Water Wrinkles
Seven demon brothers sat solemnly in a circle around you. You did your best to ignore them. It wasn't often that you got to spend time at the human world villa, and you were intent on soaking up as much sun as you could before returning to the Devildom.
You reclined your beach chair back, crossing your arms under your still-wet hair. It was a gorgeous day. Perfect for being at the pool.
Leviathan let out a muffled sob. As the demon with the highest affinity for water, he blamed himself.
"Let us take you to a hospital," Satan insisted for the tenth time.
"They're going to laugh us out of the ER," you nonchalantly repeated.
Satan lowered his eyes and muttered, "I couldn't find any traces of a curse in the water... So how...?"
Asmodeus had his head in his hands, unresponsive. Sometimes his fingers curled around the ends of his hair. You briefly glanced over to make sure he didn't pull his hair out - that would be grounds for a real emergency.
"I can't bear to watch. Lucifer, do somethin'," Mammon whined. He was fidgeting all over the place and winced whenever he looked at your feet.
The oldest glared at you. You knew it was out of concern, but his fears were unfounded. Even Lucifer refused to listen to reason when he thought you were in danger.
"Actually, yeah. Lucifer, can you pass me a towel?" you asked. It was embarrassing having seven shirtless demons intensely staring at you. If they wouldn't let you go back in the water, maybe covering up would make you feel less self-conscious.
Lucifer didn't move. It was Beelzebub who plucked a spare towel off his younger twin and handed it to you with a shaking arm. He looked like a wet puppy, having been the one who first discovered your "condition" and swept you out of the pool.
Belphegor hadn't gone in the water that day. He only hogged the plush towels because of how comfortable they were and, following Beelzebub's lead, dumped them all onto your chair. Now he sat, wide awake. He was anxiously squeezing a loose chunk of concrete but at some point, without realizing, it got crushed to powder in his hand.
You had more than enough towels now.
"In half an hour you're going to forget this all even happened," you said to reassure the worry warts.
"In half an hour, you might be gone!" Mammon snapped back.
"You're going to be a wrinkled mess of skin and bones," Asmodeus weeped quietly.
Leviathan pressed his hands over his ears. Though, with nothing to cover his eyes he was forced to look at your wrinkled hands again. Based on the noises he was making, you'd think someone was torturing him.
"As I've said!" you reiterated. "All humans get wrinkly in water. Look, now that I'm drying off it's going back to normal."
Beelzebub grabbed your ankle, raising it for the brothers to observe at eye level. "I don't see a difference."
You didn't expect the sudden manhandling and slunk several inches down the lounge chair while the demons stared at your foot. Kicking and twisting your leg was futile. You modestly crossed your free leg.
"I think it's getting worse," Satan said.
"We need to take action," Lucifer decided.
Asmodeus was actively quivering now. Belphegor and Leviathan had crept behind you and started picking at your wrinkly fingers. You tried to swat them away to no avail.
"Give me 25 minutes! Literally! Probably even less, this will go away on its own! I just need to dry off."
"We need a solution now," Mammon asserted. The cogs in his brain were turning. "We need fire."
You tried to sit up, to jump up and stop Mammon before he burned the whole villa down in an attempt to dry you off, but Beelzebub had not let go and you stumbled. You grazed your knee on the concrete and winced.
A second round of panic overcame the demon brothers. Beelzebub let go, Lucifer picked you up, and Belphegor wrapped your knee with every available towel he could lay his hands on. Asmodeus and Leviathan were crying on each other's shoulders. Mammon came running back, oblivious to the second disaster that just occurred, with a flaming stick in his hand that Satan tried to keep at bay. If you got burnt on top of everything else, they'd probably go insane and destroy the human world.
In the midst of the chaos you caught a glimpse of your hand. It was practically dry. You couldn't even see the wrinkles anymore. You angrily wiggled in Lucifer's grasp as various hands fussed over you.
"Stay!!" you shouted over the clamor.
The brothers went tumbling to the ground, save for Lucifer who fought to stay rooted in place. You could finally hear yourself think again. There was primarily one thought on your mind.
"I just want to go swimming."
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The latest Family Video customer is barely through the door before Eddie explodes, "Ugh, Tyler."
