#im in a good mood from thinking of rich

[girl-bateman]

My number one loser behaviour is hate-watching this one fuckass sims youtuber until I get so angry that I have to turn it off before the adrenaline makes me pull an all-nighter

[taintedtort]

" BOYFRIEND! "

summary. them as your boyfriend

characters. kenma, hinata, nishinoya, kyotani, akaashi

warnings. gn!reader, post!timeskip

a/n. some headcannons idk. did more characters bcus it’s just random stuff.

KENMA

☆ the type of boyfriend to shower you in gifts. he isn’t the best with words and physical touch doesn’t come easy to him, but he always knows what you like. (plus he’s rich)

☆ he plays close attention to you, always assessing your mood and your needs.

☆ lazy days at home > date night out

☆ likes when you watch him play. it makes him feel nice when you praise him after beating a particularly hard level.

☆ calls you a nickname/your name or the occasional "baby"

HINATA

☆ loves loves loves when you come to watch his games, he makes sure to try extra hard and show off even more than normal.

☆ he loves to hug you and hold your hand. i like to think he has warm hands, but downside is that they sweat easier when it’s hot outside.

☆ if he’s taller than you, he won’t shut up about it. if not, then that’s fine too!

☆ isn’t shy about PDA and gives you cheek kisses all the time.

☆ "i love you more"

☆ calls you "babe"

NISHINOYA

☆ travels with you everywhere, he loves seeing the world with his true love!!!

☆ his camera roll is literally just filled with you.

☆ lowkey i think he’s good at photography. takes the best instagram photos.

☆ arm around your waist 24/7.

☆ matching necklaces and or bracelets.

☆ calls you something stupid sometimes like "pookie" but would ACTUALLY call you "baby" on a regular basis.

☆ specifically for girls, i might go a step further and say he’d call you "mamas" lol

KYOTANI

(im obsessed with him lately)

☆ not sure if he’d be into much PDA, but if someone’s flirting with you i think he’s definitely the type of guy to put his arm around you and send death glares.

☆ you’re not safe from his scowling and gruff remarks, but he’s a bit more behaved around you. just a bit.

☆ his touches are a bit rough; he holds your hand a little too firmly, hugs you a little too tight, and kisses you a little too fiercely. he’s passionate and aggressive at heart, that doesn’t change around you.

☆ sucks at giving gifts. the present itself isn’t bad, it’s just the way he gave it to you. either just leaves it out for you to find, or practically throws it at you totally unwrapped or anything.

☆ he doesn’t talk about you often, and his teammates only find out you’re together when they see his lockscreen of you.

☆ loves waking up next to you and grumbles when you have to get up.

☆ calls you "dumbass" and things like that ngl. maybe an occasional "hon" ?

AKAASHI

☆ you guys are regulars at a diner/cafe. don’t ask me why, i just get that vibe with him.

☆ holds your hand all the time.

☆ secretly likes when you steal and try on his glasses, even if he sighs and shakes his head at you. he thinks you look cute squinting through the glasses at him.

☆ forehead kisses. doesn’t matter where or when, you’re getting one.

☆ touches your hair a lot. either brushes it out of your face or just plays with it when you’re both relaxing.

☆ really uplifting of your accomplishments, no matter how small they are.

☆ likes watching you cook, and also helping you cook. but he‘ll do the dishes, of course.

☆ calls you "love" and "sweetheart"

[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.

[awbublie]

wait my mc lore just dropped 🙀🙀

mc lore is here >.< fret not!!

they are a glorified self-insert i am shameless and will insert myself into my favorite media!!!

though she isn't a complete rip-off of me, maybe like 60% me

though i do love napco figurines

(edit: im so stupid and thought mx stood for mexican😭😭😓)

relationship charts!!!

caught mc on a good day!:

essentially means mc got a higher score than 60 on a test and just got a sweet treat.

feeling like contributing to society, she helps this rando return a phone.

seven:

both work with computers, he's just levels ahead of them.

inferiority complex kicks in til he starts helping her with assignments and omg im in love with this man.

likes his jokes and his robots are sooooo cool, "you think you can make one look like this? :3" insert image

calls him so he can practice his english and she can practice her korean.

the flirty banter really kicks up and they get their hopes up

gets butthurt day 8 when he turns them down.

jaehee:

desperate for female friends mc is overly-sweet and clingy.

jaehee is overwhelmed and explains in order for them to be proper friends time is needed.

they are now bonding over coffee beans and how mc brought some from her last Mexico trip

i WANT THEM TO LIVE TOGETHER SO BAD

yoosung:

misses her siblings so he's the closest to a little brother.

finds out guys don't typically like that when you tell them that, especially if they are older.

they make up and bond over their no-life life

trains in LOLOL for the next couple days bc DANG IT SHE WILL PLAY IN HIS LOBBYS!!!!

share shoujo recs

zen:

when he flirts at first, her heart flutters.

till jaehee gives her the warning, and atp jaehees word is bible

finds him silly but like in a older man kind of way

finds his costumes interesting and asks about the type of fabrics they use

during 707 route, she leans into the whole big sister zen and LOVES IT

jumin:

not too big with rich people and was quick to form an opinion

finds out ab Elizabeth and everything that they had thought gets thrown out the window WHAT A NICE MAN!

til shes asking about the area and he says something along the lines of "why move to a country you know nothing about? You are simply asking to fail. "

YEAH HES RIGHT BUT HE DIDNT HAVE TO SAY THATTT 😭😭😭

is bitter for the next 2 days before she gets over it

caught mc on a bad day!:

felt with the daddy issues (we cannot control our fathers we have nothing to do with our father's errors they do not define what we do or who we become we can disagree with them and still love them)

the professor was moving too quickly during class, her computer was working, she fell behind and her brain is fried. it feels like it's been happening more and more....honestly it feels easier just to rot in bed sleeping.

