#i think part of it right now is that it seems more like a gallery i have to update. when i dont want to do that

[makedamnsvre]

i wish i was a spreadsheets type of autism. im just a lists type of autism. i dont have spreadsheets but i have many documents on my laptop of lists of information. ocs, flight rising, etc. if i still played wolvden id probably have documents for that too.

[leclsrc]

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.

[taegularities]

colour me in: photograph (teaser) | jjk (m)

Summary: With both your and Jungkook's careers seemingly peaking, the future feels promising and bright. Yet, amidst the glowing hope, one single phone call dims the light in the rooms of your shared home.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: [redacted spoiler that shall drop with the chapter], tears, sadness/grief, doubts, tender moments, talk of jk's future and his art, support, jk's dad, surprises, (talk of) a break up oop, mention of children (i guess that's a warning lol), explicit sexual content: let-out-some-steam-sex, dom!jk, big dick!jk, he's actually insane. more details shall be added on drop day; the ending.. <3 ➳ word count: around 760 for the teaser; 25-30k for the chapter ➳ a/n: get ready, it's gonna hurt for a whiiile now :') as always, come n talk to me about this 🤍 ➳ listen to: holo by leehi | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

“You do know that we’re supposed to meet up with them in like,” you drop your eyes to your wrist, pulling back the sweater to unveil your watch, “forty minutes, right?”

“And you think they’ll complain about some extra time alone?”

You deliver a blank stare, not a single blink as you watch him shrug a shoulder. He sports a smirk that you would’ve clenched your jaw to months ago, but today, even if you won’t admit it right this second, it amuses you.

He laughs when you stand there unmoving, like a stick figure silently reprimanding a lethargic boyfriend. You hate to break, but when the contagious chuckle infects you, too, you feel a light wave of relief and serotonin ripple through you violently.

Jungkook hasn’t left vacation mode just yet; while the work for the gallery is still ongoing and he diligent, you catch him slouching ever so often, doodling away at times. You’ll confess, the grey outside is tiring; different from the sunnier countryside you left behind.

There’s a sort of post-bliss blues that even you can hardly shake off.

“You can’t deny that, can you?” he utters amidst his melodious laugh, and you roll your eyes, taking two big steps towards him — much like two days ago.

“I don’t have to deny it to still teach you the importance of punctuality, right? Get up,” you say, smacking his hip — and he uses the opportunity to lift his arm from under his head, reaching for you, but… failing. “Uh-uh. Enough with your tricks. Get up.”

Last night still wasn’t enough — is it ever? You’re not surprised; neither by his thirst nor by your own inner, involuntary reactions. But no time. It’s rude to let people wait.

And you know exactly what Jimin would say — tease — if the two of you arrived at the double lunch date with him and Yoongi too late again.

Jungkook’s voice turns half into a yawn, half into a sigh, tired when he responds, “Yes, ma’am.”

This should do.

But since everything good comes in three, and just for good measure, you add another laser-glance, shooting at him in warning to lift his ass and meet you ready once you are, too. A playfully sigh breathed, you amble to the bathroom, make up awaiting on the sink from when you put it there this morning.

This shouldn’t take long; you’re opting for the minimalistic approach today.

As the hues colour your lips and fill your lashes, you hum a random melody you can’t quite identify. It’s quiet in the apartment until it isn’t — and when Jungkook’s voice chimes, your hand halts mid-mascara-stroke, assuming he’s calling for you.

He’s not; you understand this much when he greets the person on the other end in his liveliest tone at first, volume decreasing as the conversation continues. He’s soon hushed enough for you to not really make out proper words anymore. Hums here and there — Jungkook doesn’t seem to say much at all.

Perhaps it’s Yoongi, or Tae, telling a story. Narrating recent occurrences, the joys and pains that emerged and shrivelled on the vacation that you weren’t part of anymore.

You don’t ask just yet, decide not to disturb.

You finish up whatever is left of your routine, setting the make up and ruffling through your hair, adding volume. When the talk he’s indulging in still remains when you deem yourself ready, you let out a breather and step back into the bedroom.

Still in the same clothes and with the untamed hair as his crown, Jungkook’s gaze is lowered, fingers barely curled into the sheets. He’s sat up now; you see his Adam’s apple bob when you walk in. Instinctively and immediately, you blurt, “Now what did I tell you just a moment ago—”

But the jest dries in your throat and then fades, as dead as Jungkook’s eyes when he looks up at you. Or maybe… maybe they’re not dead.

More so — in disbelief. As if he hasn’t really fathomed what he’s just heard, mind sprinting in circles, attempting to understand.

His chest isn’t moving as it should, and just in general, his body emits inner trouble. Distress. When he lifts his pupils and shifts them towards you, it looks as if he’s hoping that your presence could reverse reality, as if you’re pulling him out of the inevitable quicksand.

But you can’t. You get it; see it right away.

Because the watery gaze and the gap between his lips, this expression, are new to you, no matter how many of his aches you’ve mended. And you guess it has something to do with what his conversation partner just said.

Something that certainly wasn’t part of today’s agenda at all.

the way i even had to change the banner bc it'd be such a spoiler lmaoooo but yeah anyways, what do we think? y'all's thought always help immensely, and life has been so busy that writing took a backseat – getting back into it is hard. but you guys offer so many theories as well as love and always motivate me, so come and let's talk <3

[nevergonnaloveagain-hey]

Hozier Dating Headcannons

He would definitely love to date someone who is more of an old soul, someone who loves older literature or music 

Expect regular serenades after he writes songs about you and personal concerts when you ask to hear a certain song. These moments would probably be very intimate and would just happen in the comfort of your home together.

You would be the first to hear any new ideas he has for his music and would read you his lyrics, asking you what you think he should change. And of course, you can’t think of anything that could make it any better since it is already so beautiful which infuriates him to no end (he loves you tho)

He seems like the kind of partner to go all out for anniversaries or birthdays and would set up really special dates and surprise outings, always making sure that you are comfortable and having fun. He would probably take you to secluded places surrounded by nature where you can just enjoy each other's company with no one else around.

He would hand write you beautiful letters especially when he is going away on tour or if he is going to be having a late night in the studio and won’t see you for a while

He values his privacy and would most likely keep your relationship lowkey and private. He wouldn’t hide you and wouldn’t hesitate to talk about you a little every now and then but he also wouldn’t tell everyone too much about your relationship, he likes to keep certain things to himself.

He would support you in everything that you do, whether it’s just a project that you have taken up or if it is something for work, he would be right behind you at all times cheering you on. If you start to doubt yourself, he would be the one to tell you how well you are doing and would motivate you 

He has a lot of appreciation for you especially since he knows it can be difficult to be with him when he is really focused on his music or if he is touring. So he would always express how thankful he is that you are there for him, even during tough times.

Considering his love for art and literature, he would love to take you on little museum or gallery dates and would definitely tell you the backstory of certain pieces if you seemed interested. He would also take note of the kind of books, poems or art you like and would give you unique gifts inspired by this.

Despite his fame, he is very grounded and values his private time and time with family, so he would love a partner who listens and values your opinions and alone time together. He would love to see you with his family and is in love with how much his parents and friends adore you.

If you’re not Irish, he would love to introduce you to certain foods or traditions from Ireland. He is always really excited to see your reaction to trying Irish snacks/drinks and remembers what you like or dislike

He is a big ‘I remember you said you like this, so i got it for you’ partner. He remembers everything about you, from your favourite food to your favourite songs or movies and even your favourite piece of jewelry

He is a very emotional guy and at first he struggles to open up to you but as your relationship grows, he becomes more comfortable being himself around you and knows you would never judge him just like how he would never judge you. Once he becomes fully comfortable with you, there is not one thing he wouldn't tell you and never hides anything from you. He trusts you with everything.

As I said he is a very private guy, so he wouldn’t be a big fan of PDA but as your relationship goes on, he will start to be more open about it and will show you off whenever he can. He loves hand holding and will periodically kiss your temple and or the back of your hand when you are out

Part 2!!

[pomefioredove]

hi hi there! I'm not sure if I'm doing this correctly, but can I request vil comforting the reader through a breakup? (totally not self indulgent comfort) I love your writing so much and you write vil so well. Thank you!

anon this isn't related to any exes but I have a bunch of highly specific reaction images in my gallery to use when I describe a person (usually a man) I personally think vil schoenheit would hate

summary: vil has always hated your ex type of post: short fic characters: vil additional info: implied romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu, hurt/comfort

There are very few things Vil Schoenheit is ever wrong about.

Even when he wants to be.

There are a million and one ways he could have said I told you so.

He might have even given himself a little pat on the back if the timing was better, but this was about you, not him and his excellent judge of character.

He never liked that person.

Thus, when you had turned up at his door not too long ago, looking like a kicked puppy, that was his very first guess.

And now, he dabs at the corners of your eyes with a silk handkerchief, trying to salvage the lovely makeup look he'd recommended earlier while you talk.

Another cascade of tears fall down your cheeks as you describe the nature of the emergency. He winces.

"Oh, dear. Please tell me you dumped them,"

You shake your head.

One part of Vil is aghast. The other is offended. Not only on your behalf, but at the simple fact that anyone could break up with someone he held in such high regard.

Are they ignorant? Stupid?

How could anyone be so foolish as to let you get away...?

"It's for the better," Vil says, tilting your chin up to prevent any more tears from falling down your pretty cheeks.

You sniffle. "I know you never liked them, but..."

"This isn't about that," he says it plainly, even though it's half a lie. "This is about the fact that you had ever entertained such a character. They're not worth a second of your time, do you hear me?"

You're quiet for a moment, not sure how to respond to his sudden attempt at boosting your confidence.

"It's just complicated,"

"Relationships tend to be. Hold still for me, dear," he picks a stray eyelash off your cheek.

Vil doesn't believe in things like wishing on eyelashes, but even as he blows it off the tip of his finger, he's thinking of you.

"You will survive," he turns back to you, smiling slightly. "Even with your terrible taste in partners."

"If you had it your way, you'd interview every person I liked,"

He rolls his eyes. "Tsk. You say that like it's a bad thing,"

Even now, you can't help a small, weak laugh. There was something rather impressive about the way he could lift your spirits without even trying.

The same thought seems to occur to him, and he smiles, delicately wiping away another tear with the tip of his finger.

"I just don't think I'll meet anyone up to the Vil standard,"

"Good thing you don't have to," he smiles, almost teasingly. "I'm right here, after all."

Another eyelash is wiped away along with the tear, though this time, as he blows it away, he makes a wish.

[thelegend2t]

BFDI Theory: The Unluckiest Number

Or story starts the video "X Finds Out His Value" at 3:27

Four and X have just figured out that X's value is 7, leading them and Seven to have a little dance party sort of thing. But after X proudly proclaims his value, 7, Four adds that "It's lucky too!"

And we get some less than happy faces from the peanut gallery. One and Three standing beside each other to form the infamous unlucky number 13. In fact, 13 is kind of an interesting number when it comes to Algebraliens.

This is the BFDI Wiki's list of every Algebralien (That is a rational number), notice anything? That's right! 13 isn't there! And this list doesn't leave any number out if it can help it. Eleven, Twelve and Sixteen have never had any significant role in any skit or episode. Thirteen is missing from the official roster of numbers.

Also as a "Sans is a near anagram for Ness" level detail: TPOT 13 is when One herself says "Entree over. Now onto the main course." and as the line suggests, is when One picks up the pace in terms of intervening in TPOT.

I believe that the number 13 is not just unlucky in a superstitious sense, but also if any Algebralien were to become Thirteen the result would be catastrophic, bringing bad luck wherever they went. And that's exactly what One and Three did.

In the first episode of TPOT Winner asks, on the topic of prime numbers, "Are those, like, illegal where you're from?". And while they're obviously not this could be foreshadowing that there is a specific prime number that IS illegal, due to, y'know, bad-luck related catastrophe.

I don't just believe this explains why there's no Thirteen, but I also believe this is why One and Three are where they are.

In the video "Thanks for 2,000,000 Subscribers!" we get a good look at the law enforcement system on Algebralien society, mainly that there is none. There are no police, possibly no government. Any sort of jail sentence or punishment for crime is carried out by the community as a whole. We see this with Fourteens punishment, he's not arrested by police, he's apprehended by his neighbors who seem to hold no special status of any kind.

Now, if we put our heads together maybe we can think of any Algebraliens that are locked in a cell, presumably, by other Algebraliens. I think at one point both One and Three were kept in cells, but as of now only Three remains imprisoned.

Many have speculated that Three closing their own cell is telling that they wish to finish their sentence due to the guilt of their actions, and I agree, and I think those actions were them being one half of the duo known as Thirteen. (One half of 13 is 3, you heard it here first folks!.)

But One is a lot more bold. They're not content with being held down or people having more power than them. Being a part of Thirteen came with it this great power which they wish to return to. And besides, as long as someone is staffing their jail cell, that's just one more person to manipulate.

But who did she manipulate? The answer may surprise you, but it also may not, I don't know how many people actually watched the subscriber milestone videos.

In the video "Thanks for 1,000,000 subscribers!" at 7:50, we see Seven say this:

Seven considers One to be their BFF, presumably standing for "Best Friend Forever". Now, Seven as a character has been consistently portrayed as having no friends at all. In the song "Counting on Christmas" sung by the Algebraliens, Seven explicitly states that they "really, really, really want some friends".

Seven is sort of the black sheep of the community, though still, they ARE part of the community. As such, they are also part of the group that decides who is to be in jail, and who is to be free. And if all it takes is the promise of friendship then One escaping that cell was well within her range of capabilities. Who knows, maybe the friendship was in some way genuine, but the end result is the same, Seven let One free and even now sees nothing wrong with their friendship.

So that leaves us with this. One is actively trying to free Three, but Three is still patiently waiting in their cell for their lawful sentence to expire. Which... is kinda what everyone has been saying already, yeah, I'm not exactly the first to theorize that One is trying to free Three. What I am doing however, is laying out how I believe all these puzzle pieces fit together.

[foreverisntenough]

‘Act II’

Summary: Attraction is like a gravitational pull that is undefinable and unavoidable. Unbeknownst to you, Jude had been keeping an eye on you since he caught a glimpse on his best friend’s girlfriend’s Instagram but he’s been loving his single life. You always were independent and know how to swim on your own but maybe you have been just treading water. Could the tides change on a holiday in Greece when you finally meet? It might get a little rocky but maybe you could be his paradise.

Index

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series! ‘Act II’ is interconnected to the 'You’re Mine' and 'Ours' Series but can read it independently.

Chapter 22 - 'Galería D’ange ' | ‘Act II’

word count - 10.8 k

Lunch out in Madrid with Jude, Jobe, and Toby was a lively, carefree afternoon. The café was full of laughter and teasing, a pleasant contrast to the more serious moments you’d been through recently. You’d almost forgotten about the world outside until you noticed some fans began to gather at the window, phones out, eager to catch a glimpse of Jude.

“You came back for this?” Toby leaned over with a grin, nudging you lightly teasing. You laughed, feeling the attention, and instinctively buried your face in the crook of Jude’s neck, giggling as he chuckled too, his arm slipping around you protectively. 

“Obviously,” you joked, peeking up from behind Jude as Toby continued to tease. Lunch carried on with more laughs and playful jabs as you all enjoyed each other’s company. When the meal ended, the four of you wandered down a picturesque cobblestone street, the sun warming your skin but the breeze sending a shiver down your spine. The atmosphere was light, peaceful, and Madrid felt a little more like home with them by your side. 

“Yo…Have you heard about the new gallery in Carabanchel?”  Jobe casually mentioned as you walked.  You looked at him, surprised he had.

“You? A gallery? I hadn’t” you giggled. “But why do you even know that, Jobe?” you teased, a grin spreading across your face. 

“What, I can’t have interests?” He smirked.

“You can! You just didn’t tell me we had the same one. It hadn’t come up yet that’s all,” you said, laughing, hands raised in innocence. “You wanna go?”

“Yeah, why not?” Jobe shrugged, acting nonchalant. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. 

“Since when are you so down for stuff like this? I tried to get you to go with me one time and you said no.” You raised your brow joking but recalling a recent event you got invited to. Jobe was in town and a friend of friend invited you to an opening knowing you were now in Madrid, 

“Because it was a pity invite!” Jobe yelped! Jude couldn’t go so you invited Jobe to go with you genuinely. He still was invited with or without Jule so whilst he was pretending to be offended right now… he hadn’t wanted to go that night.

“Alright alright, regardless, I think we should go today.” Jude, walking beside you, squeezed your hand and chimed in.  You blinked up at him, a bit confused. Normally, you’d have to persuade him to join you on something like this, but today, both brothers seemed unusually eager. 

“No…Wait… What’s going on?” You smiled.  Jude grinned but didn’t give anything away.

“Nothing, just thought it’d be fun.” He quipped. You weren’t going to press. If they wanted to go look at art you were more than okay with it. With a shrug, you let it go and continued walking, Jude’s hand warm in yours.  It was a sunny day but the weather was turning. It was brisk and so you had to nick Jude’s jacket off him adding a men's Saint Laurent jacket to your mini skirt, t shirt, and boots look. “You ruined my fit but I guess I’ll still go to the gallery with you, angel.” Jude teased. You giggled pushing your face into his bicep. The exchange almost distracted you from the direction change in your route. The cobblestone streets soon led you to a part of the city you loved but one you weren’t intending to go to today. You were struck by a striking green windowed wall, an old garage-style door with vibrant green window panes catching your eye. It made you smile. It reminded you of a door at your chateau.  You smiled at the look of the place, appreciating the aesthetic and the familiar feeling it brought to you, but as you got closer, something seemed off. The space was completely empty, just concrete floors and nothing inside.

“Jude…” you said, your voice holding a note of suspicion. “What is this?” He stopped walking and looked at you with a mischievous smile.

“Come on then, just trust me please,” he said softly, pulling you toward the empty building. You glanced back at Jobe and Toby, who were both smiling like they knew something you didn’t.

“No… I don’t like this. What is going on?” you asked again, more curious now than anything else but not appreciating Toby and Jobe’s smugness. Jude led you closer to the empty space, his hand still firmly in yours. 

“Voilà! Mon ange.” Jude cooed, leaning to whisper into your ear. You roughly could see inside, your eyes wide as you took in the space, its high ceilings and expansive windows filling the room with natural light. The charm of the old, worn exterior contrasted perfectly with the brightness and newness inside of it, and it felt like the perfect balance between something familiar and something entirely new. Before you could process it all Jude gently dropped a pair of keys into your hands before he moved behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.  You stared down at them, heart pounding. “It’s for you… for us,” he said, his voice soft and calm, but the weight of his words settled over you. He leant around you, his eyes flashing to meet yours, and there was something vulnerable in them. “I wanted you to have something here. A place that feels like you.” He said. Your breath hitched. The gesture, the thought behind it—it was overwhelming. He was offering you more than just this physical space. He was offering you a home, a way to make Madrid yours too, to build something that belonged to you both. Jude’s hand cupped your cheek as he smiled softly. “You can do whatever you want with it. Sell it, keep it, leave it empty… or,” he paused with a smirk, “my personal suggestion is you make it the secondary location of my favorite gallery in the world. What do you think?” He cooed. Your lip trembled, and before you could stop it, tears spilled down your cheeks. 

“And she’s off.” Jobe, who was standing behind you, made a quip with a laugh. You barely heard him as Toby elbowed him to shut up. You were locked in your own little world, where all that mattered was Jude and the weight of what he was giving you. The thoughtfulness, the future he was offering—it all hit at once. 

“Do you want to go inside?” Jude’s voice broke through your daze. You nodded, but your hands shook as you tried to steady your breath. Jude noticed and took the keys from your hand, unlocking the door himself and holding it open for you. You stepped inside, feeling the cool air from the wide, open space wash over you. Jobe and Toby followed, their usual banter quieting as they sensed the enormity of the moment. You walked a few steps into the gallery but couldn’t move any further. The reality of what this space meant, the future it held, made your knees weak. 

“You good?” Toby, sensing your shock, gave your arm a gentle squeeze as he asked with a soft smile. You couldn’t respond, couldn’t do anything but stand there in disbelief. Jude had mentioned the idea of a gallery before, but you hadn’t taken it seriously. Now, standing in the middle of this space that was yours, you felt the full weight of his commitment. Jobe and Toby, sensing the need to give you two space, quickly made an excuse and headed out, leaving you and Jude alone. The second they left, your legs gave out, and you sank to the floor, your hands shaking as you tried to process it all. Jude was instantly at your side, kneeling in front of you. 