Beside him, Steve scoffs in agreement, nose wrinkled with distaste. He's so hot. "Yeah, exactly, uugh."
"That should be his middle name. Ugh," Robin chimes in. Eddie's so glad they're in agreement about the bleach-spiked punk guy that graduated three years ago but is still bumming around Hawkins. "Steve, I can't believe you dated that guy."
Seriously, Tyler is the worst— Wait, what—?
"Wait," Eddie says, gaping at Robin. "What?"
"You could barely call it dating," Steve huffs.
"You were together for a month and a half," Robin says. She's got this evil grin on her face and is pointedly not looking at Eddie who is very desperate for Robin to look at him right now, please. "You drove that bum to Indy every weekend. He broke up with you on Valentine's day."
Eddie's weak "Tyler? Tyler Teaks?" gets completely ignored.
"I—" Steve says with haughty emphasis. "—broke up with him on Valentine's day. Don't get it twisted, Buckley."
Robin snorts and finally glances at Eddie. "Steve only broke up with him because the guy blew him off. On Valentine's Day. Which is basically getting broken up with," she tells him, and ignores it when Eddie whimpers at her.
"Yeah, but I'm the one to ended it!" Steve insits.
Eddie, finally, finds his voice, and says, "Tyler Teaks?! Harrington!"
"Ugh," Steve says, slumping against the counter. "I know." He cuts a glare over at Eddie after a moment. "I blame you for this."
"Me?!" Eddie shrieks, incredulous. He's pretty sure he's stepped into another parallel world. Perpendicular world? A world where Steve apparently dates guys—and guys like Tyler Teaks, no less. Eddie's sure he's gone completely batshit insane. "What the hell did I do?!"
Steve stands, cocking his hip the side, and looks down his handsome nose at Eddie. "You wouldn't be my New Year's kiss at Tina's party," he says. "So I had to settle for Tyler Teaks instead."
"What the fuck?" Eddie says, completely lost. "What—? You—? Tina—? KISS—?!"
Beside them, Robin is grinning, laughing, eyes going back and forth between them, munching on a stolen back of skittles—her own personal dramedy on stage before her.
"Yep," Steve says, popping the P. He looks distinctly bitter. "Pulled my best moves on you, and you turned me down."
"Steve," Eddie breathes. He reaches out, places both hands on Steve's shoulders, intent. The eye contact he forces Steve into is desperate. "I don't even remember getting to Tina's New Year's Party." He takes a deep breath. "I woke up in her mom's pantry the next morning with no shoes and no memory of how I got there."
Finally, Steve cracks, a big smile stretching his face. Robin cackles. "Yeah, I kind of figured as much," Steve sighs, wistful now. "You told me, and I quote, 'Steve Harrington, you are very beautiful and I want to have a summer wedding because you'd look beautiful-er with sunflowers'—"
"Don't forget the 'you look so hot in that sweater' part."
"—'But actually, I am a very straight man. So very super straight.' And then you crouched down on the floor and crawled away." Steve is biting his lip now to keep from laughing. Robin is not so nice. "Like I couldn't see you, and the handkerchief flagging in your pocket."
"Oh my god."
"Don't worry, it was really cute," Steve says, grinning. "But, I still needed a New Year's kiss, and unfortunately for everyone involved, Tyler was my only willing choice."
"Oh my god."
"Totally duped me though, he was super sweet the entire night," Steve sighs. His mouth is twisted into genuine regret now. "Plus, the next week, you acted like you'd never spoken to me before, so—"
"OH MY GOD."
Steve and Robin give him twin grimaces. Robin's is a lot more sympathetic. Steve's is confused. "Listen, man," Steve tries to soothe. "I'm sure that's pretty embarrassing, but it was a cute story! No hard feelings, I promise."
Robin's sympathetic grimace deepens.
"No," Eddie says, standing up straight. "I refuse. There is no way I turned down Steve Harrington for a New Year's kiss. There is no way."
"Wait—"
"Eddie, where—"
Eddie marches for the door, digging his keys out of his pockets. "Good-bye friends, I must go see a supergirl about time travel."