getting a random message just worsens her mood. "i cant even help myself and im supposed to help you?" rolling over to try to make sense of the class notes.

saeran:

got kidnapped and had their laptop open

"you follow me on github?"

mc BEGS for him to teach them everything he knows

ends up becoming an intern and moving their classes online

but wait...this guy is lwk kinda cute....

and he's taking the time to teach me??? >.<

blind to their situation mc follows instructions and fufills small tasks

saeran gives her badge "ID:10T"

cleaning his code to filling up the office waterbottle, all in payment for bootcamp-saeran™

V:

reminds her of a teacher she had once, ick

finds him to be kind of a doormat, but so is she

doesn't enjoy seeing how others might view her

(707 route bc i forgot to mention him there) can't help but feel sorry for him, she may not trust him but i mean cmon they can't help but feel bad dude lost his fiance and now seems like he can't keep his life together

rika:

again, desperate for female friends, but this one IS SO DIFFERENT

this is like when you make eye contact with someone of a similar group and you kinda expect automatic friendship but they are cold to you

mc is either ignorant of mint eyes operations or is slowly being indoctrinated, they don't meet rika very often.

they form a kind of bitterness towards her, rooted in her insecurities

"how can someone be so loved?" "how can someone just 'create' a world of their own" "whats so special about her, i'd be able to do something like that too"

by only hearing of her through saeran they feel so insignificant to her influence, it weakens them

[princessbrunette]

Foaming at the mouth for jealous controlling “Where do you think you’re going dressed like that” Rafe but something about “Wear whatever you want I can fight (and im strapped)” Rafe… 🥵

ok esp for girly reader who lives and breathes mini skirts and tiny tops (def not self serving… not at all…)

because you really expect rafe to be the first type. and to a degree, he is— if you’re going out alone that is. usually, you bow your head to it, because really — you tell yourself — he’s just concerned about your safety. there are some real creeps out there, and going out alone in a mini skirt is a sure recipe for disaster, right?

he’s bringing you to a party on the beach. you didn’t usually go partying with rafe, and he liked it that way — because that’s where he did the most business, cashing out on rich coke heads. you knew he wouldn’t be selling at a beach party, purely because anyone stupid enough to try and snort anything would end up ingesting a fuck-tonne of sand, and it’s just not the kinda complaint he’s in the mood to hear. you actually just get to hang out with him and his friends, and this excites you.

you test the waters, stepping out of your room when he waits in the living room leant against the shelf scrolling on his phone. you know it’s likely he’ll turn you right back around and send you changing due to the little pink co-ord clinging to your every curve. it’s cupping your tits and hugging your waist and leaving all but nothing to the imagination, but it’s been a while since you’ve worn something fun like that — so you try your luck anyway.

“m’ready!” you grin, sticking your arms out by your side all cute. he looks up from his phone, eyes all wide and vacant for a second, lips pouted in thought and briefly drops his eyes up and down your body.

“yeah, looks good kid.” he drawls, flipping his phone deftly between his fingers and stuffing it into his pocket. his eyes linger around your tits again before meeting your eye, walking towards you with a happy and simple smile, one that says ‘can we go now?’

your brows raise and you look down at yourself in surprise. “i’m surprised. you’re letting me wear this out?” you gaze up at him, lips twitching up. you think he’s making an active decision to be less controlling for a moment. he shrugs lazily, eyes flickering around the room as if to say ‘so?’ and with that he lifts the end of his button-up, revealing a glock tucked into his waistband.

oh.

“yeah i don’t think anyone’s gonna have the nerve to step out of line, a’ight? ‘look after my girl.” he steps closer to you, hand coming up to scratch affectionately behind your ears like you’re a dog. you don’t mind.

you stare up at him, all doe eyed and shocked. he thinks it’s adorable honestly, all scared over a little pistol. hell, you’d probably never even seen one in real life before, let alone this close.

“rafe…” you start unsurely, breathily, but he cuts you off, hand caressing your cheek, tilting his head down and raising his eyebrows.

“hey. you wear what you want with me, yeah? m’protected. strapped. it’s okay.” he enunciates, and well— you’re not really in the place to argue. you nod, still wide eyed and he gives your cheek an affectionate tap, squinting his eyes with a satisfied smile.

as imagined, rafes temper rears it’s ugly head one beer down, catching a poor boy a year or two his junior, eyes fixated on the way your ass was moving when you walked along the sand, unbeknownst to wandering eyes. of course, the boy ended up backed up against the pier with the cool end of the gun pressed into his jaw, terrified whimpers ripped from his throat.

“wanna look at my girl, huh? think i’m gonna let that shit run?” rafe is gripping the smaller boy by the collar, teeth grit, animalistic. your breath hitches, you think he may actually shoot this kid.

“rafe…” you call out urgently, not wanting to get too close.

“no! i—” the boy tries to argue, and you really feel for him, because rafe only presses the gun harder against his chin.

“no? better keep your eyes to yourself or i’m gonna be the last thing you fuckin’ see is that understood? is that understood asshole?” he grits out, eyes wet and watery from adrenaline.

“rafe! stop!” you call out, brows furrowed and tears brimming. he sighs, finally hearing you and steps back, not taking his eyes off the mortified boy infront of him. he stares until the kid grows the balls to run off, tripping and kicking up sand as he disappears to the other side of the pier where the rest of the party goers were. it’s only then he looks back at you.

“shit.” he sighs out, shaking his head, shaking himself off completely as he stares out at the moons reflection on the ocean.

you hug yourself, watching him mellow out a little. he tucks the glock back into his waistband, yanking his shirt out again to cover it.

“you’re not bringing that thing out again.” you accuse, pointing to his gun shape tucked into his pants. he blows you off, lifting a hand and walking the other way before turning back suddenly.