“Angel…” he murmured, his hand brushing the hair from your face. “It’s just the space, there’s no pressure. I want Madrid to be our home. And your work… it’s important. It’s important to you, it’s important to me.” His voice was so sincere, so full of love. “If having a little annex here in Madrid helps us build something that feels like home, then I think it’ll be good for us.” You looked up at him through teary eyes, your bottom lip quivering as you tried to form words. His face softened as he waited patiently for you to speak. He was giving you everything, and it was almost too much to bear. “So… thoughts?” he asked gently with a smirk, trying to pull you back from the brink of your emotions.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice cracking as more tears spilled over. “I love you so much.” Jude pulled you into his arms, his embrace warm and steady.

“C’mere, I love you too, Angel,” he whispered into your hair. “We’re going to make this our home. Together.” Jude helped you up, pulling you gently into his embrace as the two of you stood in the empty gallery space.

“Me and you.” You murmured into his chest almost silent, confirming your togetherness. 

“Us against them all, yeah?”  He cooed. You nodded. Normally, a space like this, with its bare walls and concrete floors, would feel cold and impersonal. But in Jude’s arms, it felt warm, alive. His presence, his heartbeat against you, made this gallery the most beautiful it would ever be, even in its emptiness. He looked down at you, his cheeky smile making your heart flutter. “I thought of a name… if you’d want to hear it,” he said, eyes twinkling. 

“Okay, go on” you said, your curiosity piqued. The moment broken by your soft giggles, leaning into his warmth. 

“Galería D’ange,” he said with a playful grin, stumbling over the Spanish and French words. His attempt was endearing, and you couldn’t help but laugh. It was so Jude, and it melted you inside. Your eyes lit up with amusement and affection as the sweetness of the name settled in your mind. But then, Jude’s face softened into something more serious, his gaze intent as he continued. “And then we’ll add the ‘of Y/L/N New York,’ you know? Make it yours, connect to your gallery back there.” He told you. You blinked, processing his words as the reality of what he was saying sunk in. 

“Galería D’ange of Y/L/N New York,” you repeated slowly, the name rolling off your tongue with meaning. It was perfect. It was you. It was him. It was everything the two of you had built together, now grounded in something tangible and lasting. This was your life—intertwined with his, filled with love and adventure, and now, with a space to call your own. “Babyyyy,” you whined, overwhelmed with emotion, but your smile was radiant. “Perfect. Parfait. Perfecto,” you giggled, switching between all three languages with playful enthusiasm. Jude chuckled softly at your reaction, the warmth of his laugh spreading through you. “Thank you,” you whispered, your heart swelling with gratitude. You leaned in, kissing him deeply, your hands sliding up to his face as you pulled him closer, pouring all the love you felt for him into that kiss. When you pulled back, you gazed up at him with glistening eyes, unable to fully express how much this moment, this gesture, meant to you. But you didn’t need to. Jude knew, and the way he looked back at you, as if you were his whole world, said everything. So you stood there in the middle of the empty gallery, the air around you buzzing with quiet emotion as you held onto Jude tightly. The tears on your cheeks felt never-ending, your nose pressed into his shirt as you sniffled. His arms wrapped around you, steady and grounding, as if he were trying to physically hold together the emotions between you. 

 “Don’t take this the wrong way, but this really shouldn’t…” You trailed off, your voice cracking with the weight of how deeply overwhelmed you felt. “It shouldn’t work.” You finished your sentiment. Jude understood what you meant. You weren’t questioning the relationship, you were complimenting how unreal it was that you were finding success  Looking up at him, your eyes wide and filled with adoration, you pouted. “Why are you like this?” you asked with a pout, barely above a whisper. “You’re the sweetest boy in the whole world.” Your hands found their way to his face, cupping his cheek as your thumb brushed gently against his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch, as if he were savoring every second of the connection. And when he opened them again, your heart flipped. His gaze was soft, yet intense, filled with so much love that it made you feel like the luckiest person alive. He was so gorgeous, inside and out, and right then you were certain of everything. 

“It works because I love you,” he said, his words carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “And no newspaper, no tweet, or even ocean can keep me from loving you.” Jude’s voice was low but steady, filled with unwavering certainty. His eyes held yours, and for a moment, the world felt like it had stilled completely. “I want you with me,” he continued, his voice soft yet firm. “Whatever you need, whatever you want—I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you, Angel. For the rest of my life.” You stood there, holding him in the stillness of the empty gallery, the city sounds faint and distant outside. It was just the two of you, wrapped in each other’s presence, as the moment stretched into something timeless. Tears continued to slip down your cheeks only slower, but there was a warmth in your heart that overtook the fear and uncertainty. You pressed closer to him, your body melting into his, and in that quiet space—empty, yet so full of promise—you stayed, holding onto the one person who made you feel safe in the storm. 

Time had passed since Jude gave you Galería D’ange. It was like the gallery built a damn blocking anything from the past from getting to you and Jude and today was just another day behind it. You held Jude tightly in the middle of the shop, your arms naturally wrapping around his waist as he reached up onto a shelf to grab something. 

“Angel, let go for a minute, yeah? I need to reach the shelf.” His warm laughter filled the small space as he gently teased. You blinked, realizing you hadn’t even noticed how close you were, how your body instinctively pressed into him, as if you couldn’t bear to be apart for even a moment. With a soft laugh, you apologized, reluctantly letting him go, though the warmth lingered between you. Things were so good—almost terrifyingly good, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. But you tried not to think about that. You let yourself stay in the warmth of these moments, the mundane sweetness of just being together. You were out running errands, something so ordinary but so full of meaning when you did it with him. A few people had stopped Jude for photos as you wandered through the streets, smiling and nodding politely as he interacted with the fans. It wasn’t overwhelming, not today. Just a few brief interactions, faces lighting up when they saw him, quick requests for a picture or a signature. It was part of the rhythm of your life now. After the shop, you stopped for coffee, the two of you slipping into a quiet corner of the café. But even in the hushed space, life had a way of reminding you of its presence. As you sat across from Jude, the faint sound of a camera shutter echoed, a flash going off accidentally as a girl tried to take a picture of her coffee. Or maybe it wasn’t an accident. It definitely wasn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter. She glanced your way apologetically, realizing she’d been caught. You gave her a small smile in return, understanding that this was life now—moments of hazy bliss with Jude, sliced through by interactions with strangers, with cameras, with glimpses of the outside world that never quite went away. But Madrid had become your home. You’d moved there primarily, letting New York slip into the background. You’d go back maybe quarterly, only when necessary, but that house nestled just outside the city with Jude—that was home. The kind of home you could breathe in. Where you could wrap yourself around him as much as you liked, no cameras, no interruptions. Just you and Jude, and the life you were building, piece by piece, moment by moment… And on occasion Denise would pop back in too. But today it was just the two of you. As you walked back to the car, the last whispers of summer clung to the air, the warmth still lingering just enough to remind you of the heat, though the crisp bite of autumn was making its steady, inevitable arrival. Madrid had that way of feeling alive during these in-between moments, where the seasons shifted, and the city’s energy matched the change. You tucked the jumper of Jude’s you were in tighter around you, enjoying the cool breeze that swirled around the street. Jude walked beside you, his hand brushing yours as you made your way toward the car. Ever the gentleman, he reached for the door handle, but not before planting a soft kiss on your temple, his lips lingering just long enough to make you smile. The moment was sweet, simple, until you felt the playful slap on your ass. He laughed, full and bright, watching your reaction.

“Jude!” you whined, rolling your eyes dramatically as you shot him a mock glare. “We’re in public!” You dropped your head to the side pouting. 

“Sorry, couldn’t resist angel,” he teased, his grin unapologetic. “Look leng today.” He smirked. With an exaggerated sigh, you slid into the driver’s seat, sending him a sarcastic shake of the head. 

“Thanks so much for that,” You cooed as he shut the door behind you. Of course, you were the one driving—again. This had become part of your dynamic, one that the public, and his fans especially, had picked up on. Jude, for all his skills on the pitch, was still absolutely useless behind the wheel, and you had teased him about it endlessly. He rounded the car, sliding into the passenger seat, completely unbothered by the fact that he was always chauffeured around by you. As you pulled out of the parking lot, heading home, the atmosphere between you was light, carefree. It was one of those days where everything felt just easy—running errands together, grabbing coffee, and soaking in the simplicity of it all. It was as normal as it could get. These were the moments you loved most, the ones that felt like a pause button on the chaos of your lives. But as the city blurred by outside the window, the buzz of Jude’s phone filled the car, and you saw him scrolling through something on social media. He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he scrolled faster, clearly amused by whatever he was seeing.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, glancing over as he leaned back in his seat, a sly grin creeping onto his face. He turned the phone toward you, and there it was—the video. Someone had filmed your entire little exchange back in the parking lot. The kiss, the ass slap, your mock protest, all of it. And it was already making the rounds online. The comments were blowing up. Boys were praising Jude, hyping him up for being so cheeky. Girls were half-swooning, half-scolding him in a mix of affection and exasperation. But then there was the real fan conversation that seemed to be dominating the thread—the one about his driving, or more accurately, his lack of driving.

‘Why can Jude still not drive? That’s a full adult ’ 

One tweet read, with endless replies echoing the same sentiment. It was a long-running joke at this point, one that had taken on a life of its own. Jude clicked his tongue, visibly annoyed but amused all the same.

“Nah, see… when are you actually going to teach me to drive? I’m just getting rinsed online at this point. They’re ruthless,” he said, glancing at you with a mix of frustration and playfulness. You couldn’t help but giggle, the sound bubbling up despite yourself.

“Wait, that’s what you’re concerned about? Not the fact that people are talking about you smacking my ass in public?” He shot you a serious look, his brows furrowed as if this was an actual pressing issue. 

“Yes. Everyone knows I can’t drive. It’s like a national crisis at this point.” He scrolled through more of the comments, his eyes scanning them casually as if he wasn’t slightly stung by the teasing. “But our relationship? That’s private. They don’t know anything about that.” Your eyes widened as you raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the seat. 

“Private, huh? Jude, you kissed me, then slapped my ass. So private,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. He shrugged, completely unbothered. 

“I can be way sweeter than opening the car door for you,” he said nonchalantly, scrolling through more tweets. “And I can definitely be rougher than tapping your ass.” You blinked, not expecting that. Your eyebrow raised higher as you studied him, waiting for the smirk you knew was coming. But Jude just kept scrolling, not looking up, completely casual about the whole thing, as if he’d just said something totally normal.

“Oh, really?” you asked, your voice low, teasing. Finally, he looked up, locking eyes with you, his expression softening into that playful grin you knew too well. 

“Really, angel,” he said, the edge of his voice teasing, but there was something earnest behind it. He reached over and brushed his hand against your thigh, his touch light, but the warmth of it lingered. His smile grew, and it was one of those rare moments where the public and the private blurred, and you realized how much of your relationship was still yours, still hidden away from the world, even with all the prying eyes. 

“You’re unbelievable.” You shook your head, trying to hold back a laugh. He leaned back, satisfied with himself, and scrolled through the last few tweets with a sigh. 

“All I’m saying is, one driving lesson would solve this whole thing. They’d have nothing left to clown me about.” He explained seriously. You shot him a look.

“Jude, I love you, but the way you panic at a roundabout… I’m not sure I’m the right person to teach you.” His face lit up with mock offense, a hand flying to his chest. 

“Roundabouts are stressful! It’s like driving in circles for no reason, angel.” You couldn’t hold back the laughter anymore. The absurdity of it all—the fact that Jude, this world-famous footballer, was more concerned about his lack of driving skills being roasted online than the viral video of your intimate little moment—made you laugh so hard, you had to concentrate a bit harder on keeping your focus on the road.

“Okay, okay,” you said between laughs, “we’ll do some lessons. But no promises you’ll end up with a license.” You cooed. He grinned, leaning over to plant a kiss on your cheek. 

“Deal. But for now, you can keep driving. I like having my chauffeur.” He smirked. You shot him a playful glare, but the truth was, you didn’t mind. These moments—the teasing, the banter, the simplicity of just being with him—made all the noise from the outside world fade away. This was home. And that was enough. 

"So, rough, huh?" you teased Jude later that evening recalling his joke earlier after the shops. You were  leaning against the bathroom counter as you got ready for bed. The playful smirk tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. Jude, mid-motion of pulling his shirt over his head, paused just enough to catch your eye in the mirror, his grin widening as he tossed the shirt to the side. He turned to face you, that mischievous look in his eye lighting a fire that you'd become all too familiar with. Things had been-well, let's just say spicy between you lately. With no hectic long distance travel schedules and the nights together stacking up, except for the odd away game, you and Jude had spent a lot of time wrapped up in each other. Not just in the bedroom, either-pretty much anywhere had become fair game at this point. The frequency had ramped up in a way that left you both breathless and constantly looking for the next moment to be alone. The scrutiny online about your relationship, the constant public attention, it only seemed to fuel the fire between you. It was as if the more people speculated and watched, the more determined you both were to shut out the world and claim each other, over and over again. Your relationship had found new life through this physical closeness, this undeniable pull toward each other. You weren’t sure you could possibly be more in love with him-this intensely connected, both emotionally and physically. And the sex? Well, it had taken on a life of its own. You were both impossibly horny all the time, a constant heat simmering between you, and it felt like no matter how much time you spent together, it was never enough. You found yourself stealing glances, teasing touches, small moments that quickly spiraled into more. It wasn't just a phase either. It had become your new normal, and you weren't complaining -except maybe for the fact that you couldn't seem to get enough. Your mind was often preoccupied with when you'd get your next fix, your next stolen moment with Jude. The real concern, though, the one in retrospect probably should’ve been entertaining more, was whether you were keeping up with your birth control. But honestly, having to drag yourself upstairs to grab a pill from the nightstand at 9:00 p.m. when you were cuddled downstairs with Jude felt like such an inconvenience. Especially when his arm was draped over your waist, and his lips were finding that perfect spot on your neck that made you melt. It was hard to care about practicalities when life felt this good, when he felt this good. Every kiss, every touch-it was like a drug, and you were both addicted. You couldn't help but wonder if this was what it felt like to be in the perfect moment, where everything aligned just right, and nothing outside the two of you mattered. Jude stepped closer to you now, his hand sliding up your arm as he leaned down, his lips brushing just beneath your ear. 

"Oh, you have no idea," he whispered, his voice low, teasing, sending shivers down your spine.

You turned to face him fully, biting your lip, your heart racing in anticipation. His eyes sparkled with that playful, knowing look as he reached for you, pulling you against him. The warmth of his skin, the way his body molded to yours, it was almost too much-and yet, it was never enough.

"Care to remind me?" you teased, your voice breathless, the words barely slipping past your lips before he kissed you, deep and slow, pulling you into the kind of moment that you'd found yourself living for lately. Life was good. Jude was even better. Suddenly the bathroom mirrors fogged up with steam, blurring your reflection after you and Jude had fallen into each other once again. He fucked you in the shower till he was dripping out of you. You both knew you were being reckless lately, but the thrill of it all kept you repeating it again and again. It was as if you'd created your own little world within these four walls, a world where pleasure and desire reigned supreme. You locked eyes with Jude through the haze, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. He looks so fucking sexy, his frame glistening with water droplets from the hot shower. Your heart raced as you began to anticipate what was about to happen again, knowing very well that Jude could make you feel things no one else ever could, and you knew that because he just showed you moments ago. As he stepped out of the shower, his tanned skin contrasted with the white bath towel wrapped around his waist. You bit your lip as you watched him approach you, his eyes never leaving yours. The towel accentuating his muscular physique, you couldn’t help but admire the way his abs flexed as he moved.

"Not done with you, angel. Can't keep my hands off you," he whispered, his voice low and husky. You giggled, a playful glint in your eyes. 

"Okay. Come here, baby. Give me some more of you.” You smirked. Arousal flooding your veins all over again. He grinned, revealing his perfect pearly white teeth. 

“Starting to push the limits here, innit? Endless rounds and rounds, and you keep begging for more.” Jude cooed. He was teasing a bit but you both knew there was a slight undercurrent of irresponsibility in what you were doing.  

“Are you complaining?” You teased moving past any possible practical concern with a raised brow, dropping your own towel off your body. 

“Nah, never. You’re just too fucking good f’me. I could never stop wanting more of you.” His hands moved towards you magnetically, his hands then brushing up and down your sides, making goosebumps rise on your skin. You nodded, already feeling a little breathless. 

"I can't help it. You make me feel so good." You whined with a frown as you reached for Jude’s towel, and with a swift motion, you let it drop to the floor, revealing his hard cock. Your eyes widened at the sight, your mouth watering. He was thick and long, a masterpiece of male anatomy.

"Let me make you feel good again, angel. I want more of you," he growled, his voice filled with desire. You didn't need any more encouragement for things to kick off again. But in opposition to Jude’s ideas you hummed a ‘mmnhmm’ with a cheeky shake of the head. In a quick but smooth succession, you dropped to your knees, your hands reaching out to stroke his length. The skin was hot and silky under your touch, and you could feel a rush of power as you took control. "Oh yeah, baby?" he moaned questioning your decision to take more of him as your fingers wrapped around him. "That's it, take what’s yours." Your fingers moved up and down, teasing the sensitive tip, making Jude's breath catch. You leaned in, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, tasting the salty pre-cum that glistens there. "Fuck, YN," he groans. "Your mouth... I need it." Jude was a mess. Neither of you could be satiated lately, and he, right now, was proving just that and thankfully, you didn't need to be told twice. With a sultry smile, you took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head, savoring the taste of him. Jude's hands dove into your hair, gripping gently as he encouraged you to take more of him. "That's it, suck me off, angel," he pants. "Deeper, baby, let me feel you." You obliged, taking him deeper, your throat opening to accommodate his girth. Your eyes watered slightly, but the pleasure on Jude's face kept you going. His moans filling the room. You knew exactly how Jude liked head by this point in your relationship. It was almost down to a silence. As you sucked and stroked, Jude's hips began to thrust gently, meeting your mouth with each forward motion. The wet sounds of pleasure filled the bathroom, mixing with the steam and the scent of sex. "Fuck. I'm gonna cum, Y/N," he warned, his voice tight with restraint. "Fuck.”

"I wan’ it... all of it." You pulled back briefly looking up at him with lust-filled eyes, a string of salvia still connecting you to him. And so moments later, with a final, powerful thrust, Jude came, his hot cum flowed down your throat. You swallowed eagerly, savoring the taste of him, not wanting to waste a drop. He groaned, his body trembling as the orgasm washed over him.

"Fuck, that was so good," he breathed heavily, pulling you up for a deep kiss. You kissed him back, tasting yourself on his lips, and feeling his passion ignite yours.

"Come on, baby. I want more of you still. Bed now," you whispered commandingly against his mouth. Jude's eyes lit up with excitement. He was thrilled you wanted to keep going.  As you entered the bedroom, the soft sheets beckoning, you both knew this was just the beginning of another session. You pushed Jude onto the bed, his back against the headboard, you straddled his waist, your wet pussy already aching for him.

"You wanna ride me," he urged, his hands cupping your tits, thumbs flicking over your sensitive nipples. You leaned forward, your hands on his chest for support as you began to grind your hips, feeling his hard cock slide along your slick folds. Your tits bouncing with each movement, Jude's eyes darkening with desire. "That's it, angel, show me how much you want it," he encouraged, his hands moving down to grip your hips, guiding your movements. You moaned, the sensation of his cock rubbing against your clit drove you wild.  “Tell me how bad you need my cock.” You could feel your pussy throb as he teased you. You begged him to fuck you whimpering. 

“Jude please. Please fuck me. I want you,” you whined causing Jude to smile smugly. He lined his cock up with your entrance but kept you hovering above him, not allowing you to sit down. 

“I know.” He cooed as you sank down. He stretched you perfectly. You breathed slowly as he filled you. He held his same smug grin watching the pleasure on your face. “Such a good girl f’me. Just like that, baby.” He was enjoying watching you but his own feelings had him struggling to keep his eyes from rolling back. As you grinded on him, Jude knew this was a feeling he could never replace. His hands slid up your waist to grip your tits as they bounced with every movement. You leant back, your hands behind you for support, and begin to ride him with purpose, your pussy engulfing his length with each downward thrust.