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Hazy Days - LN
summary: summer fling, don't mean a thing
pairing: lando norris x divorced!reader
word count: 3.6k
warnings: non-explicit smut (mdni), older woman
a.n.: fuck quadrant's summer scope vids
song: summer nights from Grease
You're doing it again. It's been over a year now and you're still rubbing your ring finger with your thumb. You're not as quite as surprised when you don't feel the rings, and when you look down you're relieved to see that the pale patch of skin has disappeared. I've got to buy a ring, you think. Because, despite everything, you still feel weird without a ring on that finger.
You give your head a shake. The marriage is over. It was over before it officially began, but the divorce has been finalized for almost a month. The settlement is in your account – it's how you're paying for this spontaneous trip.
You're no longer a married woman. A terrifying thought, even now, when your entire identity for nearly 10 years was wife. And now…
Now you don't know what you are.
So you packed a bag, bought a plane ticket on a whim, and now you're at some seaside hotel in the south of France. You're looking out at the people on the beach, and further out at the yachts dotting the Mediterranean.
A place you've always wanted to visit and now you're frozen in the hotel room, scared to death that you won't enjoy it. Like a decadent dessert you've thought about all day that tastes like an old candy bar when you finally get a bite. Like the new Louboutin pumps you'd wanted for your birthday two years ago that had pinched your toes and you haven't worn since.
You've built this up in your head and now you're afraid it won't live up to your expectations.
Babes, enjoy it. This is gonna be so healing for you.
Your best friend's words ring in your mind and you reach for the phone to call her for more reassurance, then remember the time difference. She loves you, but she won't appreciate a phone call this early unless it's an emergency.
"God, get over it. You're not the only newly divorced woman in the world," you mutter to yourself, turning away from the window to finish dressing. You want to do some exploring, get plenty of photos to share, maybe find a few souvenirs.
Your thumb slides over your ring finger as you exit the hotel a little while later and you sigh, turning back to ask the concierge of a nice jewelry store. When you tell him you're interested in purchasing a ring, he knows the perfect place and soon you're on your way, strolling along the winding streets.
The afternoon sun is hot and you breathe a sigh of relief once you step into the shop. The interior or hushed and you're aware of the clerks' eyes all moving to you. A couple young men at the counter are chatting and laughing, not paying attention to you at all, and you venture further into the shop.
The men are looking at bracelets, and a smartly dressed clerk is more than happy to show you the rings, leading you to a low counter and inviting you to sit in the cushioned chair.
"Oh… No, not anything like a wedding or engagement ring," you say as a tray of sparkling diamond rings is brought out. "I… I recently got divorced and I need something to replace my rings. Something that looks nothing like a wedding ring?"
From behind you, you can hear the two men murmuring, their English accents oddly comforting after three days of hearing only French voices. You finally narrow the selection down to two and are trying to decide when movement out the corner of your eye snags your attention.
It's one of the men, peering at necklaces. You steal a glance at him – handsome, well dressed, a head of dark curls – and look back at the rings when he turns his head, embarrassed to be caught looking.
You're focusing on the rings, trying them on and testing out how they feel against your thumb, when he speaks.
"I think the other one looks better."
Jerking your head up, you find yourself looking into a pair of brilliant green eyes.
It's so fucking unfair that his lashes are so pretty.
"Do you?" you ask, looking back at the rings.
"Yeah – unless you want something flashy?"
He's moved close enough you can smell his cologne.
He even smells divine. So fucking unfair.
You switched rings and nodded. "Flashy isn't really me… I'll take this one," you tell the clerk.
The man smiles. "Getting used to a ring?"
"Ah… No," you chuckle. "Can't get used to not having one."
His smile dies and a look of panic flashes over his face. "Um… Sorry?"
You almost laugh. Giving your head a shake, you watch the clerk wrap the ring and wait for her to return. "Don't be."
"Oh," he murmured, smile returning and sliding into a grin. "Congratulations, then."
This time you do laugh. "Thanks."
He gives you a look as the clerk returns, and before you can reach for your wallet he's already handing over his card. You open your mouth to protest but he tips his head. "A congratulations gift," he insists.
His friend approaches, giving you a friendly nod. "What are we congratulating?"
You smile weakly. "The end of my marriage."