“i have to protect you, you understand? if i can’t bring this out with me you— you can’t bring that.” he lifts an arm, gesturing to your lower body. you stare at him in confusion before looking down. your… ass? was he talking about your ass?

“how am i supposed to leave my ass at home, rafe?” you argue, and as soon as the words leave your mouth— you can’t help but let out a giggle. you’re mad at him, yes — but the demand was funny, you couldn’t deny.

you think he’s gonna get mad, maybe wipe the smile off your face, but his sigh turns into a giggle too, looking away from you. the irritation from his face melts into something more boyish and young, his tongue sticking out between his teeth as he lets out a low chuckle. this only makes you chortle more, and he shakes his head, trying to hide his amusement as he waddles toward you on the uneven sand, holding out his arm and reaching you, bringing you beneath it into his side.

“alright, come on trouble.” he smirks, leading you back to the party. “y’still in a partying mood?”

[junebugsarchive]

manager nam x reader ; headcanons ver.

summary: headcanons of manager nam x fem! reader

pairing: manager nam x reader

details: mentions of using contraception . not much of warnings other than that . anon request . all headcanons are my opinion, i'm not forcing you to agree with them! . all dividers used are from @cafekitsune . all pictures used are from pinterest

a/n: i love him i love him i love him i love him when yall see this man i want you to immediately think of me and the im his main im his side im every woman that's in his mind sound because he's my goat oh my fosh 🤑 anyways, enjoy babes! thanks for the ask, this was highkey fun to make.

your no. 1 supporter

this man is the greenest green flag when it comes to support and encouragement

you saw this gorgeous dress on display but not sure if it'll look good on you? "go ahead and buy that dress, you look good in anything." you want to sign up for sewing classes? he's immediately doing extensive research on all the sewing workshops nearby and background-checking all the employees. you're struggling to carry all your shopping bags? he's dropping everything to rush to your side and help you carry them to the car.

date nights. date nights. i can't really envision him going out to expensive restaurants (idk why, i'm sorry), but i feel like he would prefer simpler date nights as well, like just sitting down on the sofa with a box of pizza and face masks bc u insisted, watching some corny rom com movie

this man is rich rich. given his job, there's no way you would ever be short on money. he feels bad because his job doesn't really give him a lot of time to spend with you, but he makes up for it by transferring millions and millions of won into your card every month to spend on clothes, manicures, skincare, whatever you needed

pouting to him because you accidentally spent all the money he had given you? no worries, he'll simply press a kiss to your crown and transfer more money, giving you a little extra "just because".

god i love this man

lives for forehead, hairline, crown kisses bc let's be for real, this man is huge. i'm not exactly sure of his height but let's just assume he's super tall, and you have to be standing on your tiptoes just to be able to kiss him properly

because of this, it would be more convenient for him to press kisses to the top of your head before he rushes off for work

very protective

his years as a mercenary have honed his awareness skills (??), and he's really good at detecting threats to you. for example, there's a man that keeps following you around, and you're not even aware of it, but manager nam's already excusing himself to go beat the guy up - or kill him, it depends on his mood that day.

you don't ever need to worry your pretty little head whenever you're around him, because he's already taken care of every threat in the area before you're even aware of them <3

if he's busy on a mission tho, he'll get a bunch of bodyguards to follow u around bc he's just gentlemanly like that

(borderline overly-protective but you beg to differ)

i feel like he would def be like manager kim and hide his occupation for you.

sure, he did mention lightly that he's a contract bodyguard, which is why he's so rich, but he refused to tell you anything other than that, because in his words he has to "protect the clients' privacy" (he's lying he doesn't mention the part he's also a contract killer / mercenary). i mean, it wasn't exactly a lie, right?

he can't say he's never thought of starting a family with you, but between his busy schedule and the constant threats looming behind his shoulder, he would want to wait until everything settles down before giving you a child. until then, he's very strict on using condoms and ensures you take the pills before and after yall do the deed.

but when you guys do have children, he would be an amazing father to the child, no matter their gender.

as a girl dad, he would definitely dotes on her like he does to you, but he's really strict on ensuring she doesn't end up too bratty and constantly trains her in self defense so that she's capable of protecting herself and her mother from creeps. your daughter would def grow up to be a total hothead and extremely protective of her mother, and insists on having "girls night" and literally kicks her depressed father out of their shared bedroom lol. tbh, manager nam's just a total softie for his family

if he was a boy dad tho, the tables would turn because i feel like he would have really strict training regiments and standards for his son, and they're both fueled by the constant reminder that they need to protect you <3 always fighting for your attention it's almost funny lol. until your son grows up and petty arguments turn into full-blown fights that leave you fuming and refusing to talk to them for days because they broke your favourite vase

in conclusion, manager nam is a total simp that would bend over backwards just for you. if he respects and admires manager kim, he 100% worships and adores you with all his heart. every day you spend with him feels like a dream <3

10/10, total green flag that would do anything to keep you happy. as long as he sees you smiling lovingly at him, he's happy.

[sahisan]

fem chuuya hcs. i love her so much stop. also why this lowkey cringe now that im reading it.

— pencil skirts. pencil skirts? pencil skirts. uhhh did i mention pencil skirts? and nylon tights. absolutely nylon tights.

— while she's all sexy in nylon tights and pencil skirts she wears from time to time she almost always has to wear pants because there's never been a day her foot did not meet someone's face. you get it.

— twenty two step hair routine. no less. she adores it and cares for it like one would care for their child.

— addressing her hair, i kinda don't think she keeps it longer than past her chest. even if she would like it longer, i think she'd just get irritated about it getting in her way when fighting. also braids it when she's bored and wants it out of the way.

— spends, like, from thirty to two hours in the shower every single day. morning showers? sure, no less than thirty minutes. evening showers? starting at an hour. showers after missions? a minimum of two hours. gotta simmer herself in boiling-hot water with all these shower gels and oils and scrubs after.

