to check the time. shit. his watch was missing. a sinking feeling hit him, and he quickly patted his pockets - phone, car keys, wallet, and apartment keys - all gone.

01:16 - 01:59 i'm dancing alone, i don't need you i need the keys to your car i'm dancing alone, i don't need you i need the keys to your apartment i turn on autopilot, they pour Moët like in business class, and i'm already carried away and warmth spreads through my body, but not from you is— is— is that gin and tonic? i want a new iPhone and an apartment in the center, a BMW with tinted windows boy, jump over to the table! i have a question for you can you do it for me? give me another zero (on my account)

"that little - " - he growled under his breath, anger bubbling up. you had fooled him. the girl he had been sent to retrieve had not only slipped away but had taken everything he had. desperately and annoyed he approached a random guy leaning against the bar. "hey, can i borrow your phone? an emergency." - the guy looked skeptical but handed over the phone. Samuel quickly dialed Taejin's number.

"Taejin, it's Samuel. i need you to pick me up from the club. now."

he walked out of the club, lighting a cigarette, his hands shaking with fury. the smoke curled around him as he remembered his conversation with Goo before the assignment. Goo had warned him about you, your mischievous personality, and how easily you could slip away.

"she's a slippery one," Goo had said, his eyes narrowed and he looked at Samuel. it was rarely when Goo talked serious "don't relax or let yourself to ease your attention, Samuel."

but he had let his guard down, and now he was paying for it. his frustration grew as he replayed the night's events in his mind, cursing himself for being so easily deceived.

twenty minutes later, Taejin pulled up outside the club, and Samuel slid into the passenger seat, seething with anger. his jaw was clenched, and his fists were tight as he tried to control his frustration.

"what happened?" Taejin asked, raising an eyebrow as he glanced over at Samuel.

"little bitch took everything - my phone, keys, wallet even watches. everything," Samuel muttered. "we were supposed to bring her to Goo, but now she's gone."

"great," - Taejin sighed. "this is just what we needed. what are we going to tell Goo?"

"i don't know," Samuel snapped. "i'll think of something."

as they drove to Taejin's apartment, Samuel's mind raced. he was furious with himself and worried about the repercussions. Goo was a man he deeply respected, man who actually acknowledged and accepted him and the thought of disappointing him was almost unbearable. When they finally arrived at Taejin's apartment, the two men wearily headed to separate rooms. the night had taken its toll, and they quickly fell asleep, though Samuel's sleep was fitful, plagued by thoughts of what awaited him in the morning.

01:59 - 2:22

i walk into the party. "what the fuck?" the DJ is a total jerk you're dancing alone… (i'm dancing alone) i'm dancing alone, i don't need you i need the keys to your car i'm dancing alone, i don't need you i need the keys to your apartment

the next morning, they arrived at Goo's office, dreading the conversation that awaited them. Samuel's stomach churned with anxiety. He knew Goo expected results, and he had none to show. to their shock, they found you sitting in the office, bathed in sunlight streaming through the window. your sweet, apologetic smile was aimed at Samuel, and you lightly waved, whispering "sorry" with your lips. Samuel was stunned, his anger momentarily forgotten as he took in the surreal scene. Goo waved them off with a smile.

"thank you for your work, Samuel," - Goo smiled. "you and Taejin can leave now. we have some more things to discuss."

stunned, Samuel and Taejin left the office, confusion etched on their faces. Samuel's heart pounded in his chest, a mix of relief and residual anger coursing through him. moments later, you emerged, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "thanks for the night," - you said, a hint of laughter in your voice. Samuel's mind flashed back to the previous evening. "you played me," Samuel said, half in admiration and half in frustration.

you leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing his ear. "maybe. but it was fun, wasn't it?" - you then pulled back, your expression turning sincere. "i'm really sorry, Samuel. i had to do it. but thank you for the night. i really meant each word yesterday... it was amazing." - you handed Samuel his belongings back, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

with a final wink and the most genuine smile, you turned and walked away, leaving Samuel standing there, his emotions a whirlwind of anger, admiration, and something else he couldn't quite place. he watched you go, a strange mixture of respect and irritation battling within him. the night had been wild, but the aftermath was even more bewildering.

*bonus*

as soon as the door slammed behind you, Samuel’s gaze lingered on his things, which you placed directly in his huge hand. opening his wallet he found a polaroid photo of the two of you from the club - his nose buried in the crook of your neck, his hands on your hips, guiding your movements to the beat of the music while your fingers were buried deep in his hair. at the bottom was the signature "sorry again hehe. xxx-xxx-xxx - conciliatory dinner from me.”

Samuel just chuckled, wondering who managed to take a photo of you and how this photo ended up in your possession, closing your wallet. Goo’s palm lay on his shoulder and a chill ran down his spine when he hissed in his ear, “don’t think that i will believe the stories that she didn’t run away from you yesterday. you’re lucky that she came today herself, saying that you were convincing." Goo’s voice oozed venom, although he had the most playful smile on his face, and the grip on his shoulder was already beginning to feel painful.

#[ ~ koi.talks🗣]#lookism #webtoon lookism #lookism webtoon #lookism manhwa #lookism x reader #samuel seo #lookism seo seongeun #seo seongun #samuel seo x reader #samuel seo headcanons #seo seongeun imagine #seo seongun x reader

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