"Divorce?" he asks. When you nod, he smirks. "The best thing about marriage, honestly."
"Max."
"What am I supposed to say?" Max protests, holding up his hands.
The first man groans. "You're such a – cheers," he says when the clerk brings his card back. "Let's go before you embarrass me even more."
You're smiling at their banter as you thank the clerk for her assistance. When you stand to make your way out, he's waiting near the door.
"Buy you a drink?" he offers as he opens the door for you.
His name is Lando. Max – pain in my ass – is obviously his best friend and doesn't join you for drinks as he's got to get packed up to leave. When you suggested Lando spend time with him before he goes home, Lando waved it off.
"He lives in England but I see him all the time."
Lando, it turns out, does not live in England. He looks almost embarrassed when you ask where he lives, and when he finally mutters that he lives in Monaco your eyes widen. Surely he's too young to be that well off?
Trust fund, probably. Now you don't feel so bad for his paying for the ring.
"That must be… Interesting," you say, taking a sip of your drink. He's brought you to a chic bar at the beach, and you're sitting on the upper terrace, the slowly sinking sun casting a golden glow over the water.
"I don't really get much time there." He fiddles with the stirrer in his drink. "I'm gone a lot."
Interest piqued, you set your glass down. "Oh?" Maybe he's a model, even if he is a little on the short side. Not that he's that short – he's definitely taller than you. "What do you do?"
"I drive cars." He ducks his head briefly. "Racecars."
"Really? I'm not… I'm a dumb American, the only racing I really know is the Indy 500?"
He laughs, shaking his head. "That's IndyCar."
You listen, fascinated, as he tells you about formula one, which you have heard about but it's not in your orbit. He seems both relieved and amused at the fact you're not into sports, and you can feel him relax as he laughs when you tell him you only watch the Super Bowl every year so you can eat a ton of junk food.
A drink turns into a few, and he's so nice to listen to, so easy to talk to. When he suggests dinner, you hesitate. You don't want to be that woman, newly divorced and falling into bed with the first man that looks at you. Especially one so young—
"How old are you?" you blurt.
It obviously surprises him and, though he was halfway out of his seat he sank back down. "How old are you?"
You refuse to play coy, to fish for compliments like you're desperate. "I'm thirty."
His eyebrows lift. "Twenty-four."
So not that young. More like… younger.
Lando gives you a smile. "Does that cancel dinner?"
You look into his eyes for a long moment then glance out at the view. There's an obvious fork in the road in front of you. One leads to something with this handsome racecar driver, and you have a feeling it's going to be more than dinner. The other leads to the rest of your solo vacation, with the cloud of what could be lingering. Looking at him again, you slowly breathe in.
Expensive cologne. Salt air.
"I'd love dinner," you say, and his smile rivals the setting sun.
You'll never be able to describe the meal you ate. Lando makes it nearly impossible to focus on anything but him. Not in a demanding way. He's just… Magnetic. He tells you stories about his career, about embarrassing moments and highs and lows and talks about his other ventures. How does he have time to sleep? He talks glowingly about Max and has you giggling into your wine over a story of the two of them getting into trouble that left Lando locked out of his parents' home. When he apologizes for talking so much you almost beg him to not stop. But he asks about you, and you can't help thinking he seems genuinely interested.
"My life isn't half as interesting as yours," you say with a shake of your head.
"I don't know… You're divorced, halfway around the world, having dinner with a strange guy. Seems interesting to me," he murmurs.
"Oh, it's a tale as old as time. Girl meets boy, girl falls in love and gives up everything… Girl becomes a woman, boy becomes a toad."
Lando winced. "No kissing to turn him into a prince?"
"He'd have to want the kiss for that to happen."
"What a fucking idiot," Lando says.
You tilt your head to the side. "For being a toad?"
"For not wanting your kiss."
You set your glass down with a surprised gulp. About to call him out for feeding you a line, you pause, seeing the glimmer in his eyes. Without thinking you lick your lips and see his gaze dip down briefly. You don't know what to say or how to react so you sit there, unable to refrain from thinking about how a kiss from Lando would feel.