— scarred hands and fingers under her gloves, but even if they're scarred they're so pretty. long and thin with occasional nicks and marks here and there, as well as really good nail shape.

— also sometimes does her nails a wine red color (most of the times kouyou does them with a bit of chitter chatter and a lot of tea spilled (she's there for the tea more than for the nails honestly)) but only occasionally because she likes them long and it's not very comfortable with the gloves on.

— manspreads every time she seats beside a man when wearing pants.

— i don't know much about perfumes (literally nothing), but maybe Biblioteque's Memoris of Geisha, Penhaligon's Portraits The Bewitching Yasmine and Storie Veneziane's Rosso?

— on top of all, coffee scented perfume or not, she always smells like coffee and wine, and that is a truly rich rich combination. it's like she bathes purely in wine and coffee beans, and these really don't contradict each other somehow because she always makes it work.

— listens to music so loudly in her penthouse that if she had neighbours they'd file complaints weekly. even if she'd receive them, she'd push a middle finger into their faces and slam the door shut to get back to some loud ass rock echoing off the walls.

— i'm very much battling between these pyjamas and this nightwear. i think she takes turns wearing them based on her mood.

— kouyou has her have a monthly look over / presentation for clothes she bought during that month. it goes with dialogues like

"heels do suit you well, you know."

"yeah, sure they do. it's much easier to punch a hole through someone's face after all."

kouyou's also pretty sure chuuya'd beat all these models even in a single piece of clothing; and she looks so proud while watching her present all these branded clothes, an overcoat three times more expensive than someone's yearly pay.

— she has men swoon at her feet when she's out for a drink, basically shaking while trying to court her somehow, and then bursting into tears at the single, bored glance she casts them for the first time since their measly attempts at not stuttering through a flirty line started because they get there's literally no chance for them with someone like her. a single glance is enough.

[changbinsboobs]

Since you’re going out of order can you pls do Hyunjin next? Love the readings! ❤️❤️

Skz Husband Series: Hyunjin

He'd be loyal and devoted, i see him being really committed and truly all in, to the point where he goes above and beyond and sacrifices himself, or others for the sake of love. I also see there being huge potential for things growing really toxic just out of spite and stubbornness of not giving up on love.

He can get heartbroken really easily and i think marriage with him will have many heartbreaks along the way, mainly from his side and dealing with his "fragile" heart and turbulent emotions, him jumping to conclusions etc and mostly him hurting himself - will be something constant. What im also seeing tho is that as "fragile" as his heart might be or look at first glance he's actually really really tough, maybe even too much. And can take much "abuse" before he finally can't handle more. He doesn't let go easily and can and WILL endure a lot before he does.

He's a rich bitch and likes spending lavishly, he'll spoil his partner to no end, not only cuz of affection (of course that as well) but also because he likes to uphold a certain status/standard for himself and his partner has to match that so i see him spending quite the buck on his s/o, but also on himself and on lavish stuff and luxury altogether. Spending and luxury's gonna be a big theme in their married life.

He might get starved very easily tho, for attention, for confirmation, for security, i think he'll be constantly needing some sort of validation and confirmation because he naturally seems like a very devoted, die together type of vibe and i think in general in his relationships, when he loves, he always loves harder and i think he has gotten pretty paranoid when it comes to that so in the marriage he'll have those phases every once in a while where he feels gloomy and almost in a victim mentality, keeping himself in a state of mind and false beliefs that don't really equal his reality. So emotional labor on his partners side will be needed quite often, a readiness for that and a talent innit as well. I feel like his partner will have to have a eep understanding of psychology or just good intuition and people knowledge, to know well whats going on inside of him and be able to do and say all the right things, the right way at the right time to actually be able to calm him down and take him out of that spiral - cuz otherwise the outcome could be the absolute opposite and blow up in their face.

I see marriage with him would have two kinda contradicting sides. One light and one dark. And i think Hyunjin will definitely be the leading role. He's gonna be the hand and the voice of the relationship. His feelings, his moods will lead the way. And his partner will just have to follow. I don't think they have any power to steer in another direction. Hyunjin doesn't either. He has such a powerful inner world that i don't think he himself can control it all that well. So they're both kinda left at the mercy of his own...depths(?)

The rest of the reading isn't very reality focused, like talking about how he would be as a husband but rather just repeating the same energy over and over again, despite me drawing quite a few cards...so i think the takeaway from that is that having him as a husband will be very luxurious and really elevate ur standard of life, but it would also be very tricky and emotionally draining - tho the reward after is really really worth it as he is a deeply devoted guy that loves very hard and is ready to do everything for love, doesn't give up easily and you can count on him and know he'll always be there and love and accept u the way you are with all ur imperfections and flaws. He might even love you strongly for them sometimes depending on what kind of imperfections we're talking about. Once he accepts and loves you he does! Although doubts, fears etc will constantly creep up - u have to have the gist to deal with them and resolve them for him.

[classiccowboy]

instagram j.b.

summary: follow along with joe and his fiancée evie as they go through his football career.

* face claim is yasmin quintana*

series masterlist.

evie

liked by millyg, joeyb_9, and 873,190 others

evie: did some cowgirl shit

view all 2,739 comments…

millyg: yee frickin haw

> evie: bitches 🤠

user: NO WAY IS IT HAPPENING????

user: i was hoping this thing would get called off

joeyb_9: guess i better saddle up.

> evie: i’m coming home to you cowboy. 😉

user: no wait this is so cute

user: not ev in her cowgirl era

> evie: i fear it may be permanent

user: i cannot comprehend that you guys are so in love your getting married….

> user: wym you can’t comprehend it?? they’ve been together for like 7 years and are clearly very happy?