"Fuck, you feel so good," You whimpered as his hands squeezed your ass, urging you on. The pace quickened, and your moans filled the room as you rode him harder, your pussy clenching around his shaft. Jude's hands move to your thighs, spreading them wider, giving him deeper access.

"That's it, let me feel that tight pussy," he grunted, his own control slipping as he met your downward thrusts with powerful upward strokes. The sensation was incredible, and you could feel your orgasm building, your body trembling with anticipation. Jude's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and loving. "Cum for me, angel," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "Let go, I wanna feel you." He told you. You whimpered, your body tightening as the pleasure peaked. 

"Oh, fuck Jude... I'm..." Your words were lost as your orgasm hit, your pussy convulsing around his cock, milking him as waves of pleasure wash over you. Jude's hips bucked off the bed, driving his cock somehow deeper inside you as he came with a roar, filling you with his hot release this time in a different way. In the aftermath, you collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his lips trailing kisses along your neck.

"I love you so much angel," he whispered, his voice filled with adoration. "You're my everything." You smiled, snuggling closer, feeling the warmth of his body and the wetness between your thighs. 

"I love you Jude. This...  was…we... are so good at that." You giggled, hiding your face. He hummed in agreement kissing your hair

And so as it goes, life was good all until it wasn’t. All it took was one tweet. 

‘All I’m saying is since that girl showed up Jude Bellingham has been shite. Save some energy for the games, mate.’

It felt like you’d read this exact tweet hundreds of times but apparently this one carried firepower and it brewed a whole debate online, for weeks. And so it was declared Jude’s form had been off—at least, that’s what everyone was saying. The press, the fans, the analysts. And somehow, as ridiculous as it sounded, you were the one they blamed. You’d become a convenient story for them, something to latch onto when the statistics didn’t add up the way they wanted. Even the most reputable pundits asking if his personal life or is the spotlight affecting him. Sure, Jude had been playing well, but his goals and assists were down compared to last season, and people needed someone to point fingers at. The narrative spun out of control in the way only a media frenzy could. It wasn’t new to you. But somehow, this time it stung a little more. You didn’t like that people were being rude to your Jude. It made you sad. You didn’t want to inflict that type of hurt on him and so… you hide. Tonight, you were at the Bernabéu. You’d come early, as usual, trying to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible. The stadium was slowly filling with fans, the energy building in that electric way it always did before kickoff. The roar of the crowd was still a murmur at this stage, the steady hum of anticipation floating through the air. You found your spot far in the back of the box, standing as you always did, eyes squinting to make out the figures of the players warming up on the pitch below. From here, Jude was just another one of the players, moving through his drills, stretching, shaking off the tension that always seemed to cling to the start of a game. This had become your routine, this quiet, removed place where you could watch without the weight of all those eyes on you. In a way, it was your safe zone—a place where you could feel present for Jude but shielded from the noise. From the stories. From the judgment. You shifted on your feet, feeling the cool metal railing beneath your hands as you leaned forward just slightly, trying to focus on Jude and not the knot in your stomach. It was hard to ignore the things people said sometimes, even when you knew they weren’t true. But before you could sink too deep into your thoughts, you felt a hand on your arm. Firm but gentle, the touch snapped you back to reality. You turned to see Denise standing there, her expression sharp but filled with concern. She didn’t say anything at first, just pulled you slightly toward her, her grip softening as she looked you in the eye.

“Hun…enough,” she finally said, her voice low but carrying the weight of everything unsaid. “You are not here for them. You’re here to support Jude. And you can’t do that from back here.” You blinked, trying to find a response, but nothing came. Denise didn’t wait for you to argue. She grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the front of the box, toward the seats you’d been avoiding. There was no point resisting; when Denise had made up her mind about something, it was best to just go along with it. And truthfully, you knew she was right. She sat you down next to her, her hand never leaving yours as if she knew you needed the grounding. Her tone softened, the edge replaced by something warmer, more maternal. She was incredibly sweet with you but you knew she’d always been tough, protective in her own way, and over time she had come to treat you like one of her own, the toughness included. You could feel that in moments like this. “Do you know the surname on your back?” she asked, her gaze steady. You looked at her, caught off guard by the question, but you nodded. Of course, you did. You wore that name every time you stepped into this stadium, whether or not you realized it. “You’re either part of this family or not. You decide.” She said it bluntly but you knew it wasn’t meant as a threat but as a reminder. Still, her words struck a chord deep inside you. You were part of this family—Jude’s family, but also this team, this life. You hadn’t chosen the spotlight, but it came with the territory, and Denise was reminding you of that in the most direct way possible. This wasn’t about the press, or the stories people told, or the numbers on a scoreboard. It was about standing beside Jude, even when things felt overwhelming. You couldn’t help but smile at her. It was a small, grateful smile, one that said more than words could. Denise nodded, satisfied, before she wrapped her arm around you, pulling you close in that protective, motherly way she had. She kissed your temple softly, a quiet show of affection that made you feel both cared for and understood.  As you settled into the seat, you felt the weight of a few eyes turning toward you. People noticed, of course they did. In this world, you were never truly invisible. The whispers and glances might come, but sitting here now, next to Denise, you realized something: it was okay. Let them look, let them whisper. You weren’t here for them. You were here for Jude. You straightened up a little, your back pressing firmly against the seat as the crowd roared louder, signaling the match was about to begin. The tension in your chest eased ever so slightly as the players lined up on the field. You could see Jude now, clear as day, and for the first time tonight, you didn’t feel the need to hide. This was where you belonged, and it would have to be enough.

Since the series came out, Jude had become, if possible, more clingy with you, though the internet had it all wrong. People assumed that with his fame, his talent, and the endless attention he received, he didn’t need you to ground him, that he was the star and you were just along for the ride. But in truth, Jude believed he needed you to perform, to thrive on and off the pitch. Jude was struggle despite the fact that he wasn’t playing badly, you both knew that and so did the more seasoned football fans too. But you also both knew the scrutiny was part of the job, but it didn’t make it any easier. Jude was always a target. If he wasn’t scoring or assisting every game, the critics were quick to pounce. It was exhausting, but you had your own ways of supporting him through it all, grounding him when the outside noise became too loud. Jude’s clinginess had always been endearing, even if the public rarely saw it. They had this image of him—self-sufficient, confident, the superstar who didn’t need anyone. But in reality, behind all the headlines and highlight reels, Jude leaned on you more than anyone could guess. He wasn’t shy about it, either. To him, you weren’t just his partner; you were part of his success, his comfort, his why. Every day was a reminder of that, in small ways that meant everything. Your presence had become a part of his routine, the glue that held everything together for him. 

Take this morning. He was mid-set in the gym, his arms straining as he pushed through the reps, sweat dripping down his face. Often, you’d sit on the floor of your home gym while he worked out, chatting away as he powered through reps, his eyes occasionally glancing your way for a quick grin, your words acting like background music to his workout. He swore it helped him focus. He needed you there. Today was no different, you sat on a yoga mat, leaning against the wall, scrolling idly through your phone while chatting with him, explaining some drama Winnie was in. He’d glance over between sets, grinning like a boy who couldn’t get enough of the sound of your voice, as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded during the workout. But sometimes you wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just watch. Your presence enough for him. 

“You’re staring again,” he muttered teasingly, mid-lift, his breath labored but full of amusement.

“Who says I’m staring?” you shot back with a smirk, not even bothering to deny it.

“I can feel it,” he replied, his lips twitching into a smile as he set the weight down and shook his arms out. “Keeps me going, though.”

And that was just the start. Then, there were the breakfasts you made for him before training.  He’d follow you into the kitchen, waiting as you made him breakfast—his usual, the one you’d perfected over the months. It was always the same, exactly how he liked it. And no matter how many people offered to do it for him—a chef, his mum—he insisted that only your cooking was right. It was part of the ritual, part of his connection to you, and through that, his connection to the game. You once tried to tell him someone else should* handle but Jude had immediately vetoed the idea.

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t make it like you do.” It wasn’t just the food. It was you. He was playing well—anyone with a proper eye for the game knew that. He wasn’t putting up these astronomical numbers in goals or assists, but he was solid, consistent, and crucial to the team’s strategy. Still, that didn’t stop the critics from coming for him whenever they could. That kind of pressure could break anyone. But not Jude—not as long as he had you by his side. And you knew he felt that. You could see it in the way he sought you out after games, his eyes scanning the stands, always finding yours, as if that was the moment he could finally exhale. With the international break around the corner, you felt a twinge of relief. It was always an intense period, with Jude off representing England. He was proud to pull on that jersey, but the added strain on his body was undeniable. You’d spent nights massaging the knots out of his back, watching him ice his knees after long stretches of games. He was fit, sure, but the game took its toll, and you could see the wear in moments of quiet, when he finally let down the walls. Still, the two of you were eagerly looking forward to this particular break for one reason: the draw. England versus France. The very idea of it lit a spark in both of you, not just for the magnitude of the match, but for everything it represented. Paris wasn’t just another city for you—it was a place loaded with history, with meaning. This international break there was something extra to look forward to. The two of you had been eagerly anticipating the draw, and now it was official. The game would be at that little old place on Rue du Commandant Guilbaud, Parc des Princes in Paris. December would bring cold air and frosty breaths, the perfect atmosphere for a match that was sure to be icy with tension between the two countries. The history, the rivalry, it all made the stakes feel even higher. You could already imagine it—friends and family in the stands, the energy electric, your heart racing as you pulled on Jude’s England jersey, feeling the weight of it, the pride, the love, but slight fear because you knew Louis was going to kill you when he saw you in the kit.  You grew up going to Parc des Princes but you hadn’t been in ages. The nostalgia was already pulling at your heartstrings, memories of the city swirling in your mind. But more than anything, you were excited to be there for him. To stand in the cold Parisian air, bundled up, but warm with pride as Jude stepped onto that familiar pitch, surrounded by tension and anticipation. This wasn’t just another match. It felt bigger, more meaningful. For Jude, for you. And you couldn’t wait to be there, standing by him as always, ready to watch him shine, knowing that no matter what, you were part of his every win, every challenge, every moment.

“oh mon Dieu. I’m so so so excited, baby,” you said one night seeing the fixture announced on Instagram as you curled up beside Jude on the couch, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder. “Feels like ages since we’ve been in Paris together.” You smiled jumping over your last Parisian memories with Whitney and instead skipping to recall better times with Jude.  He smiled, pulling you closer. 

“Feels like ages since we’ve done anything that wasn’t football-related.” He cheekily smiled a little annoyed at the fact that you were going for his work but also eagerly anticipating what was going to happen on this trip.  

“You’re not wrong,” you agreed, letting your fingers trace small circles on his chest. “But this match… Jude, it’s sweet. It’s like us..” You smile. His expression softened, a mix of pride and excitement. The darkness of the room wrapped around you both like a cocoon. “England versus France. December in Paris. The crowd, the atmosphere…” Jude’s hand slid across your waist, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. You smiled against his skin, your heart full.

“Big weekend, innit?” He smiled but his heart was pounding.  His voice was a soft rumble in the quiet of the room. You nodded none the wiser. He had plans for that weekend and he was stressed about much more than the game. “And my angel will be there f’me. Wearing my shirt, hmm?” He cooed, kissing your hair a few times.  You laughed, nudging him playfully. 

“Of course, likely freezing my ass off but I wouldn’t miss a chance to see my favorite player in the world. I’ll even brave the Parisian winter for it.” You giggled. 

“Such a martyr,” he teased, kissing the top of your head.

“I cant’t wait to see Kylian play, Aurel and Cama too, you know?” You giggled and Jude kissed his teeth. 

“Honestly. Just so rude. Can’t wear my kit anymore. Get one of your little French boys to give you a jersey.” He feigned offense. You kissed his neck with a giggled, squeezing him in a bone crushing cuddle. It was all in good humor because the truth was, you’d do anything for him, and he knew it even beat your own heritage. The match itself was already steeped in tension—the rivalry between England and France, the history, the weight of national pride.  The Parc des Princes had always held a special place for you but this time, it wasn’t just about the past. It was about now. It was about Jude, about watching him in the jersey that meant the world to him, feeling the weight of his name on your back as you stood in the crowd. There was something magical about it, something that felt different from all the other matches. Maybe it was the nostalgia of Paris, or maybe it was the fact that after all the scrutiny and pressure, this match felt like an opportunity for Jude to remind everyone who he was. And you’d be there, as you always were, bundled up in the cold, feeling every ounce of pride and love for the man who had your heart. Jude might have been the star, the one everyone watched, but the truth was, the game—his game—wasn’t the same without you.

With the break fast approaching you were worried about Jude’s body, more now than ever before. The season was relentless—game after game, with no real break in sight, and every added match meant another 90-plus minutes of strain on his already taxed muscles and joints. His shoulder, his ankle, his knee… they all weighed heavily on your mind. The problem was, Jude would never admit if something wasn’t right. He always brushed off your concerns, telling you he was fine, that it was just part of the game. But you could see it—the subtle winces when he stood too quickly, the extra time he took to stretch in the mornings, the way he sometimes favored one leg over the other when he thought you weren’t looking. And yet, lately, it wasn’t just Jude’s physical state that had you worried. There was something going on with you too. You felt so achy, this unfamiliar heaviness lingering in your limbs. By the afternoons, your energy was completely drained, leaving you groggy and fighting to keep your eyes open. And then there was your body. You’d been brushing it off for weeks, but you couldn’t ignore it anymore—your jeans didn’t fit quite right, not like they used to. They were tighter around your waist, your hips, and no matter how many times you told yourself it was just bloating or stress, the little voice in the back of your mind whispered something different. It was the reason why that trip upstairs at 9 p.m. to get your birth control had suddenly become so important again. For weeks, you’d been a little careless, caught up in the whirlwind of life with Jude, in the physical intensity of your relationship. It had been too easy to forget, to prioritize the comfort of cuddling on the couch over getting up and grabbing the pill. But now, you couldn’t brush it off. You couldn’t let it slip for one more night.  The problem was, the thought that had been creeping into the edges of your mind—the one that you were now terrified to even entertain—scared you. It was a fear you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge, let alone say out loud. Because if you did… what then? You sat on the couch beside Jude that night, your head resting against his shoulder as he scrolled through his phone, oblivious to the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind. His body was warm and steady against you, his presence always a source of comfort. But tonight, comfort felt elusive. Your thoughts kept drifting back to how off you’d felt lately, how your body seemed to be betraying you, sending you signals you weren’t ready to interpret. You knew you needed to make that walk upstairs to your nightstand, to pop that tiny pill and push the thought out of your mind. But for the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure if it was already too late.

“Everything okay in there, angel? You’ve been quiet tonight.” Jude’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, pulling you back to the present. His finger coming to tap on your temple gently but teasingly.  You forced a smile, looking up at him. 

“Yeah, just tired, that’s all.” You admitted a half truth. He kissed your temple where his fingers were, his lips lingering there for a moment, his breath warm against your skin. 

“You sure? You’ve seemed off lately.” Your heart skipped a beat at how easily he could read you, even when you weren’t ready to admit anything. You nodded, not trusting yourself to say much more. Jude was already dealing with so much—his body, the pressure of the season, the upcoming international matches. The last thing you wanted to do was add to his stress. But as you sat there, wrapped up in his warmth, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of uncertainty pressing down on you. Something was happening. You just weren’t sure what it was yet. And that terrified you more than anything. The night was quiet, the soft hum of the television the only sound filling the room as you cuddled into Jude’s side. After the international break games had been announced, Paris—Parc des Princes—was where Jude’s thoughts had been circling for days. He was focused on upcoming fixtures but also what was meant to happen outside of those match days.  You could feel his excitement simmering just beneath the surface, even if tonight, he was calm, content just being there with you. As you shifted, settling deeper into the couch, Jude’s voice cut through the stillness again. 

“I was thinking,” he began, his tone thoughtful but easy. “Do you think your dad would want to come to the match? I’d really like to invite him.” Jude cooed.  You blinked, surprised. 

“Yeah, I’m sure he’d love that. I can tell him—” You cooed almost instinctively, it was sweet but you were not really thinking about it much. Jude gently placed a hand on your arm, stopping you mid-sentence. 

“Nah, angel.” he said softly but firmly. “I mean I want to invite him myself.” His words hung in the air, and you pulled back slightly, sitting up, studying his face. There was something deeper in his request, something more personal than just an invitation to watch him play. For a second, you felt touched by how important it was to him. But then, like a wave crashing over you, the thought hit hard: What if something’s wrong? Your mind started to spiral. All the little signs—the achiness, the strange grogginess, the tightness of your jeans—they all seemed to be pointing in one direction, a direction you weren’t ready to consider. What if… you were… no surely not. The thought made your stomach churn. You suddenly felt a bit sick, not from any physical symptom, but from the sheer weight of the possibility. Seeing your family, especially in Paris, suddenly felt like a mountain you weren’t ready to climb. You pictured sitting across from them, the warmth of wine glasses being passed around, the ease with which they would pour you a glass without question. In your family, wine wasn’t just a drink—it was tradition, hospitality, connection. Refusing a glass would raise eyebrows. They’d notice, they’d ask questions, and how would you explain that? You couldn’t decide which option was worse: taking a test and confirming your fears, or sitting through a meal with your family, knowing you might be hiding something so monumental. “Angel?” You must’ve gone quiet for too long because Jude’s brow furrowed in concern.  You nodded quickly, trying to shake off the dizziness of your thoughts. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I’m fine. Just thinking.” You forced a smile, still trying to process his request. “It’s sweet, Jude, but… You don’t have to do all that, why do you want to ask him yourself?” Jude didn’t hesitate. He looked at you with the kind of sincerity that always made your heart skip a beat. 

“It’s a big deal for me to have people at my games and not just there as spectators but I want them there as family, as friends. Your dad… he’s important to you, so he’s important to me. I’d love for him to be there as someone I invited, someone who’s part of my or our world.” His words softened the edges of your anxiety for a moment, his thoughtfulness tugging at something deep inside you. You knew your dad would appreciate that gesture. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked to use his name or status to get into fancy places. He didn’t care for the fuss of hospitality suites or special treatment. What he cared about was connection—being present, being part of something real. And here Jude was, offering exactly that. Although your dad was a man of comfort and luxury so you knew he wouldn’t complain in Jude’s box either. 

“He’d love that, Jude. Really, baby.” You smiled, this time genuinely. Jude’s eyes lit up, clearly pleased. He reached out, gently pulling you back down into his arms, your head finding its familiar spot against his chest. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your temple, a steadying presence as always. The warmth of his body, the rhythm of his breathing—it was enough to slow the racing of your thoughts, if only for a moment. As you lay there, your mind couldn’t help but return to the nagging possibility of what might be happening with your body. You tried to push it down, tried to focus on the feeling of Jude’s arm around you, the comfort of his presence. But it was hard to ignore. Every day, it seemed more likely that you were dealing with something much bigger than just fatigue or stress. You had brushed it off for so long, but now, sitting here with Jude, your thoughts swirling, you realized how scared you really were. And yet, in this moment, with Jude holding you close, something shifted. His kiss against your temple, the way his hand rested protectively on your side—it all steadied your heart. Maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be so terrifying. Maybe if Jude was by your side, and if your family was there too, it wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. The idea of facing whatever was coming with both of them by your side suddenly didn’t feel so impossible. As Jude’s breathing slowed, and you realized he was drifting off to sleep, you stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling. The thought of Paris loomed ahead, the cold December air, the intensity of the match, the weight of what might be happening with your body. But maybe, just maybe, if you had Jude and your dad there with you, it would all be okay. Eventually, you let yourself relax into Jude’s arms, closing your eyes, telling yourself that whatever was coming, you wouldn’t face it alone. Maybe, just maybe, it would all be okay.

You leaned against the counter, watching Jude pace around the kitchen, phone in hand, looking every bit as anxious as someone about to make the biggest business deal of their life. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Jude, are you seriously this nervous to call my dad? You’ve known him for how long now?” You giggled. 

“It’s different this time. You don’t get it, alright?” Jude stopped, glancing at you with a look of half-embarrassment, half-whining. 