"His loss." Lando's voice was barely above a murmur. Then, shockingly, his cheeks darken and his tongue darts over his lips. He looks down at his plate and you can hear his sigh before he looks up, his expression serious. "You gave up everything?"
"A slight exaggeration, really." You shrug, picking at your food. "I had dreams that I put on hold to help him achieve his."
"I've never been married. But, like…" He sighs, setting his fork down. "That doesn't seem fair?"
"Life isn't—"
"I know, but marriage isn't life is it?" His face screws up at that but he forges ahead. "Isn't the whole point of it to support and help each other achieve their dreams?"
Smiling sadly, you nod. "I thought it was. He thought different."
"What dreams did you put on hold?" he asks after a moment.
"I wanted to get published." You look down at your half-eaten food. "When I was a kid, I loved reading and making up stories… I was studying for my degree in English – I planned to teach writing while working on my novels, because it's hard to make money doing it at first, and… Now it's too late."
"Why do you say that?"
"I'd have to go back to school and—"
"Yeah? Would you have to start over completely?"
"No." You can't remember how many credit hours you have left, but it would only take a phone call or an email to find out. "I wasn't too far from my degree."
"Then what's stopping you?" he challenged softly.
You don't have an answer. Nothing but the fear of failing, and you don't know him well enough to admit that.
"I don't read." He winces a bit at the admission. "Dyslexic, yeah? It's a miracle I finished school. But anyway. You write a novel and I promise to read it."
A smile pulls at your lips. "You'd do that for me? Someone you don't even know?"
"Of course." He grins. "I believe in supporting the arts."
He drives you back to the hotel in his sleek sportscar and for once you understand the allure of a purring engine and soft leather seats. There's no impending pressure when he offers to see you to your room, only the heat of his hand at the small of your back and the enticing scent of his cologne.
At your door, he hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"
Has anyone ever asked your consent for a kiss? You don't think so and the realization makes you sad, but you push that away because you've wanted him to kiss you since halfway through dinner.
His lips are a lighted match to kindling. The heat and desire are immediate and you're leaning into him, frightened by the strength of your want but craving more. It's been an embarrassingly long time since you've felt this way and you're aware that it may be even longer before you feel it again. So when the door finally clicks open you don't hesitate to step inside, pausing and reluctantly breaking the kiss to look up at him.
And wish you'd googled how to invite a man into your hotel room without sounding desperate.
But you don't have to ask.
"Okay to come in?" he whispers.
"God yes," you gasp.
His lips are on yours before the door closes behind him. Wrapping your arms around him, you sink into the kiss, snatching in breaths as his hands cradle your head. A soft whine is muffled against his tongue as you grip the front of his shirt, knees nearly forgotten as the tenderness of his touch wars the ferocity of his kiss.
"Fuck," he mumbles against your lips, his hands beginning to wander, molding you closer against him, his breath hitching as he clutches your hips. He pulls his head back slightly and you can feel his harsh breathing as he stares at you before crashing his lips to yours again.
The need grows stronger, almost primal, and you're backing towards the bed, gasping as his hands pull at your dress, nearly ripping it. Craving the feel of his skin, you do the same to his shirt, barely noticing the trail of clothing on the floor, too focused on his touch and his smell and the decadence of his kiss. He guides you down, swallowing your gasp as your bare skin touches the cool sheets.
Breaking the kiss with a harsh moan, he braces his hands on either side of you and lifts up slightly. He's panting, lips parted, and he gives a soft chuckle of surprise. "I didn't plan on this."
You lick your lips, still tasting him. And only craving more. "Neither did I."
He blinks, eyes almost wild as they dart from yours to your lips and back again. And all you can think—
Beautiful. Breathtakingly so. You know it'll never happen but the romantic inside you wishes you could wake up to his eyes every morning.
He leans down, and his kiss sends every coherent thought away. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, his hair softer than you thought it would be. His hands are rough but gentle at the same time, in your hair and trailing down your sides. Your name is a longing moan vibrating against your throat as you trace the muscles of his back.
"Lando," you gasp, arching beneath him.
"I know… I know." Hot breath at your ear, fingers digging into your thigh. Guiding your leg over his hip.
"Please." It's a soft moan.
"Fuck." His lips move to yours, his gasping whimper muffled.