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, bose, and 912,054 others

joeyb_9: locked in #TeamBose

view all 5,108 comments…

user: this hairstyle is the best

user: ev is so lucky

> evie: like it truly doesn’t get better than this.

user: this is giving major top gun vibes

evie: i’m locked in on you. 🤪💗

> joeyb_9: 🌽

user: yalllll this man!

used: if you need consoling after this tough season hit my line

> evie: aw. i might take you up on that offer

> user: if there’s one things ev is going to do it’s make sure errrrrbody know joe is HER man

> user: no like its giving *insecure*

evie

liked by millyg, joeyb_9, and 910,002 others

evie: my mood for the foreseeable future..

view all 3,107 comments…

user: angel girl

user: she’s a stunnnnna

lahjay10_: if joe ain’t bring some of those cookies tomorrow we may have a problem

> evie: only the best for you jay

user: a ray of sunshine

joeyb_9: photo by me, socks from my closet, cookies homemade, your smile out of this world.

> evie: the man that you are…

user: i don’t know if im rooting for you or not

user: this doesn’t seem like lifestyles of the rich and famous

> evie: you’re looking in the wrong place for that content

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, evie, and 816,901 others

joeyb_9: my hands don’t look small here

view all 6,738 comments…

user: delete this my girl has ig

bengals: caption 🤌

user: you remember what them haters had to say

evie: let’s put them to good use. 😉

> user: EV! it’s too early to be spicy in the comments!

> user: nooo she’s getting some of that BDJ 🤣

user: i wasn’t prepared for this today

user: GOODNESS GRACIOUS

evie

liked by joeyb_9, bengals, and 520,091 others

evie: why is it always so cold in seattle?

view all 6,194 comments…

user: you’re giving pick me vibes

> evie: next time you’re looking for something to comment on, please, don’t pick me. (:

user: seattle is nice when it isn’t raining

user: period !!!

millyg: a moment for YOU 💗

> evie: i luv u.

user: these pics make seattle look bad

joeyb_9: the fit goes HARD

> evie: you can borrow it anytime 🤪

> joeyb_9: game day fit?

> evie: would def be top 5 of the season.

user: why are joe and ev always so goofy in the comments, and yall think they aren’t made for each other????

> user: no bc SAME! i don’t get why people think they aren’t a good fit. they’re obsessed with each other.

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, lahjay10_, and 730,726 others

joeyb_9: Dark Knight

view all 5,720 comments…

user: that’s my QB

joemainmixon: 🐐

user: you ain’t him

user: WAKE UP JOE POSTED

lahjay10_: (TOP 2) DAM SURE AINT 2! 🐐

> evie: TELL EM JAY

user: smash

evie: i think i need a hero… 🥵

> joeyb_9: i’ll be your knight in black shoulder pads.

evie

liked by millyg, joeyb_9, and 820,092 others

evie: big week 😳

view all 5,118 comments…

user: my favorite wag

user: if y’all actually are getting married im sick.

user: are you going to share what’s happening?

user: you look STUNNING

user: wym??

user: not prepared for what’s about to go down. i have a feeling.

joeyb_9: 👩🏽‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏼

> user: oh shit

user: not joe about to ruin his life if speculation is true

> user: wow everyone is supportive until you realize he really isn’t ever going to leave her for you. this is crazy behavior!

evie

liked by bengals, lahjay10_, and 1,737,026 others

evie: i think i like this little life.. 🤍

view all 15,829 comments…

millyg: and that’s MRS. Evangeline Burrow!

> user: not me just now finding out ev’s full name

> user: Evangeline??? Excuse me, that’s beautiful.

user: she doesn’t deserve it.

lahjay10_: we was TURNT TF UP!

user: i am sick with jealousy

bengals: The King and his Queen, congratulations!

user: only ring he will ever get but congrats

> user: marrying the love of your life is a bigger dub than the sb ever will be.

user: congrats!

sam_hubbard_: Finally!!

user: i knew it was coming and somehow i convinced myself he was smarter than this..

joeyb_9

liked by bengals, millyg, and 1,290,001 others

joeyb_9: Mr. & Mrs.

view all 8,628 comments…

lahjay10_: congratulations brudda!

user: most overrated player in the nfl

> user: bro can’t you let him enjoy his wedding?

user: congrats, now go get that other ring!

user: i give it a few months before they are done with each other.

> user: considering they’ve been together for almost a decade, i don’t see that happening

user: we all wish we were ev rn!

bengals: that’s our QB, you lucky boy!

user: another thing to distract him from winning the super bowl

user: not fair

millyg: i’m not crying, you are. jk i am crying. i’ve been crying all day.

user: he’s too famous for this, he will get sick of her.

evies ig stories:

[slightlyhopefulromantic]

after 500 years, im back to working on line-ups for the oxventure PCs for each campaign, this time the hobby horses :3 as with the oxventurers guild, i put a good amount of thought into this, though maybe not as much as the guild haha but regardless, i'll go into more detail under the cut for anybody curious :]

once again, they all have their own eye shines (or, in barnaby's case, are dead behind the eyes lol), though theyre simpler shapes this time. edvard gets stars, lilith gets a squiggle, kasimir gets a hooked shape, and zillah gets hearts.

edvard - i see him as just kind of. soft around the edges from his rich upbringing, but generally is on the thinner side, kind of rounding out in the middle. very Just A Guy with his build and body hair. i went with brown hair rather than black because otherwise, everyone besides lilith would have black hair and it was just to monotonous for me XD still, i tried to keep it dark and not too bright so it would fit the vibe. also, for some reason i thought his vest was floral until i started coloring this, but it totally is not in canon??? :') i liked it too much to not do a floral pattern anyways.