“Oh, I get it,” you teased, folding your arms. “You’re about to ask him to a football match, not pitch for a place on the team.” He groaned, running a hand over his hair, the nerves clearly getting to him. 

“Angel, seriously,” he whined, “don’t make fun. This is… important.” He glanced at you. You weren’t sure why this was such a big deal to him. Like just ask him to the game? Simple as. So you raised an eyebrow. 

“Important? Jude, you’ve invited people to games before.” You explained dropping a bit of the humor and inquiring a bit more genuinely. 

“Yeah, but this is different.” He shot you a look and mumbled. You could see that he was genuinely stressed, and that only made your curiosity grow. 

“Different how?” you asked, stepping closer, playful but also wondering what had him so rattled. “Are you planning something secret?” You teased and Jude’s breath caught momentarily in fear you knew why this was a bigger deal until he let out a frustrated sigh, cheeks turning a little red as he waved you off. 

“I’m calling him,” he muttered, “but I need to do it in private. You’re making me nervous.” He told you sheepishly with a childish pout. But that word made you pause. 

“Private? Why?” You asked. He shot you an almost panicked glance and headed for the door. 

“Because you can’t hear this,” he called over his shoulder, already making a break for the living room. “Don’t listen in!” You blinked, watching him retreat. What on earth was going on. Jude closed the door behind him, breathing out heavily as he looked down at his phone again, preparing himself. This wasn’t just about inviting your dad to the game—that part was easy. It was about the real reason he wanted to meet him before the match. He needed to ask your dad something far more important, something that had been weighing on his mind for ages now. He knew how much your family meant to you, and he wanted to do this right. He wanted your dad’s blessing before asking you the biggest question of his life, your life. Jude’s hand hovered over your dad’s contact before he hit the call button, exhaling deeply as he heard the line ring.

🪩🫶❤️‍🔥🍹🌞🍒 Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter 🍒🌞🍹❤️‍🔥🫶🪩

Next part - Chapter 23 - The Right Time xx

[the-quaint-quail]

Azul-

Had always enjoyed going to upscale events. He liked the prestige and the exclusivity of them. That not the common man or mer can step foot inside a venue without a connection or invitation. He enjoyed picking out a suit, lapels, a tie, blazer, shiny black dress shoes. He didn't mind the cummerbund, thanking It for its slimming effects, although it is an effort to clean it.

Azul didn't mind the limousine sent to pick him and his employees up from the port, the same port the three of them were fished out of and brought to Night Raven College all those years ago.

Sevens where did the time go...

He was established in the business world. Connections from school and his mother serving him well in his pursuit of excellence, all the time he'd fake smile and stroke the egos of the naive students there who were too busy choking on their silver or iron pyrite spoons. Too busy comparing muscles to understand the importance of strategic planning and the sacrifices that come with excellence. Simply because they won't reach his level- unless they were born into it like Kalim Al-Asim, or Vil Schoenheit.

Looking out the window boredly, his eyes focused on one thing and another as the car kept speeding along to their destination. Much to Floyd's chagrin.

"I don't understand why we gotta go to this stupid thing. We already got those mermaids sing'n at the Lounge. What makes you think a human could compete with 'em?"

"Now Floyd, I wouldn't put down the entire human race because of their birth situations. The unfortunate feeling of a dry throat is something only humans can experience and that is no fault on their part except for their birth on land."

"...Huh?"

Azul drowned out their nonsensical banter and focused on the warmth on the streetlamps that illuminated the city. From magic mirror to limousine, Azul could feel himself slowly sink into the leather seat. This is supposed to be a night of relaxation, investing, connecting.

So, he is even more confused when Riddle Rosehearts and his mother are walking into the gran preforming arts center. His styled silver locks bouncing at the momentum of his double take and with a huff he blew the stray lock of hair dangling in front of him back into place in a silk back.

Well, what he could call a slick back at his curls insistence to make themselves known by revolting against the hair spray and magic styling tools he tried using.

"Riddle Rosehearts!"

The same heart shaped hairstyle Riddle wore was replaced with his left front piece tucked behind his ear, but hair wasn't important right now. Instead, Azul slowed his steps as he took in the ex-house warden. He had certainly grown into himself that was for sure as the puff in his chest from college was bigger and his legs longer.

"Ehhhh, goldfishie must've been eat'n his greens" Floyd mocked, bending down to wave a hand over Riddle's head as no number of greens would make him catch up to the lumbering eel mer.

Riddle quickly and quietly excused himself from his offended mother and brought the three mers to the corner of the gallery. The black rug swirled with gold vines, being separated by a set of sleek polished black marble stairs. Red carpets lined both entrances to the large auditorium where Riddle's mom was walking to, stopping along the way to converse with a group of older suits.

"Azul Ashengrotto- Jade, Floyd" Riddle greeted the twins coolly before turning back to their leader in confusion. "What are you guys doing here? Didn't you move back to the coral sea after your internships?"

"Indeed, we did, no place like home as they say" Jade cut in with a fake smile that he curated for a decade, long before he transferred schools and yet he seemed to prefect it to Riddle's displeasure and to Azul's pleasure.

"We're here because we're meeting with a few potential investors for a new location of the Monstro. With the riveting success it's had under sea we thought the next best move was to expand on land"

Riddle chuckled slightly "How ambitious of you Azul, you're still the businessman you were at Night Raven."

"Naturally" Azul couldn't help the coy smirk on his face as he placed a gloved hand to his deep French navy blazer, a recommendation from Vil Schoenheit himself, in pride.

"So whattaya do'n here Goldfishie? You here on business?"

"Pleasure is more like it" Riddle's cheeks flushed as he fidgeted under the intrigued stares of the merman. Azul's eyes zoomed in on the arms he kept hidden behind his back hiding something he didn't want the three of them to see. Hm.

One thing Azul loved was a good mystery. And good sevens could not mind his own business for the life of him and he knows the twins couldn't either.

"Ehhh, Goldfishie what's that behind your back."

FLOYD YOU NINCOMPOOP

Azul wanted to smack himself, remembering Floyd's art of discretion was as- as... Floyd, dear sevens.

Riddle's face was feverishly red as he looked behind his back in a panic, the other guests slowly filing out of the gallery at the sudden chiming of bells. Five minutes til show starts.

"I'd love to continue chatting with you, but we have to get to our box, tell me where yours is as we'd like to stop by and continue this little catch up amongst old friends."

Azul's smile widens at the grumbling of Riddle's breathe, something about 'old friends'. caused the red head to grimace. It almost looked like he was pouting, how utterly adorable.

"Against my wishes, my mother set us up for box A-"

"Wonderful! We are box C and hope to see you after the show! Perhaps we could even get dinner together, if your mother agrees." And with that they said their goodbyes and quickly vanished leaving Riddle to blink owlishly at what just happened. H-How the sevens did he get roped into this? He hardly had a second to think let alone respond to these suspiciously suspicious men that they had made plans without his consent.

Riddle's, unfortunately still small but now slight larger fists clenched in timed intervals as he tried calming his anger through breathing in and out, in and out just like you thought him. Soon the fury that was rising like fire in his chest died down into a light irritation as he now must somehow convince his mother to divert from original plans. If he was lucky, she would go home by herself and leave you two be.

Riddle brought forth the flowers from behind his back and stared at them for a second. A beautiful bouquet of assorted flowers he picked from his carefully tended garden. Daisies, hundred leaved roses, Narcissus', and Rhododendrons were wrapped in pink paper with a red and white stripped tulle bow.

Bringing them up to his nose he took a long, purposeful sniff making sure he felt the expansion of his ribs pressing against his skin and the tension in his shoulders. Everything he did reminded him of you...

he was calm now, the floral scent lingering in his nose giving him something to focus on rather than the dinner you two had last night that grew legs and decided to harass him at your recital.

Great.

How was he going to explain that your ex-boyfriend was coming to visit the box and made dinner plans.

--------------------------------------------

Azul wasn't easily bored. Being an avid reader makes you prone, complicit to boredom as you feel it when a book is too long, or the narrative is too slow or just plain old boring. Forcing you to drop the book like it was a hermit crab hidden in itself and reach for another, hopefully less boring book.

He didn't mind talking about business during the show. Having a chance to add a comment or two to the older, richer guest that made them either smirk or chuckle. He was doing good regardless of how many times he had to check his watch in hopes that 30 minutes passed rather than a measly 5.

Azul takes it back, this is torture. Floyd was right, all these up-and-coming singers were just- nothing compared to the sirens and mers down below he wanted to say to the other businessman next to him, but he refrained learning that his daughter was the one who sung that awful aria making him and his companions give her a standing ovation.

Azul wanted a shark to swim up and swallow him whole because oh my sevens.

He felt his inside pocket vibrate during intermission, quickly pulling it out and exuding himself that he 'had to take this call.'

His package had arrived at his deep-sea residence. Rejoice!... Well, it was something to be glad for as he quickly makes an ear, nose and throat appointment for tomorrow. Before pressing 'confirm appointment' an unknown number had texted him. His finger wavered as he looked back at the crack of the box door where he could see jade and Floyd entertaining the small group in his absence.

Pulling down on the notification, it read:

'Hello! This is Riddle Rosehearts. Unfortunately, my mother will not be able to make it if you are still planning to get dinner afterwards but keep that fifth seat open as I have to ask my fiancé.'

...

WHAT

Azul couldn't believe what he was reading. What do you mean fiancé? Who in their right mind would ever think it's a good idea to marry that walking ticking time bomb? yes, he had the brains, Azul bites his lip bitterly thinking back on the one sided academic rivalry. But he was stickler for the rules, high patience, bossy, and downright naive in places Azul has expert knowledge of.

Like love, having a girlfriend in college for a few years but ultimately breaking it off because you were going home. You weren't from here and Azul highly doubted you'd want to stay, ditch your legs and live in the deepest part of the ocean. Humans were a lot like plants, they need sunlight to survive, and drown when there's too much water.

"It was better this way" He leans his head against the cream walls, staring up at the hanging metal sign that had his box's name. "She was going home anyway, I just made it easier."

Azul knew the truth, all three of them did because the pang in heart every time she crossed his mind, never got easier to handle. This is what that mermaid princess must've felt, he thought to himself. Wishing to be a part of her loves world to be with them always and forever. She got her happily ever after, he did not.

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep, almost shuddering breath. His fingers slowly undoing his black glove, only one, holding it in his hand as he felt the rough texture of the wall behind him. The wiggle of his toes in his socks and shoes, the cool air-conditioned air chilling his nose and bothering his throat.

Just like you taught him all those years ago. With a sigh, Azul hastily typed out his response to the red head and pocketed his phone to head back inside.

---------------------------

There was one more act.

One more seven forsaken act before he could leave and be done with this. The old, bot bellied man with salt and pepper facial hair had told him the last act was never put on the play bill or announced until the performance was over.

It was earned by their performer you know what they say, save the best for last. It was the prize of a preforming arts school program, which put the whole picture of tonight into perspective for Azul, he almost wanted to pat himself on the back for passing the test this man set up for him.

Yes, he was a patron of the arts having his own entertainment on weekend for the lounge. Sometimes he would take the stage- only during special occasions such as wooing a potential investor, or to give the crowd something to talk about. But that was all, he'd never once dreamed to pursue it in thoughts it’s a waste of education filled with uncertainties Azul just wasn't willing to take. He needed a steady job with a steady (it's Azul, he's usually always making profit) income and a comfortable life.

Fins off to them for trying though.

Applause broke him from his thoughts as the woman on stage bowed to the applause and walked off. Her dress blended too much into the backdrop of draping red velvet curtains that folded over themselves in a bunched, yet aesthetically pleasing eye. If it was done by anyone else than the master set designer, it would have looked cheap and pathetic.

High heels echoed through the auditorium as the next, hopefully best performer came their way on stage.

"My daughter caught her in a music room one day practicing before dawn and sore she heard the seven's trumpets" The old man laughed as Azul painfully smiled, adjusting himself to catch a bet-

His heart dropped.

Why were you here? Why weren't you why- His throat clammed up and his hair started to fall.

He met Jade and Floyd's shocked faces as they took in Azul's growing distress. Shit.

The audience's applause drowns out his own racing mind as his chair falls back with a muted thud thanks to the swirling carpet.

Look

He looked to Riddle's box as he drew his lower lip between his teeth. The red heads were both standing with applause as Riddle looked down at you with so much love.

His azure eyes were drawn back to stage when they both sat down. His eyes studying every inch and piece of you his glasses allowed him to see. His mouth gapped like a fish as his pupils flared at the reflection of a shiny, large rock on your ring finger.

That could not have been comfortable to wear!!! Yet you waved the poised elegant wave princesses were known of with ease regardless of the hulking ruby that swallowed your finger whole.

He knew how this was going to play out, knew from the moment you opened your mouth and started singing that sevens-forsaken song.

But you never looked at him or his box. Your eyes too focused on the audience and Riddle blasted Rosehearts.

Azul angrily pulled out his phone, sitting down in the chair Jade had set up again with an excuse that you were an old friend of theirs from college.

Friend- Friend?!

Azul's blood boiled as he silently seethed at the thought. Friend?! You were so much more than friends that the title made him furious to even think of you as such. You were lovers, companions, boyfriend and girlfriend. Not fucking friends. you were his and you were his.,

Were

Sevens he could just hear and see Riddle's smugness as it rang like seagulls in his mind.

'You never told me [name] was preforming' the message silently sent, and Riddle didn't even glance at Azul or his blinking phone rather he spotted his seat closer, whispered something to his proud looking mother and leaned against the railing with a stupid dreamy look on his stupid handsome face.

"Think of me-

-----------------

Azul had zoned out in the middle of the song as thoughts of you and past times swam in memories like New Yorkers at the Jersey Shore- like the beach at summertime during a summer holiday.

You had sung this song to him many times, Azul's piano and duet always bringing a smile to your face as you playfully bumped him. The corners of his own lips quirking up in a rare show of genuine emotion.

Your retreating heels stopped when you met his eye, your beaming smile faded like you'd just witnessed Grim eating your leftovers, again. Shit. he could practically read your thoughts as you hurried off stage after your 30 second standing ovation.

You truly deserved it.

A ping was felt in his great pocket. Fumbling with his phone as the new investor patted his back with a heavy hand yapping about how cool it must've been knowing you directly.

"Yes, yes very cool" He forced a smile, jade and Floyd swopping in to tell the guests more about you all while packing up their own things to go home. But they weren't going home.

You refused to meet his eye the moment you stepped into the gallery with Riddle, elbows interlocked and smiling as Riddle guided you through the crowd who couldn't help but commandeer you and stop you for a quick second. Sometimes, you were handed a small card that you gave to Riddle who smoothly gave to his mother who then pocketed it in a small red crocodile pouch that held more organized cards.

"You never told us [name] was your fiancé Riddle, how rude" Floyd pouted as he crushed you in a eel hug, swaying you like a guppy, much to Riddle and his mother's anger.

"That is a handmade damask dress and real ruby’s! Put her down at once!" Riddle's mom seethed through a gritted smile, making sure to keep up appearance despite her harrowing glare and popping veins.

Floyd placed you down gentler than he picked you up, keeping you in his arms for a moment while you steadied yourself in your black sleek heels.

Jade, not one to show mercy but one to read a room, merely gave you a small quick hug not wanting to feel the ire of Riddle's mother like his brother. "Yes, it caught us by surprise when you walked on stage-"

"-I thought you went home."

The group silenced at Azul's word vomit. The businessman widening his eyes at what came out as you exchanged an uneasy look with Riddle.

"She-"

"I-"

You looked to Riddle's mom who nodded, allowing you to talk in her stead as she excused herself to hunt down every person who handed you their business card.

May seven help their mortal souls.

"I... they..." You sighed, quickly greeting a passerby-er as you looked him up and down. "Crowley never found a way. He- the lead he had was a dead end and he let me stay at the school for a few years as the janitor. With the connections of Vil and Kalim, I was able to transfer to a preforming arts school- Siren's Cove, where I studied music for a while..."

Azul didn't like the sad smile on your lips or the glossy look in your eyes. he especially hated how Riddle was there to comfort you, a hand settled perfectly on your waist as he rubbed soothing circles with his thumb.

Azul had to physically hold back his late lunch that threatened to crawl up and out of his throat.

"But before all that" You sniffed a few times, trying to play off the sudden wave of emotion as a stuffy nose, but they all knew that was a lie. Because a singer would never have a snuffer nose on the night of her most important performance yet.

This was an investors event after all.

"Riddle was actually invited back to teach a law class- he's a lawyer-"

oh, course he's a lawyer, A multi layered voice gargled

"At Night Raven and in a cheesy rom com fashion, he heard me singing in the hallway while mopping and well-."

"It was love at first listen-"

"Riddle!" You swatted his arm with a laugh as the now lawyer looked at you keeling over in his grasp with a fondness that makes Azul sick.

Why if he were in the ocean, he'd drown that miserable-

"And because of that I was able to convince my mother-" he motioned towards the women in a red pantsuit who was laughing merrily with the group Azul was just with. Just where did she get that champagne?

"- To sponsor [name] in her musical education journey-"

"He actually asked me out after my first performance at Siren's Cove. He was redder than a tomato I'll tell you."

"More like a slap mark-"

"What was that?"

"How wonderful that you both found each other! You look good together" The one thing Azul hated in this moment was how easily he lied through his teeth. It was his job to spew ego stroking comments to customers of his business, lounge, and side hustle. But he also hated how he meant it.

You two.. you fit like puzzles pieces as Riddle stammers to try and save his dignity from the embarrassing confession. It was effortless on both your parts to finish what the other was saying even with the comments and questions from the twins.

.....

"I'm sorry Riddle but we're going to have to reschedule our dinner and catch up, I have paperwork from the investors that I must file tonight or else all that hard work and effort would be for naught" He sighed, shrugging in defeat and ignoring the twin's shared silent conversation.

Stop looking at him like that [name.] Like you can see right past his lies with that infuriating sympathy of yours. Like you know that he's saying this to not have to share a table with you at a sea food restaurant with your fucking fiancé.

He should've been the one taking you out to dinner in celebration tonight, the ancient voice grumbled, and Azul agreed. It should have been him! He should have been your sponsor! Not Riddle and his tyrannical mother! He should have been the one with his arm wrapped around your designer handmade dress that he gifted you for such an occasion.

Siren's Cover. HA! HAHHAHA

That was a coastal all girls higher education school for the musically and artistically gifted. He should've have been the only connection you used to get in- yes yes you passed the audition, but you can't get in without a referral or portfolio-

Right, he blocked your number when he and the twins ditched their phones the second their toes turned to fins. Technology a foreign and useless invention to the mers down under. Blocking you? It was to stop himself from begging you to stay from looking like a loser cry baby octopus.

Maybe… Maybe if he begged you to stay and told you he regretted it... No he could never ask you to stay, leaving everything you know and love behind for him seemed like a foreign concept. So, he never did it, thinking and reading too much into it to the point of inaction and distractions.

On the car ride home Azul listens to a recording he had saved deep in his phone as he watches out the window. It was the last time you had ever sung that sonf with him, it was unfinished as you made a mistake, apologizing as Azul merely plays over it. He remembers the oblivious look he gave you as his voice inside of his phone asks you "what mistake?" Your voice giggles as his panicked flustered noises and squeals were almost drowned out by the clashing piano keys.

You'd think a whale was trying to play with how horrible it sounded, yet the moment his gloved hands were away from the ivory keys and wrapped tightly around your falling form all he could hear was your joint laughter.

"I lov-"

The video was cut off.

Azul is left with the ghost of you cuddled up to him telling him to 'not think of what could've been.'

Sorry [name.]

He's so sorry.

--------

blerp! ;P

wrote in one go instead of doing my psych assignments lets go!!! hope you enjoyed hehe, I'm obsessed with azul x reader x riddle love triangle and will be writing more about them, just probably not this au

edit: whoops, uploaded the unedited version lol

[startswith0]

Lots of smart intelligent fictional characters get this "they're too smart to understand their own emotions" personality trait

I'm not saying that's entirely wrong, that's an old discourse, I digress, but it is refreshing to see Shinichi Kudo, teenage detective is not as emotionally unaware of his own emotions and feelings,

i.e., he knew for the longest time that he liked Ran Mouri a lot ever since they were in kindergarten! Kindergarten!