The frantic need is still there but he's unhurried, as though he's trying to memorize every breath, every touch. When your hand flies out to grasp the sheet his hand follows, fingers threading between yours and gripping tightly. You're lost in the haze, sweat forming between you, sheets twisting. Ecstasy rises, peaks, and it's so sudden and delicious your cries ring out.
"Y/n." A desperate whine that only increases the bliss.
Rolling, twisting, arching. It's feverish and needy and so good so so good.
You both collapse, your hands in his sweat-damp hair. Panting, tingling, you wait for the awkwardness that never comes. His touch is tender, his lips gentle on yours before he's pulling away, murmuring that he'll get a towel. He's back before you can catch your breath, and by the time you can breathe he's kissing you again.
The sky outside is turning gray when you both breathlessly agree to get some sleep. You half expect him to leave, but he's there when you wake up, sleeping on his stomach next to you, his arm slung across your waist, his gentle snores telling you he's fast asleep.
And though you distinctly remember him saying he was going back to Monaco that day, he sticks around. Blushes and shrugs when you ask him about it over lunch, then suggests borrowing a friend's yacht for the night. The days bleed into the nights, a blurred span of time of sightseeing, swimming, and Lando.
When it's time for you to pack up to go home you feel a little bereft. But the vacation can't last forever. You've got to go back to real life, figure out how you'll live as a completely free woman. And he's got to get back to his life, jetting around the world and undoubtedly breaking hearts.
You exchange numbers and he promises to keep in touch, but you know you'll be forgotten before your plane takes off. You've been a pleasant distraction for his summer break, nothing more.
You're about to board when your phone buzzes with an incoming text. From Lando.
- You dropped your ring in my car.
As you stare at the words, you realize you haven't rubbed your ring finger in nearly a week. A picture appears on the screen, the ring – that he bought – resting in his palm.
- Hold onto it for me?
He won't. He'll give it away or sell it or take it back to the shop.
But, when you're back home and have exchanged texts with him and even a couple phone calls – yes I promise I contacted an advisor, I'm signing up for classes – and he lets you know his break is over and he's getting back to work, you cave and pull up footage of him in an interview.
He looks different on the screen of your laptop. Good, but different. And you can only focus on the necklace that's just visible under his (hideous really) orange shirt. When he leans, it shifts, and you see it.
Your ring.
"Are you still hung up on her?"
Lando's head snaps up at Max's question. "What?"
His friend gestures to the phone in Lando's hand. "That American?"
He feels his cheeks heat and realizes Max knows he's looking at your Instagram. "I'm not hung up."
Max just looks at him.
"I'm just checking on her," he mutters.
With a sigh, Max softens and sits next to him. "It's okay to like her, you know."
He huffs, his hand reaching to fiddle with the ring on his necklace. "She was just supposed to be a fling."
"But she wasn't," Max says after a moment.
Lando shakes his head. "I don't know," he whispers.
Silence lingers, stretches as his thumb hovers over your most recent post.
Then, softly. "Am I stupid?"
Max shoots him a look.
"For thinking it was special," he adds before his friend can insult him. "For thinking she thinks it was special."
"Was it special?"
He swallows hard, rolling the ring between his fingers as he looks at the post, a photo of a cup of coffee next to a laptop. Up past my bedtime parsing Austen. Liking it, he closes the app and locks his phone.
Was it special? Or was it just the great sex and no strings that had him thinking it was? At first, in those days immediately after you'd left, he'd only thought about the sex. How freeing it had been, knowing he wouldn't see you again and could let inhibitions go. But with each week that passed the sex wasn't the only thing he thought about.
Laughter and sunshine. Salty air and sweet conversation. Honeyed voice and understanding eyes.
He lifts his head, meeting Max's eyes. He doesn't have to say it. Max has known him for more than half his life. But he answers.
"Yes."
Taglist:
@maxlarens | @driverlando | @leodette | @forzalando | @captainreecejames | @d3kstar | @frenchyjuju | @irishmanwhore | @warrensluvr | @tpwkstiles | @mcmuppet | @eveninggstar | @noooway555 | @bookishnerd1132 | @skeleton-elly | @trisharee | @littlegrapejuice
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