lilith - i really adore her canon outfit, i just get very confused about the layering of everything. so i tried to do distinctive color-blocked for her outfit, while also restricting her outfit's palette to just purples and teals/blue. i am so bad at drawing snakes. i am so so so bad at drawing snakes XD also, i decided to give everybody at least one tattoo because i just thought it would be fun and im taking advantage of the gritty setting. theyre all cool and tough so they have tattoos and totally not because i just love drawing tattoos lmaooo

kasimir - kas is not much of a leap from canon. i love kasimir's design. i just gave him plenty of tattoos under that massive jacket of his. based vaguely on johnny's tattoos, i did my best to reference their arms but ended up more going off of the vibe rather than copying anything specific. johnny's tattoos are simply too intricate and beautiful for me to do repeatedly djfgbdfhd and okay i say this constantly but my faaavorite kasimir design element is his whale belt buckle. its so cute. i love it

zillah - she was also easy for the same reason, i just adore zillah's design. its simple and very fitting. so i just gave her exactly what she has, but like lilith, i simplified the color palette. since my art style is much more cartoony than colin craker's, especially when i dont hatch or shade, restricting the colors makes the designs look cleaner. i almost forgot to color in zillah's hand wraps by the way and i literally put my hand over my mouth, i only caught it as i was typing this XD it was so needlessly over-dramatic

barnaby - i dont know fully how to explain it, but barnaby is definitely the design i am most pleased with. not because i think he has the best design here necessarily, but because hes just so perfectly what i picture in my head. with a lot of my designs, ill adjust small details based on my mood or i just won't fully be confident in my decisions, but with this design? thats just barnaby. chef's kiss. like edvard, i gave him brown hair instead of black for some diversity. i also kept his very thin hair and high forehead because it makes him so endearing to me <3 no five o'clock shadow though, he has to keep himself looking young

[thelostfable]

its interesting thinking about how the grimms presence has affected peoples state of being. like. maybe im thinking too hard but like. the implications. inane rambling about emotional repression under the cut ⬇️

cause like. in small rural communities, especially ones with little to no huntsmen. there is strong incentive to repress negativity as much as possible. and we can actually kind of see this in a good chunk of the cast:

ruby and yang both try and keep the mood as light as possible whenever they can, and struggle to show sincere vulnerability. yang does have her anger issues early on especially, but that at least is productive to defending the people she cares about (in her mind at least). and blake comes off as angsty a lot, but is fairly cut off from it, if you know what i mean? theres a lot of separation between her emotions and what she expresses. she grew up hanging out around a lot of very angry people, shes learned to remain cool and not make anything worse.

vs weiss, who lived all the way up in atlas, which had the benefits of being both 1) a big city of mostly rich people living content lives and 2) having a huntsman academy that had plenty of students who could could clean up the few grimm that made it all the way up to atlas as training while more of the fully trained huntsmen could deal with mantle and the surrounding areas. shes not emotionally vulnerable, very very few people are in rwby, but she is definitely more expressive about how she feels.

ren and nora have an interesting dynamic in terms of this because. nora is a pretty open book and she just kind of lets herself feel whatever she feels. vs ren who is like. the closed book of closed books. hes not impossible to figure out but hes not going to show or tell pretty much anything. with his flat effect + semblance, he manages to cancel out nora enough that they were able to make it through a lot of things.

oscar is also from the middle of nowhere and like. he tries to be emotionally honest, but he isnt emotionally vulnerable, yknow? he says what hes thinking if its important enough that others should hear about it, but his problems get tucked away neatly in his mind and the only other person whos going to get any shot at hearing about is ozpin. and thats because hes also in there.

all in all. its interesting considering the reoccurring advice that everyone seems to give out to others in rwby: 'dont let your emotions rule you'. and while this is valid advice in any situation. its not surprising that it gets hammered in as much as it does given feeling your emotions too hard can turn into nightmare beasts at your location that want to kill you

[deedala]

🍃w e e k l y t a g w e d n e s d a y🍃

thank you to @energievie for writing the game this week and thanks for tagging me!! also thanks for tagging me for this and also for the pinterest game which im putting down below @lingy910y @gallapiech @suzy-queued @creepkinginc @thepupperino @blue-disco-lights @crossmydna @jrooc @heymacy @wehangout @mybrainismelted @xninetiestrendx @heymrspatel XOXOXO all of you 💖💖💖

Name: deanna

Age: noel-aged

Location: ooohiooo

And now...

What is your DJ name? i dunno, when i worked in college radio it was something about a fish... okay wait yes, lets go with DJ Fishy 🙃

If you were a genre of music, what would it be? whatever chappell roan's the rise and fall of a midwest princess is

What would you title your biography? Wellp

What are the first three things you'd do if you were invisible? i like this idea of sneaking onto expensive modes of transportation. i would do that assuming i had no where else to be and no responsibilities to see to 😆 and i would also rob rich people... and maybe i would go for walks int he middle of the night by myself and feel safe lol

What subject do you wish was taught in every school?  all the important money and personal finance basics that they used to teach but then stopped because it made it easier to prey on adults who didnt know how to manage their credit and debt or do their taxes correctly 😜

When was the last time you tried something for the first time and what was it?  uuhhh...the only thing i can think of right now is a lavender flavored matcha drink that was recommended a few months ago? ive gotten it again a few times (including today!) and its very good. im so happy i know what lavender tastes like now 😆

What is the most underrated city you have ever visited?  this is very hard...i dont even really know how to know how most cities are rated anyway?? i feel like all the cities ive been to and loved are pretty universally rated highly lol. uhhhhh...i dunno.. Heidelberg, Germany? Luxembourg City? one of those.

What day in your life would you like to relive? uuhh i dunno, im going with wedding day because i barely remember any of it, it was such a blur. i would be less responsible and have more fun 😅

If you could eliminate one thing from your daily routine, what would it be and why?  i really love sleeping and going to bed and falling asleep. but i hate waking up and i hate losing the time to unconsciousness. so if i could stay alive and not be tired and never sleep that would be so cool.