Ch924

Some stories like to play into the trope of "she fell first for the longest time and she will always love him and he's a boy so he didn't feel anything at all initially, for the longest time" leaving readers (me actually) feeling kinda bad for the girl because awww you fell first and you look kinda silly the author made you look silly with all your feelings while the boy was just oblivious because he's a trope male, and readers (me) just feel like the feelings are unequal even when they finally get together lol

But no, Shinichi is in touch with his emotions. He knew. Knows. Shinran is a couple who equally and more, loves each other a lot.

Even if right now Ran probably thinks she loves him more because he's almost never around. She thinks. (my projection lol)

Ch573

My interpretation here is Shinichi had to agree to calling her Ran again even tho initially he didn't want to seem close to her in elementary school because they're 'grown up and can't be friends because different genders'; but because he cannot say no to Ran....so she's back to being Ran and not just Mouri ;)))

Ch1

This boy be fantasizing his confession from ch1

Idc that it's an overdone trope when boy looks at that girl he likes when the said girl says something abt other girls, it's Shinran! They don't go out of style!

Ch488

Heiji is less in touch with his emotions, Kazuha also being his first love, so he's all frazzled up whenever he's jealous of other guys that Kazuha talks about or gets close to

Shinichi's like, brother, you are but a small child 🤏🏻

Lmao xD

What's great is, as a non-shoujo and even some shoujo mls are written to have difficulties discussing about their feelings, Aoyama-sensei wrote Shinichi as this person who's mature enough to recognize his feelings and not feel embarrassed to talk about it

I'm not saying feeling embarrassed is bad, what I'm saying is it's refreshing to see a boy who doesn't mind talking about it. And that boy being smart as a whip too

Ch254

That's rich coming from you, Hattori-san huhu

Ok gotta insert these because he's not even denying the 'married' part, only the long distance part 👀

And admitting to the 'best friend's gal' too. That's HIS GAL!

Edit : i missed this panel in my gallery

BUT LOOK AT HIM BLUSHING AND SAYING WITH CONFIDENCE HE'S LIKED RAN SINCE HE WAS YOUNGER!!!!!!

💙🌸

[spngi]

My tears ricochet | mafia!carlos sainz jr x reader

Prologue

part 1 | part 2

summary: Mr. and Mrs. Sainz lived in a dream for many years, now everything is falling apart and they need to deal with their feelings

warnings: Grammar mistakes, citation of violence, Carlos is an idiot, mentions of cheating

Carlos Sainz Jr was a true gentleman, a loyal and kind companion, a loving lover. A captivating man who won me over at first glance, with his chocolate-colored eyes and million-dollar smile. I didn't know who Carlos really was until I became deeply involved with him, until I realized I loved him so much that it wouldn't make any difference if he were a prince, a fisherman, or a mobster.

I met Carlos at the art gallery where I worked in Madrid; he was charming, affectionate, and too perfect to be true. He made efforts to create perfect dates and show all the affection he had for me; loving Carlos was as easy as breathing.

He was always very open about his feelings, his plans for the future, but he avoided revealing what his job was as much as possible. I tried to guess, after all, there aren't many job options in the market that could justify a huge mansion and the need for many security guards around him, but I never succeeded.

It took him a year to open up about his illicit activities to me, perhaps pressured by fate with subtle gestures. Before I could find out on my own, Carlos came clean.

I loved him deeply, but a woman has her limits and there are things I can't tolerate. I loved him infinitely, but thinking about all the things he did or was involved in made me sick. I had to overlook many things to be with him because, after all, I loved him, and that was what mattered, right?

"A monster is not a monster when you love it." This phrase was never more true. Carlos was never a monster to me, even after he told me all the terrible things he had done. I would still love him anyway.

Carlos loved me for five years, loved me while we timidly got to know each other, loved me when I tried to leave his life, loved me with all my mess when I moved into his house, loved me on our wedding day as we shared tears, loved me through three wedding anniversaries. But he didn't love me when I had to mature, when I realized that in the life we were living, you either bite or get bitten, when I realized that staying clean-handed would only bring me grief and sadness.

He began to distance himself gradually: the bed seemed too far away, he kept his hugs at bay, stayed late at the office to avoid sharing a bed, left early from our house to avoid breakfast together. I spared no effort to keep him close, planned dinners he would make excuses not to attend, tried to surprise him at the office only to be chased away. Then came the day he decided to move rooms. I was startled to enter the room we shared, where we had been so happy, now empty, without his clothes, without his pillow, without his bath products.

It hurt too much to see him so distant. He claimed he needed time to think, but there was no emotion in his words. We were both scared of what had happened in the previous months. After the incident where they tried to hurt me, I needed my husband's help. I wanted him to protect me, I needed his support, needed to be strong like him and not just his helpless wife.

Even after all my efforts to make him love me again, he never returned to our room. Then the girl came into the story. A woman's intuition is funny; I knew the moment he came home on a certain day that he had found another woman. Even with all the moments I tried to change Carlos's mind, using every possible means and humiliating myself more than I would allow at any other time, nothing stopped that moment from arriving.

"What is this?" I ask, not daring to touch the envelope in front of me.

"They're the divorce papers, y/n..." Carlos sighs, appearing for the first time in a long time for breakfast. "I tried to be as fair as possible, but you can look at them and then we'll negotiate."

"There will be no negotiation, Carlos! Because there will be no divorce," I reply, trying to stay firm. This day seemed close, but something in me still refused to believe it would come. Something in me refused to accept that I would have to divorce Carlos. This was just a phase, something that happens to any couple; we didn't need to be extremists.

"Y/n... please, be rational. We can't prolong this; it's the best way out for both of us," he tries to negotiate.

"And I disagree with your opinion. My God, Carlos! We're talking about our marriage! You didn't even try to give us a chance," I respond, frustrated.

"There's no solution anymore, y/n..." he murmurs to me, and that breaks me even more.

"I won't sign them, Carlos," I push the envelope away from me. The wedding ring gleams on my left hand with the movement, a simple touch of irony to the whole situation.

English is not my first language.

Leave your comments and opinions ❤️

[sheerfreesia007]

No Longer Playing Pretend

Pairing: Hyunjin x Reader

Word count: 4,458

Content warnings: Fluff, suggestive

Summary: Your relationship with Hyunjin may have started as a faux bid for freedom for the both of you, but as the year moves along you both come to realize that it’s no longer fake and has become something so much more precious to you than even your freedom was.

Uli jag-eun geos: Our little one

Part One: Play Pretend

You stare at the pictures of the floral arrangements that your wedding planner slid across the table at you and you can’t help but frown darkly as your eyes dart around the pictures. They’re not what you had agreed on with the florist and you can feel your irritation starting to rise within you.

“These aren’t the flowers we agreed on.” you tell her while shaking your head. You wedding planner sighed softly and hung her head.

“Yes I know, but the florist thinks that these flowers would do better paired together.” your wedding planner explained.

“But the flowers we agreed on earlier were suggestions from the florist to begin with.” you argued as you shook your head. This has been a constant struggle for you lately and you were starting to feel the effects of the frustration and aggravation of having to deal with all of this. “Why would the florist suddenly now change the flower selections after being the one to suggest certain flowers to begin with?” you asked, trying to curb your anger and irritation. Suddenly your cell phone began to ring and you saw your mother’s contact name pop up on your screen filling you with dread as you held up one finger and swiftly answered her call.

“Yes Mom, what is it?” you asked tiredly and bit your tongue knowing that she’d have something to say about your tone.

“Well aren’t you just a peach.” she snipped at you huffily and you sighed softly.

“I’m sorry, I’m a little stressed. What’s going on?” you apologize quickly before looking back down quietly at the pictures of the floral arrangements that the florist had sent over. 

“Has your florist shown you the arrangements that I changed?” your mother asked and you felt your eye twitch violently at her questions. Now it all made sense to you on why things seemed to changing left and right with every choice that you made your for your wedding to Hyunjin. You knew that your mother would be very opinionated about what your wedding should look like. But you had thought that she’d at least let you make the decisions instead of trying to take over and steamroll you on everything, your mistake.

“You changed them?” you asked in a quiet rage filled voice.

“Yes, I spoke with your wedding planner. She’s such a sweetheart by the way, you should tip her well. We were able to get the flowers changed quickly before they sent you their mockups.” your mother explained and you sighed deeply as your irritation came back full force. “So what did you think?” your mother asked you and your rage consumed you instantly.

It wasn’t just the fact that you felt as if you had been fighting an uphill battle since you started planning your wedding two months ago, no you were also working longer hours at the Hwang’s real estate brokerage firm all due to the status of your relationship with Hyunjin. And while you loved working and being able to close deals left and right without the looming judgemental eye of your family on your back it was all starting to take a toll on you with all the added stress of wedding planning. You had wanted to talk to Hyunjin about all the stress lately but you knew he was busy as well with planning and preparing for his first gallery opening at his art gallery, you hadn’t wanted to add more stress onto him so you had kept your mouth shut about all of it.

“I will have to call you back.” you said into the phone just as you watched Hyunjin walk into the apartment, he looked exhausted as his eyes dragged over to look at you while a happy smile bloomed onto his face. Your rage dissipated slightly at his happy smile at seeing you before returning as you heard your wedding planner clear her throat.

“So if I could get your decision on the flowers that would be great.” she chirped out at you eagerly as her eyes darted over Hyunjin’s form with a heated sparkle in her eye causing you to grit your teeth angrily.

“Actually you can leave, I won’t be needing your services any longer.” you deadpanned as you crossed your arms over your chest as glared at the woman. She jerked in her seat and whipped her head back around to stare at you wide eyed as her mouth dropped open. Hyunjin even stared at you wide eyed as he came to stand behind you and placed his hands on your shoulders before beginning to massage his fingers into your tense muscles.

“Excuse me?” she chirped out surprised and you nodded your head at her.

“I’d like to terminate our contract. I no longer need your services.” you said with a quiet rage behind your voice.

“But we’ve only just started.” the woman said worriedly and you nodded your head at her words.

“Yes and you’ve undermined my decisions at every point. Choosing to accept my mother’s choices over mine in every aspect so far. So please contact all the vendors and venues and tell them that we will no longer be needing their services. Thank you, you can leave.” you said firmly as she gaped out without being able to say anything. You watched with barely contained disgust as she quickly gathered up all of her things and rushed from your apartment. When the door shut behind her you let out a loud tired sigh and let your head hang back against the back of your chair to stare up at Hyunjin who looked down at you worriedly.

“Are you alright?” he asked cautiously and you shook your head.

“I didn’t think it would be this hard to plan a wedding. But I should’ve known better with my mother.” you said in a soft weary tone that made Hyunjin coo softly at you. Hyunjin continued to massage your shoulders before he leant down and pressed a kiss to your forehead sweetly.

“Is work still crazy busy?” he asked softly before trailing his kisses to your temple as you sighed in comfort at his attention.

“Yeah, I closed one three big deals this week and I’ve got four more lined up for next week.” you said with a soft groan as Hyunjin dug his fingers into the back of your neck. “And now I’ve fired our wedding planner all because my mother is trying to control how our wedding will look.” you said defeated and Hyunjin cooed softly at you before pressing a kiss behind your ear.

“It was for the best. She shouldn’t have been listening to your mom. You’re the bride, it’s our wedding. Not your mother’s.” Hyunjin reassured you and you hummed softly in agreement to his words. “Do you have any appointments tomorrow at work?” he asked softly before nipping at your ear lobe gently. You flinched away from his as he chuckled and nuzzled his face into your neck.

“No, I was just going to work on the paperwork for next week’s meetings and closings.” you told him as your head tilted back against his shoulder and your eyes fluttered shut.

“Play hooky with me.” he whispered into your ear and you furrowed your brow at him softly. “Come paint with me at my studio. We both need a break from work and the wedding planning stress. And we’ve haven’t been able to spend much time together.” he husked out to you softly causing you to shiver in your chair. It took you nearly no time to agree to his plan of playing hooky. You quickly sent a text to your secretary telling her that you wouldn’t be in the office tomorrow and would see her the next day before you turned back to Hyunjin who grinned happily at you.

“I spoil you too much.” you tease him and he grins widely at you before pulling you from your chair and wrapping you into his arms as his lips descend on your neck and begin to trail kisses along the column of flesh.

“Hmmm, considered me the spoiled princess in this relationship then.” he husks out to you as he guides you towards your bedroom with a heated look in his eyes.

*-*-*-*

The next morning finds you and Hyunjin walking up the stairs to his studio after having a hearty breakfast at a local breakfast cafe where the employees all knew Hyunjin by first name. You had teased him goodnaturedly that he had been seeing the employees more than you these past few weeks and he ducked his head before dragging you to a booth and caging you in the seat. He had quickly shut you up with a sweet peck of his lips to your before whispering that you were the only one he wanted to see. The rest of the morning had been filled with happy laughter shared between the two of you as you shared stories of your week and Hyunjin had shared his plans for his art gallery trying to get your opinion on what he was planning. You didn’t want to influence him in any way away from his vision so you kept telling him that you were excited to see it come to life and that you couldn’t wait for it to finally happen for him.

Just as you get to the top of the stairs grumbling softly at how many stairs there were causing Hyunjin to chuckle softly at you he turned to face you fully and you looked at him with surprised wide eyes. He smirked softly at you before holding his hand out palm up in between the two of you. You tilted your head to the side in confusion at him and he waited patiently for you to understand. Slowly slipping your hand into his he huffed softly before shaking his head.

“Give me your phone love.” he said with an amused eye roll at you and you huffed back at him.

“Use your words baby and maybe I’d understand.” you griped at him causing him to smirk at you before you leaned into his space and crowded him up against the door behind him. “Or did I make you use all your words last night?” you asked sultrily and Hyunjin flushed brightly with embarrassment causing you to grin knowingly at him before sweetly pecking his lips as you slipped your phone into his open hand. 

You watched delightedly as Hyunjin huffed at you before setting your phone to do not disturb, he then turned away from you and unlocked his studio and led you into the brightly lit space eagerly. You slipped out of your jacket as you watched Hyunjin moved about the space setting up two easels in the middle of the room and then began to set up paints for the both of you.

“So normally I just put on a playlist and paint. But if you want I have a whole folder of photos that I’ve taken that you could use as inspiration.” he explained sounding slightly unsure of himself and you smiled softly at him as you watched him play with the hem of his old ratty t-shirt that he had chose to wear today. Walking towards him you grabbed his hand gently before raising it to your lips and kissing his knuckles slowly.

“Hyune, relax babe. We’ll do whatever strikes our fancy. Put on your playlist you wanna listen to and I’ll just follow your lead.” you reassure him gently and he flushes brightly once again at your sweet gesture before he quickly nods his head at you. He then darts forward and kisses you sweetly as his hands cup your face, when he pulls away he presses his forehead to yours and smiles widely as his eyes stay closed for a moment.

“Thank you. I don’t know why I’m so nervous to paint with you.” he whispers softly and your heart melts in your chest at how much he wants to share this experience with you. Sighing softly you kiss him once more before pressing a kiss to his nose sweetly.

“Thank you for sharing this with me. I’m so excited to do this.” you confess to him softly and his eyes open to stare at you lovingly. He then nods his head and breaks away from you to set up his music and then moves back to his easel as you step behind yours. An idea strikes you and you lift your easel to turn it away from Hyunjin so that he can’t see it and he looks at you curiously with a soft smile on his face. “I want it to be a surprise for you.” you tell him and he grins widely at you as his eyes widen slightly before his whole face softens at your intention. The two of you then begin your first painting session together.

*-*-*-*

It’s hours later and you raise a hand to wipe sweat from your brow as you look at your canvas critically. You had started with just random swatches of your and Hyunjin’s favorite colors on the canvas as the music played loudly through his studio. It didn’t take long for your reservations of painting to fall away as you easily just listened to the music and painted whatever popped into your head as you stared at the canvas. Slowly but surely an idea formed in your brain and you tried your hardest to showcase in paint on the canvas in front of you.

Tilting your head to the side you wondered if Hyunjin would see your vision the way you wanted him to or if he would interpret it differently. You hadn’t only wanted to show how beautifully the two of you had melded together since starting this faux relationship that had turned into something so precious and resplendent to you. Suddenly you heard Hyunjin giggle softly and your eyes darted over to see him watching you with a lovesick look on his face.

“What is it?” you asked softly and he grinned widely at you as his eyes darted around your face happily.

“You have paint everywhere on your face.” he said amusedly as his smile widened on his face. “Did you get any on your canvas?” he teased you and you burst out in indignant laughter at his joke.

“I’ll have you know I might surpass you in my skill.” you teased him back and watched happily as his smile morphed into a challenging smirk as his eyes hardened on you with interest.

“Is that so?” he asked curiously as he began to move closer to you, but you quickly threw your hands up to stop and the paintbrush in your hand suddenly smeared paint across his old shirt and you gasped loudly in surprise. Hyunjin stopped in front of you as your hands splayed against his chest stopping him from getting closer to your easel to see your painting. You both stood there silently looking down at the bright swatch of lavender paint on his shirt before you burst out into happy laughter at your mistake. “Think that’s funny do you?” he asked challengingly and you looked up belatedly as you gasp when you felt his cold yellow paint covered paintbrush glide along the base of your neck.

“Hyune!” you cried shocked at the feeling of the cold paint. Suddenly the game was on as you grabbed your paintbrush and tried to paint more lavender onto him. Hyunjin quickly dodged as you chased him cackling with happy delighted laughter. The two of you were locked in a war of lavender and yellow as you both raced around his studio trying to get more paint on each other. Soon you’re bent over in half as you try to catch your breath after chasing him around the room like you were children, Hyunjin comes to stand in front of you still panting and chuckling at you.

When you stand up straight after catching your breath you catch sight of him and then burst into laughter once more. He’s covered in lavender and yellow paint in a kaleidoscope of contrasting colors, there’s even some paint in his dark black hair that makes you laugh even more at him. You don’t notice him still as he stares at you with awe filled eyes as you continue to laugh at him. Only when he steps close to you that your bodies are nearly flush with each other do you notice his changed manner. He’s staring at you with adoring eyes that have widened slightly as you still chuckle softly at him before he lunges forward flinging his paintbrush to the side as his arms wrap around you completely and lift your body up against his own while his lips capture yours heatedly. You squeak softly at his movement as his mouth nearly devours yours while he slides your body slowly down his body until he’s almost hunched over you still keeping his lips attached to yours hungrily.

“W-what was that for?” you ask in a gasp when he pulls away from you finally allowing you to suck in much needed air.

“I’d marry you just like this covered in paint and laughing at me as love sparkles through your eyes at me.” he whispers to you and you grip the sides of his shirt as you melt against him while tilting your face up to his wantonly. He then slowly guides you down to the floor with the whispered promise that he’s going to worship you like the queen you are to him.

*-*-*-*

The ballroom is absolutely stunningly decorated in gorgeous floral arrangements in lavenders and soft muted yellows that remind you of that day back in Hyune’s studio, it had actually been the driving inspiration for your wedding color theme. After months of planning with a new wedding planner who was more worried about making both you and Hyune happy on your big day than anyone else, the day had finally come. The ceremony had been beautiful in a famous cathedral in the middle of the city you lived in and now as your guests all happily talked with each other as they waited in their seats for dinner to be served you couldn’t help but sit back and smile to yourself.

“My wife looks very pleased with herself.” Hyunjin says in an amused whisper in your ear that makes you beam at him as you turn your face to his.

“Oh absolutely do you see the sour puss on Sherry’s face? And her mothers?” you gush out to him delightedly causing him to laugh.

“Your desire for revenge against them is delicious.” he coos at you before leaning closer and capturing your lips in a heated kiss. You hum against his mouth as you hear soft cheers from your guests as they spot you and Hyunjin kissing.

“What’s gotten into you today? You can’t keep your hands or your lips to yourself.” you say delighted and he looks at you with an offended look on his face.

“I just married the love of my life, of course I won’t be able to keep my hands to myself. Have you seen her? Stunning, gorgeous, badass queen that she is. Ten out of ten on a scale of wives I could bag.” he says teasingly as he pulls you from your chair and onto his lap.

“Did you really just rate me on a scale of one to ten?” you asked him with faux disgust tinting your tone and he quickly nods his head at you causing you to laugh amused before cupping his face and kissing his lips. His hum vibrates your lips and you sigh against him as your body melts into his as your arms come and wrap around his neck.

“Save it for tonight!” comes a loud call from your guests and Hyunjin pulls away with a disgruntled look directed at his friends while you laugh at him happily. You pull his face back to yours and smile sweetly at him as he gazes up at you like you’ve hung the stars and moon for him.

“I have a gift for you.” you tell him sweetly with a little trepidation in your voice and he smirks lustfully at you as his hands grip your hips tightly.

“Is it underneath this dress?” he asks huskily and you laugh at him before shaking your head at his teasing words.

“Yes, but that’s not the gift I’m talking about.” you tell him and he grins wickedly at you before pouting softly as you stand from his lap and walk over to the table that's a few feet from the head table where you both were sitting. You grab the plainly wrapped gift and excitedly bring it over to him. Hyunjin takes the gift from you and you stay standing next to him wanting to watch his reaction when he opens it. Your hands grip together and begin twisting nervously but Hyunjin quickly tears into the wrapping. When he has it completely opened he sits there staring at the canvas that you had painted for him that day in the studio in quiet awe. You begin to grow anxious as he has no response at all to the gift and you shift on your feet worriedly. When it all becomes too much for you you reach forward to take the canvas back but Hyunjin quickly pulls it away from you before lifting his head to stare at you with wide eyes.

“It’s us.” he whispers to you and suddenly you’re melting for him. You’re just so happy that he understands the meaning behind your abstract painting that you feel your heart swell in your chest with love for him. You grin widely as tears pool in your eyes before nodding your head at him. Hyunjin surprises you by standing swiftly from his chair and wrapping an arm low around your waist and dragging your body into his while his lips descend on yours hungrily and adoringly.

“We have to go.” he pants out when he pulls slightly away from you and you gasp softly for air as you stare up at him worriedly.

“Go where Hyune?” you ask concerned and he shakes his head as he tries to compose himself.

“I need underneath me as we stare at this masterpiece.” he pants out and your whole body ignites with heat at his words. “I need to get you pregnant while gazing at this painting.” he pants out mindlessly as he begins to drag you out of the ballroom with the canvas still gripped in his hand tightly as your guests all cheer loudly.

*-*-*-*

The evening is bustling with art enthusiasts as they all walk around the gallery taking in all the artwork that your talented husband has created over the years. You’re absolutely awed by all of his hard work and personal touches that show through the gallery. The pride swelling within is solely and completely for Hyunjin and him alone as you make your way through the gallery looking for him. 

When you spot him at the end of the gallery where his signature piece is hung proudly you stop for a moment and have to bite your bottom lip as your eyes take him in hungrily. He’s dressed in a beautiful merlot colored three piece suit with his grown out hair falling to his shoulders which makes your stomach clench with desire for him. As he turns he spots you standing there eyeing him like he’s a delectable piece of fruit and he grins knowingly at you before walking towards you.

“You’re finally here.” he whispers excitedly as his hands grab onto yours and tug you into a warm tight hug before he tilts your face up and presses a sweet kiss to your lips. You hum softly against his mouth and he flicks his tongue briefly against your bottom lip before pulling away. “How was the doctor’s appointment? Everything alright?” he asked worriedly as he pulled away and gazed down at you. Nodding your head in response he smiles before guiding you towards his signature piece.

“Yes, everything is alright. In fact it’s wonderful.” you tell him with a happy content smile on your face which makes him smile in response. He guides you to stand in front of his painting and he moves to stand behind you while wrapping his arms loosely around body to cage you in against his front. You both stand there silent for a moment as you take in the painting and gasp softly as you see the beautiful portrait of two lovers kissing. It’s not slightly abstract as both beings are colored in bright contrasting colors that meet together to create a beautiful new color. You lean your head back against his chest and Hyunjin leans forward towards your neck where he nuzzles in slightly. “It’s us.” you whisper to him and he hums softly at you before nodding his head. Your eyes then dart to the painting next to his and you beam at him with so much adoration as you recognize the painting you had made for him hung there proudly. “Is this our interpretation of our relationship?” you ask him softly and he presses a loud wet kiss to your cheek.

“I’m glad that you understand me.” he whispers in your ear softly making you grin at his words.

“So do you think uli jag-eun geos will have your talent in art or mine?” you ask curiously as you stand there leaning back against him as your eyes take in the mirroring paintings proudly.

“Well obviously mine if I have anything to say about it.” Hyunjin scoffs softly and you burst out in happy laughter at the fact that he didn’t even have to think twice about his answer. You give him a moment to process what you had asked and suddenly he’s spinning you in his arms as he stares down at you with wide eyes. 

“Uli jag-eun geos?” he asks you softly with bated breath and you grin up at him as you slowly pull out the ultrasound pictures that the sonographer had given to you to take home. Hyunjin’s eyes darted over the pictures before he hurriedly cups your face and kisses you like his life depended on it. “I love you so much. I can’t put into words how much.” he whispers against your lips and you smile so widely that you feel your cheeks ache as you feel happiness glow from within you.

“Then how about you paint it?” you ask him lovingly and he devours your mouth lovingly as he pulls you closer to him.

SKZ Taglist: @intartaruginha, @kayleefriedchicken, @babigriin, @simpforleeknaur, @inlovewithstraykids

[causenessus]

love notes

part 0.8. IF YOU'RE WILLING TO LISTEN

"home and i know,it's always different.i'm the one in love."

from genesis by grimes, left at osaka university, osaka

she’s slipping her phone into her pocket right as she sees them approaching. she smiles, waving excitedly towards both of them. omi is a few strides behind him but she sees them both return the gesture. 

“sorry we’re late,” suna says as they both approach, paper bags in hand. “we got held up buying you these.”

her breath catches in her throat when he pulls out a bundle of tulips wrapped in parchment paper from the bag and she gives him a hug in thanks, trying not to linger or overthink the contact. “don’t worry about it at all, we just opened like eight minutes ago so you guys aren’t late, and this totally makes up for it anyway. thank you so much, suna– rin.”

he smiles when she corrects herself. omi steps forward and reveals his own bouquet which she receives with thanks and hugs him as well, “congratulations. it looks like everything turned out well. how do you feel about it?”

there had been some portfolios she’d slaved over and still not been happy with the end result no matter what anyone told her, and he had been there in high school, staying awake late into the night, listening to her rant about it. “i like this one. a lot,” she answered truthfully. “and i hope you do, too. thank you for asking and coming tonight, omi! you’ve been my number one supporter since high school.”

she can see his smile through his mask and smiles just as wide when he ruffled her hair. “thank you for letting me support you. i’m glad i’ve been here since day one. you deserve this–all of this. remember me when you get famous.”

she laughs at his words, repositioning the flowers in her arms, “i should be saying that to you! you’re the upcoming professional volleyball player here.” he only scoffs at her, trying to keep humble but there’s no denying it. “i’m gonna put these flowers somewhere safe. in the meantime, you guys can wander around if you want. everything’s on the wall and kenma and akaashi’s exhibits are to the left if you want to check them out as well!”

omi nods and walks off and suna gives her another look before following after him. she's giving them time to look at her art before she comes back. she wants them to interpret the photos themselves, without anyone looking over their shoulders, telling them how to feel.

but this is suna’s first exhibit, and she can’t blame him for looking a little lost. all of her shows last year had lined up with days he had games and he’d been unable to come to any of them. he had always apologized for it but it never bothered her. if anything, she felt a little nervous now, letting him see such a raw side of her through her photos.

but at the same time, she didn’t really mind when it came to him. they had had intimate conversations before; he had even spent the end of last year with her when she was all alone at her apartment. he had assured her that he wouldn’t think any differently of her no matter what he saw, and she hoped that was true. she hoped that even if he saw the worst parts of her, he would still stick around.

she placed the flowers by her bag at a table she was sharing with akaashi and kenma. they had all dumped their things there to claim it as their own and had relaxed there for a little bit before the gallery had opened. akaashi was there now as well, screwing off the lid of a bottle.

“how’s it going?” she asked, making sure the flowers were stable and wouldn’t fall off the table.

“good,” he responded simply. “more people than i expected showed up, to be honest. but they seem to be liking everything a lot. is it going well for you?”

“of course they like everything! anyone who says they don’t like your work is lying,” she laughed and looked up at him. he only smiled and shook his head in response. “it’s been good for me, too. suna and omi just got here so they’ll probably come visit you soon.”

“good to know. i’m sure i’ll see sakusa, but not so much suna,” akaashi says, putting down his bottle.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” she raises her brows, unsure of what to make of his statement.

“he only came for you, i’d be surprised if he even left your side tonight,” he answers with a teasing grin.

she sighs, her face reflexively warming at the thought, “oh please. he’s still your guys’ friend too. i’m sure he’ll come by. and it’s not like he’s gonna stay for the whole three hours.”

“you’d be surprised what a person would do for someone they love,” akaashi says and then shrugs when she looks up at him in shock, as if he’s just said something completely normal. “didn’t you tell me you used to make him food for basically every game you went to for him? didn’t you take pictures for inarizaki just to be around him? well now he’s all the way here in the arts building to see you and i have to get back to my stand. bokuto’s waiting for me. i’m sure suna’s waiting for you, too.”

he leaves her after that, and she’s left staring at the flowers suna brought her. she can’t get akaashi’s words out of her head, and her heart won’t calm down. she tries to take a breath before walking back to her wall.

she sees omi just as she returns, and he gives her a nod, which roughly translates to he’ll talk to her later, but he glances back at suna and she knows he’s purposefully leaving them alone.

she comes up from behind, moving to stand beside him and follows his eyes to see the picture he’s looking at. it’s her favorite one of the bunch, the one she had posted last on her twitter, saving the best for last. she hadn’t even taken it recently, it was a picture from nearly a year ago that she had been saving for the right time. “what do you think?” she asks with a playful smile. “this is your first time seeing this side of my photography, right?”

he turns to face her, but his eyes stay staring at the photo for a second longer as if he can’t look away. “it’s stunning. i mean– i feel like i don’t even know what’s right to say, sorry,” he breaks eye contact with her to look down towards the floor and her laugh brings his attention back to her.

“you don’t have to apologize for complimenting me. there’s no right way to say it, but hearing those words from you means a lot. thank you, suna,” she tells him, trying to keep her tone friendly. if he wanted to question her words, he could, but she wasn’t brave enough to outright tell him anything.

“rin,” he corrects. when she looks at him, frowning in confusion, he clarifies, “you called me suna.”

“oh, right. sorry,” she apologizes sheepishly, and it’s her turn to look away. it feels too intimate to call him the name and it nearly gets caught in her throat everytime, but he keeps urging her to call him it and she doesn’t know what to make of that. “any questions you have about any of the pieces? you know how i am, i can go on for hours about anything photography related.”

he turns back to the work she initially found him looking at, “no. i mean, i think all of your pictures were great, and the titles really hit. isn’t finding a meaning for yourself part of the fun? haven’t you said that before?” she nods at his question, mumbling a small thank you. “i think if anything, i’m just confused by this one. it’s– it’s us. we took this picture together. last year. but you said the theme of this group is ‘home’ so it’s the only one i can’t figure out. how is this home?”

“oh,” she says, her mouth working faster than her mind. “that’s easy, well i guess for me–” even when he turns to look back at her, sharp yellow eyes looking into her own, it doesn’t stop her from saying the next few words. “it’s here because to me, you are home. all of the other pictures are mainly centered around childhood homes but the night we took that picture is when i really realized i had found a new home. a new place to belong.”

when he doesn’t respond, the realization of what she just said kicks in and she breaks eye contact, her stomach turning as she plays with her fingers nervously. “oh god– sorry. that probably sounded really weird. i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or be sappy–”

“y/n,” he cuts her off, the knuckles of one of his fingers under her chin gently guiding her face up back to look at him before he seems to realize what he’s doing and drops his hand back to the side of his hip. “it wasn't sappy. i just didn’t expect you to say that,” he explains with a small smile, and this time she can’t look away. she feels like she’s only being pulled in farther to him. “can i ask you about the other pictures, too? i just want to know how you see them.”

“of course, i mean– if you’re willing to listen. just tell me to stop if you get bored,” she already feels like she’s rambling and she hasn’t even started talking. finally, she tears away her eyes to look at her own photos, deciding on which one to talk about first.

but he's still looking at her. there's nowhere else he wants to look; even in front of her own work, nothing is more beautiful than her.

“i’m willing. i’ll listen to all of it.”

prev. | m.list | next

extras <3

suna thought it'd be funny when he was buying flowers with omi to be like "oh man these are kind of expensive and i'm broke. you think you can pay for mine too?"

omi just looked at him asking, "is she not worth everything to you? is she not worth the money to buy flowers for?"

suna immediately dropped the joke

NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE A SORT OF FLASHBACK ! i'll make that clear there as well but just so we're all on the same page <3

one more chapter of slight hurt/comfort and then we're silly again!!!

kenma continued to have a stare off with a girl across from him and would get all snarky whenever someone came to his display and not hers LMAO

hopefully the images i chose for y/n's exhibit are okay :) i had a theme going for them and they feel a little mismatched but to me every single one of them is important

omi hung out with akaashi and bokuto and then kenma before leaving. he texted y/n later about his thoughts and how well she did but he left to give suna and y/n time to themselves :)

suna stayed with her until closing

she didn't even realize how fast time was going. a lot of other people came to look at her pictures as well and many stayed to listen while she was explaining her thoughts behind each photo to suna

a lot of things went unsaid that night. suna wanted to say he felt the same way after y/n explained the picture of them together but thought that was too much

thank u guys as always for reading <3

taglist: @0moonii @iluvmang @bluebeanbee @wyrcan @oyasumeii @froyaoya @gyuijns @nbcvs @milkteade @eggyrocks @guitarstringed-scars @makkir0ll @mylahrins @cherrypieyourface @vivian-555 @sharkerino @r0seandth0rns @staileykout @lunavixia @thvvluvr @elliott0o0 @wolffmaiden @rockleeisbaeeee @toges-cough-syrup @cnnmairoll @ryeyeyer @hibernatinghamster @localgaytrainwreck @lemonocity @bows4life @sereniteav @madiexuberant @eclecticeggknightpsychic @phoenix-eclipses @sonicsolos @httpakkeiji @brkfclub @snail-squasher @starry-magicshop @cr4yolaas @kitnootkat @zzzlevislothzzz @iluv-ace @iluvaquaphor @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @applepi25 @twiishaa @girlkissersco @sleepystrwbrryy @encrypta

[seancekitsch]

I got this in that NSFW prompt generator you reblogged and this would be a PERFECT part 2 to that one Lucifer fic you posted!

Setting: Art Gallery/Studio Genre: Fluff  Trope: Friends With Benefits  Prompt: Truth or Dare Kink: Finger-fucking (as preparation, foreplay, accompaniment, or main act)

“You know,” you start, dipping your brush into the water cup to clean it, “Angel does not believe we didn’t fuck in here.”

You’re not exactly sure why you’re bringing this up right now. Maybe to get a rise out of him? Lucifer blushes, mission accomplished; dips his own brush in a brilliant gold paint. He chuckles, shaking his head as he presses brush to canvas.

“I mean we sort of…” He trails off, his free hand gesturing between the two of you. 

You laugh as you dry your brush.

“Not really,” you scrunch up your nose as you pick your next color, “I wouldn’t count it yet.”

Lucifer shrugs, leaning on you as he does and not at all caring if he makes a mess with your brush dangerously close to all of the paints. 

“When you’ve been single for almost a decade and a recluse for almost a century, it counts,” he winks, “Trust me.”

You feel your own cheeks heat up, averting your gaze from his. 

And no matter how much you want to put brush to canvas again you can’t help but think of nothing but the other week. 

Your body pinned against some tarp in the dark corner of the studio, Lucifer above you, stolen kisses while the sun rose. His clothed cock pressed against you, the friction between your bodies divine enough for you to understand how the first women fell to him. All shuddered gasps, fumbling hands, breathy laughs, and clumsy lips. 

“Okay,” you concede, and now press your brush down in an almost shy stroke to the canvas. Lucifer seems satisfied with this, and you paint in easy silence again. Strokes and dots dance from your tools, Lucifer’s hands working just as carefully on his own. You pause to glance at his canvas, now the makings of what you can clearly tell are a duck now starting to take form. For someone much more accustomed to sculpting, he isn’t half bad with your tools. Maybe one day you’ll hang some of his work in here, you think, or even better have it decorate the hotel. 

Your eyes trail from the canvas inevitably to his hands, deft and skilled, up his arms to his face, where you expect to see him handsome and locked in concentration. Only, you find his eyes staring back into your own. 

“Wanna tell me what you were thinking about?” he asks, flirty confidence he doesn’t normally show on full display. 

“Hmmm,” you hum, and then shake your head, “Nope.”

He narrows his eyes at you, glaring playfully. Lucifer isn’t clueless, even if you’d like to play innocent. 

He steps away from his canvas, looking between his and yours for a moment. 

“You sure you don’t wanna tell me?” he asks, eyeing you up as well now. You scrunch your nose as you shake your head. 

Lucifer only laughs. 

“Okay, truth or dare?”

You fucking scoff. 

“Truth or dare? Really?” you laugh, but not at him, not mockingly, “Did Charlie teach you that? Maybe after she made sure we got paired up the other week?”

You couldn’t help the playful jab. The Morningstars suck so hard at lying that it’s endearing.

His cheeks and the tips of his ears go red again. 

“You didn’t say no,” he reminds you, and damn, no you did not. You roll your eyes. 

Fine. 

You cross your arms indignantly. 

“Dare.”

You won’t give him the satisfaction of truth just yet. 

“Kiss me?” he asks, earnest. Your lips break from their smirk to a genuine smile, and then you lean forward until your lips capture his, chaste and warm. Your lips press around his bottom lip, sucking it in until your teeth graze skin, teasing and tantalizing before you pull back again. When you part, you lick your lips, savoring the taste of him, almost reluctant to open your eyes and let the moment fade away. 

When you do finally open your eyes, Lucifer’s gaze takes you in with nothing but affection, nothing but sweetness and joy. Really, how the fuck is a man like this the devil? And if he’s evil incarnate, what the hell is Heaven like? 

“That was an easy one,” you tease him; You’d kiss him all night if only he’d ask. 

“It’s your turn,” he tells you, a smirk gracing his own lips as he lets his hand ghost over your hip. Bold move, Lucifer. 

“Truth or Dare?” you ask immediately, not having a truth or a dare lined up in the barrel or the chamber. 

Lucifer takes the time to take a step forward, fully removing the gap between you. 

“Truth,” he whispers, lips almost ghosting yours. Bold fucking move. 

“You playing me?” you ask, mouth moving faster than your mind, and fuck was that a mistake. Immediately you tear yourself from him in embarrassment, a little too vulnerable for your own comfort. Angel and Husk would mock your moment of weakness in their own hypocrisy, you can’t help but hear their laughter. Why did you say that? What the fuck? 

Lucifer’s hands catch your own before you can fully pull away from him, though, holding you in place. You look anywhere but his face, not unlike a trapped animal.

“No!” he almost shouts, “ No, nothing like that. Hey, Where’d this come from?”

Lucifer sounds genuinely worried, genuinely upset. One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek, holding you close as he pulls you back in. You cannot help but admire the bulbs of your studio lights now, the way they bask everything in a glow that leaves no blemishes in your visions. You refuse to look at Lucifer. You cannot look at him.

“Pick dare!” you tell him, a cheery voice not at all matching your face.

Lucifer’s thumb strokes your cheek.

“I enjoy your company. This isn’t a game,” he reassures you, bringing you back down to his level, “No tricks.”

You release a sigh pent up in your chest, something animalistic and desperate sounding.

“I didn’t mean to say that.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

“Ask again.”

You bite your lip, copper liquid on your teeth. Ask again, you beckon him. Ask again, you. beg. Ask again, you need. Tears unshed well up in your eyes. But no, you will not cry in front of him or any man.

“Truth or dare?” he asks, and immediately you pick dare. Every dare is safer than truth.

“I dare you to pick truth.”

Fucking prick.

“Truth.”

You roll your eyes again, if only to avoid his.

“Do you think I’m playing you?”

“Well there’s a wildly unethical power imbalance and I seem to only see you when you want to make yourself present so I can’t help but think there’s a bit of an uneven exchange,” you offer, not really holding back, but also not sharing how much this situation had you spiraling. Not at all telling Angel or Husk how you felt and just stewing alone. How many nights you’d lost sleep over this. You still refuse to look at Lucifer. You can’t. You won’t.