How long would you last in a zombie apocalypse?  i like to think i could last pretty long because i am a huge wimp and have great Nope It's Time To Go instincts. Also im good at climbing.

What would be the most surprising scientific discovery imaginable? uuhhh backwards time travel

If you could have any view out your office window, what would you choose? puget sound with the olympic mountain range in the distance

☀️pinterest tag game☀️

i was tagged to do this pinterest game where you search Fashion, Pantone, Mood, and Food and post the first pin from each of the search results. gotta be honest buddies i dont really use pinterest very often and when i do its for random photo references sooooo...

x x x x

i do not know what is happening with that outfit. that is not really a color i would pick but its fine? the mood is pretty but looks kind of melancholy. that last photo though??? oh my god let me climb into there i wanna sit in the cozy rustic kitchen and eat pastries pleaaaaassseeeee!!!!!!

and now to tag in more folks to play either or both of these games!! 💖💖 @michellemisfit @darlingian @too-schoolforcool @the-rat-wins @lee-ow @mmmichyyy @iansw0rld @transmickey @burninface @loftec @metalheadmickey @gallawitchxx @gardenerian @vintagelacerosette @palepinkgoat @sam-loves-seb @samantitheos @sleepyfacetoughguy @sickness-health-all-that-shit @sleepyheadgallavich @rereadanon @mikhailoisbaby @mickeysgaymom @themarchg1rl @callivich @softmick @captainjowl @howlinchickhowl @spookygingerr @spoonfulstar @steorie @whatwouldmickeydo @burninface

[raptorladylover6969]

RAPTOR LADY HEADCANONS CUZ IM BORED ‼️‼️

- Pampers her raptors like crazy, like, them bitches are SPOILED ROTTEN.

- Is a dark chocolate and carob enjoyer. She hates anything sweet, or spicy (Its the white girl in her 😔).

- Absolute neat freak. If theres any mess, she’ll immediately be in a bad mood.

- Biggest rbf (resting bitch face) along with the most powerful side eyes known to mankind.

- Probably does the “pspspspsp” thing to her raptors.

- Autistic.

- She isn’t actually mute, like she’ll speak, but like on rare occasions. When she does speak, it’s always in a hushed tone or a whisper or mumble.

- To add to the talk thing, she’ll only talk out loud to her raptors. Like not even like simple commands like she’ll have full on conversations with them.

- French ‼️‼️ 🇫🇷🇫🇷 shes multilingual and can speak many languages. (Very ironic for someone who barely speaks..)

- Gas station jerky enjoyer. (The girlies who get it get it, the girlies who don’t don’t.)

- Fidgets with her whistle, like you cannot tell me she doesn’t fiddle with it when she’s bored.

- Will literally go to WAR for her raptors, she’ll sacrifice her OWN life to save them.

-If she were to laugh, it’s at other peoples expense. Its not a loud CACKLE its like a small chuckle or sumthin.

- She RICH RICH. Like she obviously has a shit ton of money otherwise how else would she be able to maintain and take care of her raptors? (Damn can she be my sugar daddy⁉️🤑 /J)

- Actually hates music. She don’t like HATE it, she doesn’t mind it, but she’ll just never listen to music willingly. HOWEVER, if she WERE to have a favourite music artist, it’s IC3PEAK. I’m not taking any other singers nope nope nope it’s IC3PEAK. No questions. And if she were to hate a certain genre, it’s rap, country, and pop. She won’t mind slow RNB tho, she don’t hate it.

- Has a crap ton of scars on her body from her raptors playing with her too rough. They keep forgetting she’s not an actual raptor, and is literally physically unable to fight back.

- Is actually very athletically inclined. She STRONG asf, hella endurance, hella stamina, and hella speed. Think about it, if you’re spending ALL of your time with raptors, and you’re literally the leader of the pack, you have to KEEP UP with them. (She literally gets all her exercise in just by hanging out with her raptors)

- Her short bangs are actually accidental 💀 (she didn’t mean to cut them that short, her hand just slipped ☹️, she couldn’t give a shit tho, she rocks those bangs and she knows it.)

- Has the skincare routine of a teenage boy. Like she’ll just slap water on her face and call it a day. Or if she’s feelin extra motivated, bar of soap, but yet, her skin still GLOWS. (She’s hanging on by a thread cuz she has good skin genetics)

- Mimics the noises the raptors make, and she’s hella good at it. Like you’d think its another raptor, but its just her.

- Is actually rlly good at repairing or building stuff. The modifications on her truck were made BY HER ‼️🗣️

I RAN OUT OF HCS GRGRBGRGRGRGRGRGR PLS SHARE ANY YOU HAVE WITH ME I NEED MORE RAPTOR LADY CONTENT ‼️‼️‼️

[crepuscularious]

mansion

another imagine inspired by a song LMOAFJSOFA

in this, miguel is a ceo of alchemax, ironic isnt it? lol, i couldnt think of anything else

also how come doja is the most problematic artist but could still manage to keep a song stuck in all of our heads?

lastly, thank you!?!?!? i was so surprised my shit is suddenly getting like 100 likes and reblogs, im kinda running out of ideas for songs but yall could req anytime. to the most sweetest fluff as well as the most sluttiest smut! <3 thank you!

ceo!miguel x fem!reader

"baby, can you call me back? i miss you. its so lonely in my mansion"

you had married a man who you hardly even known at first, no lie. you guys met through an app and it just stuck. you went through all kinds of dates and all kinds of sloppy, full of drool kisses. he later revealed to you that he was a rich man who was a ceo. apparently, he never showed his face to the public, he was some kind of lady gaga 2.0

miguel was the sweetest, yes he was protective, and gets mad easily, but he knows his limits, especially towards you. someone hurts you? off with their heads! someone said you werent good enough for him? off with their heads! you get the point

it has been a week since you last saw him, normally he would let you accompany him everywhere, whether its a personal matter or he needs to go overseas for his work. but this time, you had stayed at home

"im sorry, amor. i really want you to let you come with me. but you know how it is at work, i wont be able to spend time with you there anyways" those were the words miguel said before leaving.

now, here you are. waiting for your dear husband, patiently, a little horny, but most of all, lonely. you couldnt help but sleep with his pillow wrapped around your arms and a leg on top of it, pretending youre snuggling up to him at night.