“Ask me a truth or dare,” he says, and you chuckle, even if you still refuse to look at him.

“Truth or dare?” you ask, not wanting to play anymore, only wanting to get back to your painting and saving face.

“Dare,” Lucifer all but begs, “dare me to prove I’m not playing with you.”

You shrug, almost hopelessly.

“Sure,” you say, “ Why not?”

Lucifer wastes no time pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, nothing too harsh and nothing that progresses into more.

“I like you,” he whispers against your lips.

He then progresses further down, a kiss to your cheek, the underside of your jaw, your neck.

“I like kissing you,” he tells you, lips dragging across your skin.

“Your friendship means a lot to me,” he pulls the strap of your shirt to the side.

“And I’d like it if we enjoyed our temporary time together,” he presses a kiss to your collarbone.

“I mean,” he pulls back, “You could get redeemed tomorrow and forget all about me!”

You’ve been here since 1973, so that’s doubtful. But you don’t miss the edge to his voice when he says that. Like you actually would forget him. As if you could be making out with the devil himself tonight and then getting a manicure with the seraphim tomorrow. 

You finally return his embrace, but not without messing with him a little bit.

“Oh yeah? That much faith in me? Why don’t you give me something to remember in boring old Heaven then?” 

Lucifer needs no other encouragement, his mouth capturing yours again, tongue eager and pushing past the threshold of lips. His hands move wildly, grasping at you, all fingers digging into flesh. He pushes you back wards until the backs of your knees touch your workbench. The act of sitting pulls you apart from him, the change in position now having you look up at him for the spectacle he always is. Lucifer looks at you through half lidded eyes and mussed hair, usually pristine sleeves rolled up to his elbows carelessly; a work of art in his own right. 

Lucifer drops to his knees almost immediately continuing the kiss, passionate as his hands start to pull at clothing. Your arms are around his back in an instant, holding him pressed to you, one hand coming up to play with his so heavenly soft hair. 

The kiss deepens, and Lucifer takes the opportunity to unbuckle your belt, the clanking of heavy metal as he pulls it to the side. He makes equally quick work of the fly of your pants, only taking pause when your soft tongue grazes across his sharp teeth making him groan and only work harder at getting you undressed. 

He works faster then, yanking your pants down to the ops of your boots, barely even breaking the kiss as he maneuvers himself back between your knees. 

The cool air of your studio hits your skin, but you’re not so sure that’s the reason why you’re shivering under his touch. 

You kiss him twice, thrice, and then break away, if only to help him the rest of the way, pulling your underwear away to fall at your ankles with your pants. 

“Touch me, please,” you ask, voice breathy and way more pathetic than you were intending to sound, but you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed about that right now. 

“You want me?” Lucifer asks, some thing of an edge dripping into his voice, honey with a tint of venom. You nod against him as you place your lips back on his, your hands bunching up the fabric of his crisp dress shirt. He’ll definitely need to get it steamed, but you can’t find yourself caring once his hands start to drift lower. 

Lucifer’s hands go from your hips to your thighs, running his nails across smooth skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He’s toying with you, drawing it out and teasing. Out of practice my ass, you think. You start to kiss harder, hoping it’ll speed him up. One of his hands comes to your knee, forcing it away and spreading your legs further from where you’re already straddling him. The other hand starts to tease upwards, his thumb starting to rub circles into your inner thigh before finally coming to the apex of them. He ghosts his thumb over your slit, and you all but convulse from tension. Fuck, you need him you need him you need him. His hand on your knee tightens its grasp, holding you still. 

Lucifer breaks the kiss to look at you, half lidded eyes and a mischievous smile on his face. This man is going to ruin you, you just know it. 

He presses a singular finger inside you slowly, exploring new territory. You whine under his touch, your forehead falling to rest on his shoulder as he moves glacially, in and out. It feels like torture almost, giving you a taste instead of everything you really want. Your fists ball up the fabric of his shirt even tighter, and you’re glad you’re not a sinner with claws because surely you would have ripped it by now. 

“You feel divine, Honey,” Lucifer sighs, pressing a sloppy kiss to the side of your head. You start to squirm, trying to feel more; fuller, deeper. 

“You want more?” he asks, as if on cue. Attentive and in tune. 

You nod, definitely not desperately, definitely not needy. 

Lucifer obliges immediately, shifting readjusting, reinserting himself now two fingers, plunged deep inside you; sinking in with no resistance. This is it, you think, the fullness you were missing. You cannot help the wanton moan that escapes your lips, mo matter how much you try to muffle it against his shoulder. 

“Thats what you needed, huh?” he coos, teasing you, “Oh yeah, definitely. I can feel you squeezing me already.”

Fuck. He’s bad news. 

You don’t have a reply for that, only a short choked out whine as he keeps moving, in out scissor, in out scissor: a perfect rhythm. He pulls the sound from your throat through your cunt, playing you like a well tuned violin. You feel your core tighten, tension building in your muscles as he works you over, a man who’s had eternity to perfect how you please a woman. 

Lucifer’s thumb finds your clit, and it’s as good as over. Your hands move wildly from their spot o bc his back, to his shoulders, to his biceps. You cling like your life depends on him. Stars form, blotchy spots in the corner of your vision, a tesla coil behind your ribcage. 

And then sparks, and then movement. Your orgasm shatters, quickly and without warning, a pitiful and low drawn out whine between gritted teeth. Lucifer keeps his pace, muttered praise falling deaf upon the ringing in your ears. His free hand rubs your thigh, soothing massaging circles. Kisses to your neck, stability against your shuddering form.

He doesn’t remove his fingers until your body stops its shaking, until your frame stills and you slump against him; Your body boneless and pliant because of him. You take the reprieve to close your eyes, to relax into him. Whatever this thing is with Lucifer, it’s dangerous, you realize that now. It would be safe if you didn’t lean into him, it would be safe if you didn’t feel warm and fuzzy and cared for in your post cum haze. It would feel safe if clarity struck you right now and told you to move out of the hotel. 

But it’s dangerous because you’re absolutely the most comfortable you’ve been since you ended up in hell, it’s dangerous because he’s absolutely not pushing you away. It’s dangerous because he seems sincere. 

It’s dangerous because the sound of him slurping on his fingers, licking them clean, disrupts your anxious train of thought. 

Fuck, thats hot. Your eyes open slowly, staring down at your lap, more specifically where he kneel’s between your thighs, his stomach pressed against the bench to be as close to you as possible. Lucifer kisses the side of your head, an action full of affection, a more serious act than what he had just finished doing to you.

“Truth or dare?” His lips move against the shell of your ear.

“We’re still doing this?” you giggle, pulling him closer. Lucifer squeezes your hip, both of his hands coming back to grab you, his wet fingers cool against the bare skin of the curve of your ass. Any tension you felt melts away with his joke. 

“Fine,” you sigh, “Truth.”

“Hang out with me tonight?” Lucifer asks, voice wobbling with a hint of insecurity.

“You mean like in your room, or with the others in the lounge?” 

Lucifer’s head dips while he goes red again, but his eyes dip down to his fingers again. 

“With everyone… If thats okay?”

Interesting. Would he acknowledge whatever this thing is between you? Grab your drinks for you, maybe share a seat with you? Your mind swirls with what tonight could look like while you absentmindedly run your fingers along the fabric of his shirt. 

You nod. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

This is dangerous. 

[bosbas]

Chapter 4: all they keep asking me is if I'm gonna be your bride

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: colin bridgerton x enemy!fem!reader WC: 4.2k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, a small part of the dialogue is in French, Colin in his feels asf

Summary: It took precisely two days in England for you to utterly despise Colin Bridgerton. It took him approximately twelve hours after that to hate you right back. But he doesn't care that you're the only person in the ton who doesn't like him. You're set to marry someone else anyway, right?

A/N: EEEEEP the plot is finally plottingggggggg

May 19, 1816 – By now, it’s fairly obvious that the esteemed Mr. Colin Bridergton and Lady Y/N Montclair have, to put it lightly, an intense dislike for one another. How this contention began, this author does not know. However, Lady Montclair has yet to dance with Mr. Colin Bridgerton at any ball this season, despite dancing with Benedict and even older brother Anthony Bridgerton. This, coupled with the endless glares between the two and Lady Montclair’s perpetual frown around Mr. Bridgerton, indicates a less-than-friendly relationship. 

Luckily, this rivalry is not of any particular consequence to our heroine, since Lord Arthur Barlow seems on the cusp of a proposal. After a month-long courtship, it could be mere days before the Duke asks Lord Philippe Montclair for Lady Montclair’s hand in marriage. Although certainly a controversial choice from her parents to delay Y/N’s season, the wait would certainly pay off if she marries a Duke. This union, with the Duke of Monmouth’s title and the Montclair family’s extensive land ownership, would be one of the most advantageous Mayfair has seen since Charlotte Bexley, who just so happens to be Y/N’s sister, and her union to the Duke of Somerset. Shall we expect a public announcement soon? This author is certain that both families are itching for official confirmation.

Benedict thanked the bartender, sipping his brandy as he looked around at the gentlemen around him. Though Benedict and Colin had come to White’s together, the younger Bridgerton had gotten caught up in conversation with Lord Fife, leaving Benedict alone and slightly bored.

However, Louis Montclair’s appearance quickly piqued Benedict’s interest. It was the first time Benedict had seen Louis at the gentleman’s club, and he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to find out more about your unusual relationship with Colin. It was no secret that you and Colin couldn’t stand one another, but Benedict was far too absent at social functions to piece together what had happened by himself, and he thought Louis would be the perfect person to provide some clarity.

“Louis! I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of speaking properly,” Benedict clapped him on the back as he approached him. 

Louis turned around, grinning once he saw the Bridgerton. 

“Ah, Benedict, of course. Every time my mother successfully forces me to attend a ball, you seem to be absent! One would think you’ve been avoiding me,” he said jovially.

Benedict laughed and shook his head. “Since my painting was placed in the national gallery, Mother hasn’t been too insistent on my appearance at social functions,” he explained. Then, with a cheeky smile, he added, “I believe the rivalry between our families starts and ends with Colin and Y/N.”

Louis rolled his eyes, annoyed at the reminder of your hatred toward Colin. “Lord knows what the two have against each other. Even just thinking about having to listen to my sister complain about Colin after tomorrow’s ball is giving me a headache.”

“Then a drink is in order, to be sure!” Benedict called over the bartender and asked for another glass of brandy for your brother. “Though I wouldn’t fret too much about your sister; I’m certain Colin must have done something unforgivable to elicit such a response,” he said, only half joking.

“Well, I’m sure he has. I do not doubt that,” responded Louis, grabbing his drink and thanking the bartender. 

“Oh?” prompted Benedict, surprised by Louis’ affirmative response. He led your brother to a table in the back corner, sitting down across from him. 

Taking a sip, Louis explained, “My sister might be the most irritating person I know, but she rarely holds anyone in her bad graces unless she has a good reason.”

Benedict just stared at your brother, eyebrows raised and waiting for further explanation. Had Colin acted out of line with you? He was supposed to be the sweetheart of London high society, but perhaps his brother had changed during his travels. 

Louis paused, frowned thoughtfully, and continued. “Oddly enough, I haven’t a clue why she dislikes Colin. Usually, one cannot possibly get her to stop talking about why someone vexes her, but she has evaded speaking about the subject directly thus far.” 

Spotting Colin walking toward the pair, Louis quickly stood up to greet the younger Bridgerton.

“Colin! Speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

“The devil? Your sister hasn’t rubbed off on you, I hope,” answered Colin, not entirely amused as he shook your brother’s hand and sat down next to Benedict. 

“Not at all, Bridgerton,” Louis laughed, dissipating the tension easily. “And I hope your hatred toward her is not extended toward me, too.” 

“Is it that obvious?” asked Colin, slightly cringing that his ungentlemanly behavior was public knowledge. 

Benedict snorted. “It is now that Lady Whistledown has reported on it. I don’t know how you could have possibly been so rude as to end up as the subject of the ton’s gossip sheet, but I fear for you once Mother gets her hands on today’s column.”

Colin sank in his seat in shame, embarrassed that his perfect reputation was crumbling because of you, of all people. He was supposed to be charming and easygoing, and he feared what would become of him if people started to dislike his character. 

On the other hand, your little rivalry with him would barely have any effect on you. You were strikingly beautiful and exceptionally smart, not to mention exceedingly worldly. And even if you didn’t have all those things in your favor, your dowry was large enough that any man would be stupid not to at least consider you for marriage. 

“Not to worry,” assured Louis. “I am sure your rivalry will be coming to a close sooner rather than later. It’s only a matter of time before Barlow proposes and she’ll be out of your hair. And mine.” 

Colin tensed. “Pardon?”

“Y/N is about three seconds away from being married off, so she won’t have nearly as much time to dedicate to your rivalry,” explained Louis. 

“Oh,” Colin cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Why do you say that? Has she said anything?”

Benedict set his drink down, shooting Colin a curious look. “She probably hasn’t had to. They’ve been courting for a month. If anything, it would be out of the ordinary if he didn’t propose.”

Louis nodded in agreement, blissfully oblivious to Colin’s mounting panic. 

“Well, I suppose that makes sense,” conceded Colin. “I just thought–”

He paused. After a beat, he shook his head. “But, really? Marriage? It seems so sudden,” Colin said, stumbling over his words, a growing panic in his voice slowly turning to inexplicable anger.

 “I don’t know if I would use the word sudden… Why? Did you want to marry her?” teased Louis, laughing at what seemed to be an outlandish suggestion. Then, spotting his brother-in-law, Edward Bexley, by the door, he downed his drink and stood up. “A pleasure speaking with you gentlemen, but I must greet Bexley.”

The Bridgerton boys said goodbye, but before Colin had the chance to get away, Benedict turned to his brother accusingly.

“I know Louis was joking, but do you actually want to marry her?” he asked, concerned. “You’ve been acting all out of sorts.”

“What? No,” scoffed Colin. “Not in a million years.” Then, realizing he had to explain his outrage at the prospect of you getting married, he added, “I’m just surprised anyone would consider marrying her, is all.”

“Colin,” scolded Benedict. “Have some decorum. Even if that were true, you are still a Bridgerton. Please behave like one.”

Colin’s face turned hot in shame. “You’re right; I apologize. I think I need some air,” he finally strangled out, standing up and practically sprinting toward the courtyard, his practically full drink long forgotten.

Once Colin felt the fresh air on his face, he let out a deep sigh and unclenched his fists. You getting married was supposed to be a good thing. The only person in the ton who didn’t like him would finally be gone and he could return to being the best-liked among his siblings. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t know you would end up marrying someone else. It was basically the only reason you had come to England. Besides, he saw you with Arthur at every event you attended. Why was he so upset now? Why was he surprised at all?

Rubbing his temples, Colin started pacing in the courtyard. It must have been lingering resentment toward you, he reasoned. There was no other explanation. Colin couldn’t shake the way you and the duke so easily fell into flirtatious banter while he received only cold stares and snippy comments. It was infuriating that you took Lord Barlow and his intent to marry you so seriously while you barely spared Colin a second glance when he asked you to dance for the first time.

He still remembered watching you in Hyde Park the first time you spoke with Arthur, all giggly and flirtatious while you promenaded. Exactly the opposite of how you had been with him. What would it have taken for you to look at Colin with even a fraction of the fondness with which you looked at Lord Barlow?

Then, Colin was struck by a sobering thought. Perhaps you knew that, deep down, he lacked any substance. Perhaps you were not fooled by his charismatic front and could see that he could offer you nothing. 

As a third son, Colin could scarcely boast the same riches or claim to land as the duke. But he could have loved you. And he would have taken care of you. If only he had made more of an effort with you, he chastised himself. Then he might find himself in the position of doing something of actual importance for the first time in his life.

But his need for approval had gotten in the way. And what good that had done him. You were about to get everything you wanted and marry a duke, and he was left with nothing but a bruised ego.

---

As soon as Charlotte saw Colin entering the ballroom she sighed and rolled her eyes. Now that she was the oldest Montclair sibling left in England, she was in charge of making sure you and Colin didn’t make a scene at every single event you attended. 

Usually, it was Louis who needed scolding, mischievous as he was. Charlotte had no idea why you decided to be the difficult one this season. All she knew was that Colin had the unique ability to work you up until you were engaged in a yelling match, and it was her job to mitigate this to the best of her abilities. 

Charlotte, already facing you, leaned in close to your ear. “Sois gentille, s’il te plaît. T’es une dame es tu dois te comporter comme telle,” she murmured (Be nice, please. You're a lady, and you should act like one).

Immediately realizing that Colin had arrived, you crossed your arms. “Mais Charlotte, il est trop désagréable. Il me soûle tellement !” you whined softly (But Charlotte, he’s so unpleasant. He gets on my nerves so much!).

Charlotte scoffed in disbelief at your childish demeanor. “Et toi ? Tu penses que t’es plus agréable ? Vraiment ?” (And you? You think you’re more pleasant? Really?)

You knew she had a point, but you couldn’t help the annoyed huff that escaped your lips before you turned around, choosing to face the dance floor instead. 

Violet Bridgerton was hosting a ball tonight, and it seemed like every member of the ton had made an appearance. Your mother had nearly killed you when you told her you had a throbbing headache, not accepting any excuses for missing the most important ball of the season. 

Eventually, you compromised and promised to stay for a dance with Lord Barlow and a quick greeting to the Bridgertons. You were already eyeing the exit longingly, itching to retreat to your blissfully dark and quiet room. Just a quick turn around the ballroom and you would be free, you lamented. 

Your stomach churned with a mixture of anticipation and dread as you thought of seeing Lord Barlow. While the prospect of a proposal from him should have filled you with excitement, a throbbing headache dampened your spirits and left you feeling less than enthusiastic about the impending moment. 

A proposal from a titled gentleman was what you had been working toward your whole life, and you would have liked to feel well for it. Though you liked Arthur, and the two of you got along well, you could only hope that he wasn’t planning on proposing tonight. 

You heard footsteps coming in your direction, and you turned to see Eloise, Benedict, and Colin walking over to you and your sister. 

“Y/N! And Charlotte!” Eloise exclaimed loudly upon seeing you. 

You grimaced; the pain caused by her voice overpowering the joy you felt upon seeing her. 

“Hello Eloise!" your sister greeted warmly. "Y/N has a headache, so she's only staying for a short while," she explained.

“Hello, El,” you grinned, rubbing your temples with one hand and squeezing Eloise’s arm with the other. 

“And Benedict, what a surprise!” you exclaimed, turning to greet the older Bridgerton. 

“Y/N! A good surprise, I hope. It has been quite some time, hasn’t it?” responded Benedict, smiling at you and squeezing your arm.

Your gaze shifted to Colin, who was standing next to his brother, and you tensed, already dreading the argument–or four–you would inevitably have with him tonight. You barely had the energy to stand straight tonight; you couldn’t fathom having to hold your own against Colin Bridgerton.

Eloise, sensing the mounting hostility, sighed deeply. “It’s best to leave them to it for a bit and let them get it out of their system,” she said, guiding Charlotte and Benedict away from you. 

Before Charlotte turned around, she looked back at you suspiciously. She decided you were already suffering enough from your headache and chose to leave you be, but not before raising her eyebrows at you in warning.

Clearing his throat, Colin nodded in your direction, “Lady Montclair.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” you nodded back, much too tired to throw the first verbal punch of the night.

But as always, Colin seemed to have the unending desire to vex you. Seeing the Duke walking up to you from across the room and feeling the anger rise in his chest, he looked you up and down, searching for anything to lash out about. 

“Lovely necklace you’re wearing. It completely washes out the color of your eyes,” he commented quietly, careful that no one else would hear. 

Colin preferred to keep your quarrels private, especially after he knew Lady Whistledown had taken note of the tension between you. It wasn’t even that he didn’t want the rest of the ton knowing that you didn’t like him – it was too late for that, he reminded himself. These moments between you, although they often resulted in hurled insults and verbal attacks, felt oddly intimate to him. Despite the animosity, they were your private interludes, and he didn’t want to share them with anyone else.

You, oblivious to Lord Barlow, or anyone else for that matter, clutched your necklace, slightly embarrassed that he had noticed. It was true: the jewels did not match your eyes, and the neckpiece was so flashy that you wouldn’t have been surprised if it was making your headache worse. But your mother had insisted you wear it tonight anyway.

“I’m surprised you can look up from my neck long enough to notice the necklace’s effect on my eyes,” you countered.

Colin turned slightly red, clasping his hands in front of him. He was surprised too, to be honest. But you didn’t need to know that.

Before Colin could respond, the Duke walked up to you to greet you by placing a hand on your arm. 

“Good evening, Y/N." 

“Good evening, Arthur,” you smiled at him, headache momentarily forgotten.

Colin balked. You were on a first-name basis with the Duke already? He felt utterly foolish for not realizing that you were, as Lady Whistledown had said, only days away from receiving a proposal.

“I see you’re wearing the necklace I got you,” Lord Barlow commented, pleased. “It does wonders for your complexion.”

“Oh, yes,” you said weakly. “My sincerest gratitude for the gift.” 

You could practically feel Colin smirking next to you, and you bit your lip to keep from snapping at him. You felt an unpleasant mixture of anger at Colin’s triumph and embarrassment that he knew that the unflattering necklace had been a gift from your suitor.

Lord Barlow brushed off your thanks. “A dance, my Lady?” he offered his hand.

“I’d be delighted,” you said gratefully, placing your hand in his. Anything to get away from Colin right now. 

You had danced with Arthur enough times that you were comfortable with him, and you found yourself enjoying moving to the music as Lord Barlow held you close.

As he spun you around, he leaned down close to your ear, causing your skin to erupt in goosebumps.

“You look particularly fetching tonight, Y/N. Perhaps we might retreat to the gardens later tonight to speak some more,” he whispered.

Your eyes widened. Was he asking you to go outside for… unladylike reasons? Or was he implying he was going to propose? Perhaps both? Whatever the reason, tonight was not the night.

“I’m afraid not, Arthur,” you lamented. “I’ve got a splitting headache and will be heading home soon after our dance.” 

 “Very well,” he said with a clipped tone, leading you away from the dance floor now that the music had stopped. “Another time, then.”

“Certainly,” you replied, nervous that you had upset him.

Kissing the back of your hand dutifully, he smiled. “I hope tomorrow you will be in better spirits. I will be at the races, and it would be a shame not to see you there.”

Before you could respond, he had turned around and disappeared into the crowd.  

Exactly twenty minutes later, Colin watched as you said goodbye to his mother, hugging her tightly. He felt his heart clench. You really were the picture of grace when you weren’t around him. But it was far too late to dwell on that. 

He turned around to leave the ballroom in search of a strong drink as soon as he saw you leave through the main entrance. Now that you were gone, he saw no reason to stay. He didn’t particularly enjoy balls, even if this one was being hosted in his home, and he knew he would only grow bored now that you weren’t present to trade insults with.

Ever the dutiful son, Colin walked up to Violet Bridgerton to excuse himself before he left.

“Leaving so soon? I thought you might be more likely to stay now that Y/N is gone,” she teased. 

Colin laughed and shook his head. “I'm afraid not.”

“It’s a shame you don’t care for her,” she tsked. 

Eyes widening, Colin cleared his throat and tried to seem casual. “Why do you say that?” 

Had you said something just now? Were you having second thoughts about the Duke?

“Because I’d love to have the Montclairs as part of the family, of course. Unfortunately, Y/N is as good as married. Perhaps we can try again with Louis,” she mused. “Eloise is bound to come around to marriage at some point.”

Colin laughed weakly, not trusting himself to say anything, and gave his mother one last squeeze as he headed out to the hallway.

Finally out of the ballroom, Colin headed to the Bridgertons’ private courtyard so he could gaze at the stars, a habit he developed during his travels to guide him through rough waters that he couldn’t seem to shake even now that he was home. 

He could have taken a more direct route, but he wanted to avoid any mingling party-goers, already exhausted from the night. Colin was quite enjoying the feeling of navigating through his familiar home, realizing that he hadn't spent more than a few months in England in years.

Finally, after a few minutes of solitude, he reached the door farthest from the ballroom that led to the courtyard,

However, when he was halfway to the exit, he spotted two figures there already, partially obscured by the curtain in front of the door. He could barely make out two voices and a very flirtatious giggle. Rolling his eyes, Colin started backing away, not wanting to interrupt what he assumed to be Benedict and some very unlucky lady having an intimate moment. 

It was certainly a bold choice on Benedict’s part. The courtyard was not so private that it was hidden away from view completely, and anyone in the ballroom could have seen them. But Colin was not in the business of getting involved in his brother’s affairs. 

As he turned away, Colin heard a muffled, “Ah, I see you like to play coy…”

Well, that was certainly not Benedict. In fact, it sounded quite a bit like…Arthur Barlow?

It couldn’t be, Colin shook his head aggressively. It couldn’t.

Colin felt anger rising in his chest, his lips turned down into a deep frown. He started back toward the courtyard.

Arthur was courting you. And he had just seen you go home. He couldn’t possibly be outside with someone else, could he?

Could he?

Upon hearing a squeal, Colin reached out and pulled back the curtains slightly, only to be met with the sight of the duke’s lips on Miss Barrington’s.

Colin dropped his hand in shock, letting the curtain obscure his view once again. He could barely believe what he was seeing. Your suitor was kissing another woman. Her hands were in his hair and he was tugging at the front of her dress, rushing to untie the bows on her gown.

Colin was frozen in shock. Is this something the duke did regularly? Did this mean that you and Lord Barlow kissed? An unpleasant image appeared in Colin’s mind, but he shook it away. He needed to focus on the problem at hand.

He had caught your almost-future-husband with someone else on the balcony, and you most likely had no clue. The duke’s actions had the potential to ruin multiple futures, and Colin felt his breathing quicken as he thought of how this could affect you.

Peeking through the window once more to ensure that he really was seeing the Duke and Miss Barrington, Colin frowned deeply. He shifted his gaze to the window looking into the ballroom across the courtyard, and was satisfied when he didn’t see anyone spying on the couple. At least there was that.

Rushing back through the twisting hallways, Colin ran to speak with his mother before anyone else could catch a glimpse of what was going on outside the Bridgerton home. 

Winded as he reached his mother, Colin grabbed her by the elbow and led her outside into the hallway. 

“Need… to… speak,” he panted out.

“Colin? What on earth–? I thought you had left the ball,” came Violet’s shocked response as she placed a concerned hand on her son’s shoulder. 

Colin nodded aggressively. “Lord Barlow… with Miss Barrington�� on the balcony kissing,” he said, still trying to catch his breath.

“Oh!” Violet gasped, horrified. “Are you certain?”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Obviously, Mother. What do I do? Should I go stop them? I thought he was going to propose to Lady Montclair. But Miss Barrington will be ruined if anyone finds out.”

His mother thought for a moment. “Has anyone seen them yet?”

Colin shook his head. “I don’t believe so.”

“That is the best we can hope for in this situation. I will go and stop them at once; hopefully, no one will have noticed their absence,” indicated Violet, annoyed that people felt the need to act like this at her ball in her home.

“And what of Lady Montclair?” pressed Colin. Surely you were the most important person in this situation, no?

"We ought to inform her in private, let her decide her course," she suggested, her voice low with a hint of disdain. 

Colin frowned, frustrated that the duke’s careless actions could result in you losing a suitor. 

Violet continued, "There's no need to create a spectacle, after all. A scandal of a duke’s infidelity won't bode well for anyone involved. With any luck, it went unnoticed, and Y/N can deliberate in peace. I highly doubt Lord Barlow will be forthcoming with the truth." 

Just then, the Bridgertons heard the ballroom door slam open as a chorus of giggles and whispers filled the hallway.

Colin cast a wary glance towards the departing crowd. "I fear discretion is no longer an option."

The whispers seemed to echo, disturbingly audible.

"Lord Barlow? The Duke?"

"I had heard he was set on Lady Montclair..."

"Such a shame. They appeared quite suited. What will become of her now that she's lost a Duke? I couldn't bear the humiliation."

"And Miss Barrington?"

"It seems the Duke's actions have ruined more than one woman this evening…”

—

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[hadassah4ever]

lukas matsson x f!reader smut

warnings: decent age gap, reader has no survival instincts for plot convenience, no protection, and the fact that i haven’t written smut in such a long time, i feel like it’s not the best, but 👍👍

word count: 1,430

minors dni pls

The night was frankly, very boring.

Strolling around and seeing the art pieces that made you realize that you might’ve flushed $50,000 down the drain, but at least you got some good complimentary cocktails and horderves.

“You look bored out of your mind.” A man whispered in your ear from behind, almost making you look like a cat jumping away from a cucumber.

“I don’t like this bullshit… ‘cum on a canvas and call it a painting’ stuff either, it’s emotionle—“

“Technically it’s eliciting emotions from you by making you hate it. But maybe that’s just the art school in me.” You shrugged, turning to see a tall, blonde haired blue eyed man.

“Arts school? On daddy’s dime, huh?” He teased. “I wish.” You softly chuckled, shaking your head.

“Hm. Not a rich girl?” He asked. “I would’ve thought you were. Normally poor people don’t throw $50,000 into the trash like that.” He joked. “I have passion! I’m a starving artist!” You replied, softly chuckling and playfully rolled your eyes, not too offended at his teasing. “How’d you get in here? No offence, but I thought that looking at usele— very… meaningful, modern art was a rich person thing?” He asked, seeming genuinely more curious than insulting or gatekeepy, like most of the people here.

“They invited a student with a referral from their professor. And I was referred by my professor.” You answered. “What an insult.” He joked, you tried to shake your head and jokingly roll your eyes to dodge all of the tiny comments that made you slowly realize more and more you should’ve gone to business school, like your cousin.

“You just hate my future profession, don’t you?” You teased back. “Well, it’s the job that makes parents slowly nod and say ‘ahhh…’, so.” He shrugged, a smug smile on his face like he knew you were gonna laugh. “Ugh, I hate how true that is. I just wanna get out of here as soon as possible. It’s not boring, just terrifying.”

“You could get out of here with me.” He quickly replied, realizing he sounded way too eager. “I don’t even know your name.” You replied, coyly smiling. “Is that the only thing stopping you?” He asked. You shrugged. “I’m Lukas Matsson.” He spoke. “Now, do you wanna leave?” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes playfully and chuckle at that. He was cornier than he let on.

“You intrigue me. Sure.” You don’t think he’d have the gall to murder you or something after being so chatty in the decency crowded gallery, so what did you really have to lose?

You knew something was up when he rubbed your knee in the car. And the way he kept glancing at your tits. And giving you “fuck me” eyes.

“You’re alright with coming to my apartment right? No pressure.” He spoke, not seeming to just be covering his bases, but actually not putting too much pressure on you. “Sure, what else do I have to lose?” You joked, he softly smirked and told the driver his address.

You should’ve been aware about the fact that he could’ve been rich, but he dressed so casually, and not just the “hello fellow peasants, I am like you” kind of casual the way most rich people dress, but he was in a really nice part of town.

——

“Down for some random wine that people give me?” He asked, going into his wine cabinet, using his fingers to browse through several wines that would probably be a month's worth of rent for you, at the very least. “Gonna wine and dine me before taking me to pound town?” You joked, and as you silently cursed yourself for saying “pound town”, he chuckled.

“No, I’m just gonna wine you.” He answered, catching you off guard but still enjoying the banter. “So pound town is a non negotiable?” You joked. “Nah, we can negotiate that.” You didn’t know if he really cared this much about your consent or if he was just not trying to catch a case, maybe both, but you’d take it anyways. So far, he cared more about your consent than any person you’ve been with beforehand. Maybe you’d need to sign an NDA.

“I mean, if it’s a good journey to pound town, then I agree, but if I’m just gonna be a vessel, no thanks.” You teased, he softly laughed, picking out a bottle of wine and standing up. “I’ll make sure it’s enjoyable then.”

“Then I’m definitely aboard.” You softly chuckled, glancing at the ground and then glancing back up, Mattsson standing right in front of you, immediately leaning forward and kissing you, placing the bottle of wine on the marble counter with a soft clink.

His hands squeezed your ass, his semi-hard cock grazing against you, his hand found his way to your clit, rubbing it in somewhat rough circles, before stopping and his hand diving into your underwear, his slim fingers opening up your folds and feeling around for your slick, satisfied he grumbled a quiet, “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

“Could we move to the sofa?” You softly asked, snapping him out of his own head. “Huh? Oh yeah.” He answered, both of you scrambled to his couch, as you laid down, he placed his head between your thighs, his hands held your hips before his fingers dipped underneath the fabric of your panties, pulling them off your legs.

“You don’t seem like the guy who’s ready to eat a girl out at a moment's notice.” You flirtatiously teased, he paused for a second before breaking the brief silence with, “Not just any girl.” A similarly teasing smile but a slight, genuine look in his eyes.

That really shut you up, as you leaned back down, his mouth softly sucking your clit, his tongue and lips working together, his fingers moved around as he tried to find your entrance, quickly finding it, they dove in. You tried to resist the urge to clamp your thighs around his head, his beard softly scratching you as he ate you out, throwing your head back and moaning, you shut your eyes hard.

He was too damn good at this.

Within a few minutes he had you softly moaning about how you were about to cum, his mouth worked harder and his fingers thrusted in and out of you quicker, having you unravel faster than you ever have, he still worked his mouth and fingers even when your thighs squeezed the sides of his face, having you shaking.

He quickly pulled his head away from your core, the imprint of his cock ready to burst out from his boxer briefs. He slid them off quickly and you were a bit wary, his size was definitely gonna teeter on uncomfortable, and it was probably gonna stretch you a bit, little veins running up it, the pink tip leaking already. He opened your knees up once again and lined himself up with your entrance, “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable, ‘kay?” He spoke, after you nodded he slowly eased himself inside of you and to your surprise and delight, his size actually worked well fully inside of you.

“It’s good?” He asked, trying to suppress a groan. “Amazing.” You answered, he nodded and started to thrust inside of you, his cock curving upwards and hitting the deep, pleasurable bits inside you, he grunted and moved his fingers to your clit again, his hand resting on your pelvis as his thumb worked in circles, getting into the rhythm of it, he was eventually pounding into you, now using both of his hands to keep himself steady.

It was like a haze surrounded you, gripping onto his couch cushions and arching your back warned him of your impending orgasm, he noticed your inability to just sit still and take his cock, his hands pushed your hips down and continued to nail into you relentlessly, without any further notice, you constricted and finished around him, your breathing became shaky and every limb in your body felt like it was vibrating as he pulled out and came on your stomach, an impressive amount of warm cum hitting just underneath your belly button. His face looked like he just met god and his breathing became shaky as yours started to even out.

“Jesus.” He spoke under his breath. “Hardly anyone has been able to take me like that.” He muttered.

“Might have to pay for your tuition.” He added, in a tone you didn’t know whether or not it was a joke.

Maybe it wasn’t.

——

a/n: lukas definitely has feelings for the reader and i’d be willing to maybe add onto this if enough people want that.

[hergrandplan]

(after that 'tidal waves' chapter i fear asking for this but)

'Break Me' -> Wilmon

Leave a "Break me" in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble.

My dearest Jay. I am... so sorry it took me almost half a year to get to this. It kind of got lost in my inbox and then I had other things taken up my attention but hey it happens! (to me. often.)

Also because originally this was going to be longer, but as I was rereading this just now, I realized that anything I wrote after this kinda took away from the first half of the story, made it less impactful. So, after 6 months, here it is!

“Simon!” Wille shouts, pounding at the door with his fists again. His knuckles feel raw, beaten, but he keeps going, unable to stop.

His banging echoes through the gallery, loud and frantic. It’s probably, no, definitely, too loud for this time of night. He wouldn’t be surprised if a neighbor came up to him telling him to stop, or even call the police on him. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if he wakes up the neighbors or the whole building or the whole fucking world. He just needs Simon to answer him.

“Simon!” he yells again, before leaning his head against the front door and stuttering out a broken ‘please’.

Wille knows he’s in there. Sure, the lights are off, and sure, no sound has come from inside the apartment, but it’s 3 am and even if he has woken Simon up, he’s probably ignoring him.

Which, all things considered, is only fair.

Wille turns around and slides down the door, his head coming to a rest against the cool wood.

It’s quiet, the peace of the night returning now that he’s no longer screaming at the top of his lungs. He’ll have to apologize to the neighbors – or the world – tomorrow. Now though, now he just wants Simon.

A warm tear tracks down the side of his face. Wille knows Simon has all the rights in the world to ignore him, but a part of him had really hoped that maybe this once, he would answer him. But why would he? Wille had lost all rights to Simon when they broke up a month ago, when they realized that this, them, simply wasn’t working anymore the way it should. The way it did.

It’s strange to think how a month ago, if he had been feeling like this, he would have just used the key Simon had given him, walked inside and crawled into bed with Simon without thinking twice. He would have wrapped his arms around Simon, squeezing him tight, and if Simon had woken up, Simon would have just turned over and smiled, maybe given him a soft kiss, a welcome home – even if both of them knew this wasn’t his home –, before drifting back to sleep.

It would’ve been so easy.

Everything used to be easier.

Wille closes his eyes and leans back against the door.

He needs Simon. He needs Simon to answer him and open up the door and just, for one night, to look at him again. Needs to hear him, see him, smell and feel him, even if it’s just one more time. Mostly, Wille needs him to hold him so he can finally fall asleep.

Wille is exhausted. His whole body feels heavy, and all he wants to do is sleep, but he can’t. Not even here, against the wood of his ex-boyfriend’s door, when his eyes are doing everything in their power to stay open, he can’t.

He lets out another truly desperate please, for no one to hear except the stars. And they don’t seem to care.

Maybe being against the door is enough. Simon has touched this door, this wood. It’s his door. Wille grimaces at how he sounds. His door. As if it could contain any piece of Simon. As if anything at all could contain the bright sun that had lit up his life for two years.

Two whole fucking years.

Wille closes his eyes, right as footsteps sound through the gallery. He doesn’t pay it much attention – it’s probably one of Simon’s neighbors coming in from a night out. Or finally that one neighbour asking him to shut up.

They’ll pass by, probably write him off as some drunken sleeper. They come closer and closer, and then,

“Wille?” Oh. That’s not some drunk neighbour. Though he hasn’t heard that voice in a month, he would recognize it anywhere. He could pick it out anywhere. Even in a crowd of thousands, he’d always find him.

Wille opens his eyes and only to find himself looking right at Simon, hovering over him, arms crossed and staring at the pathetic figure Wille must be making.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He sounds cold, angry but Wille hears the nervous edge in his voice. Simon tries his best to hide it but Wille knows Simon. He knows what concern looks like on his face, how his brows knit together, how his jaw trembles, how his eyes ever so slightly widen. Fuck, Wille can even see his hand twitching, wanting to reach out, and Wille both wishes that he fucking would or that he wouldn’t. And he doesn’t know if he’s happy when it remains by Simon’s side, or devastated.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that leaves Wille’s mouth, once he has finally managed to talk past the lump in this throat. It’s a thousand apologies, all at once.

I’m sorry for showing up at your doorstep like this.

I’m sorry for not leaving you alone like you asked me to.

And, of course, I’m sorry for ever hurting you.  

“What are you doing here?” Simon simply repeats, mouth now drawn in a scowl, his arms crossed, every part of him telling Wille to leave.

Fuck, Wille almost does. He’s never had Simon look at him like that, all his anger directed towards him, and it hurts. Simon used to look at him with love and adoration, as if Wille was someone worth looking at.

“I can’t sleep,” Wille admits, his voice trembling. He hates having to admit this, hates that he can’t just be normal and move on. “Please, Simon, I know it’s a lot to ask but I can’t sleep without you.”

He used to fall asleep so easily when he was with Simon. He’d gotten used to the way their bodies fit together, always touching somehow. He fell asleep so easily and quickly with Simon beside him. Now, he’s lucky if he gets a few hours.

“Can I stay here? Tonight?”

Wille braces himself, expecting Simon to send him away – he wouldn't blame him. It's a lot to ask, and Wille wishes he didn't have to ask. But he needs this – he needs sleep, and even more importantly, he needs Simon.

But then, Simon’s shoulders slump. “Sure,” he sighs, closing his eyes as if he can’t quite believe he just said yes. Wille definitely can’t believe it, but the sigh that leaves his mouth is one of utter relief. “Yes. You can stay.”

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