*incoming call from: mi vida ❤️*

miguel looks down at his phone, even if he was in the middle of a very important meeting, he would stop anything for you. what if it was emergency? what if she was bored? or worse, what if she was in the mood for phone sex!?

"hello, amor? whats wrong, mi vida?" miguel asks, holding a finger up to the line of his workers sitting down, as well as the person who was presenting a presentation to him

"i miss you, when are you coming home?" you asked, an obvious pout on face

"mi corazon..." he said in a certain tone, as if he was telling you he already answered this question a thousand times and was tired of hearing your pleas of coming back home.

"im sorry, i know youre busy. i just miss you, i cant sleep at night, you know" you said

"i know, mi vida. please understand, i love you so much. ill come back as soon as possible. okay?"

this scenario happened a few times for a week. he told you he was coming back in two days, but days has passed and hes still no where to be found. not to mention the very small texts he has been sending you

you were so saddened about everything, you missed your husband, very dearly. you just wanted to cuddle and squeeze him to death

*calling: mi guapo <3*

the text on your phone said, but he doesnt answer and it goes to voicemail

"baby, can you call me back? i miss you, its so lonely in our mansion"

[wttcsms]

first of all i just wanna say i love your theme!! its soooo pretty and i screamed when i saw aomine there too

anyways i know its been a while but if you’re still up for it!! i would love to hear about the wip for kaiser 🥺 (no stress at all btw)

wishing you a lovely day <3

im secretly such a knb girlie, i just keep it on the low 🤭 really snuck him in there, didn't i

there are TWO wips for kaiser!!!!

wip ask game!

burnout season features olympic figure skater!reader x kaiser, except the two of you know each other due to the fact that you're both seeing the same physical therapist. i have a few posts alluding to this concept/fic but those were made before i settled on having it abt kaiser hehe. the fic explores the idea of two athletes who have dedicated their whole lives to their respective sports, and when it comes to recovering from a potentially career injury that forces them to take a break from training or else they risk never being able to participate/compete in their sport again, they're left with a lot of time to sit down and just wonder who tf they really are outside of their sport. you're very tough on yourself; nothing is good enough for you. you break a record? you aim to crush that record you just set. you're never satisfied, and you're constantly training and devoting your whole life in pursuit of becoming the best. your injury got to the point it's at due to the fact that you never know when to quit. kaiser's in a bit of the same boat, although when we explore his reasons, i think it's more because soccer for him was his lifeline, his chance at doing the impossible and "making it out", so to speak. so this sport isn't just his life, it quite possibly saved his life. and now he's at a point where he might not even be able to play anymore.

so, the two of you are not only going through it, but you also have abrasive personalities that make it difficult for others to deal with y'all. kaiser is... kaiser. and you're so used to working yourself to the bone, never prioritizing friendships, always focused on training and perfecting your routine, that when you finally have free time, you realize you're all alone.

it is a deeper fic!!! i always am curious at exploring how people will react when the one thing that defines them (for kaiser, soccer; for you, figure skating) suddenly isn't yours anymore. so what's left?? where do you go from here??

the two of you antagonize each other because again, u both have social issues LMAO, but your therapist plays wing woman and suggests that the two of you might like going through your physical therapy sessions together, to "motivate" and "encourage" each other. you two just like to compete.

despite coming from different backgrounds (you've got rich parents and have spent your whole life with private coaches flown in from russia to help train you vs kaiser... being kaiser), no one quite understands the two of you better than each other. it's so special to me because kaiser realizes that you love him for him; not soccer star kaiser, but the wakes-up-in-a-bad-mood/beaten-up-little-boy kaiser. the real kaiser.

and when i was shipwrecked (i thought of you) is this concept haha!!! bit of a diff dynamic since we see a much softer reader in this fic, but also!!! kaiser is in the position where he's the one who can help you out instead of what it was like during his childhood, so exploring that is gonna be so much fun too!!!!! no matter the fic, kaiser isn't outwardly ooey-gooey dripping with affection, but his actions and how he treats you says a lot more than his words 🤭

[wannaeatramyeon]

im in desperate need of pouty and upset taehoon

I did have something a bit angstier in my drafts... but here's a fun little jealous Taehoon. Thanks for the ask!

Seong Taehoon x Reader: Sulking

How ironic now that Taehoon is standing on the other side.

After seeing Hobin bleating around Bomi like an idiot sheep, Gaeul flapping after Hobin, Snapper pining after Gaeul, and then Wangguk pussyfooting around Rumi... Taehoon sits green-eyed with a storm cloud hanging over him.

His sour mood invades the room like an unwanted smell and he snipes at anyone daring to walk past.

"Fuck you looking at?"

"Keep staring and I'll poke your eyes out"

"Move along unless you want your ass kicked"

"There's nothing wrong with me, piss off"

So yeah. The Hobin Yoo Company quickly learns to take a wide berth.

And the cause of his current surly, sullen state? (Taehoon knows this is his problem, which makes it all the worse.)

You mentioned an old classmate of yours inviting you out for drinks, which you agreed to. And of course you would agree to it, and why would Taehoon object? You're free to live your life how you want. You're free to meet up with old friends.

Usually Taehoon wouldn't have thought anything of it. He is neither controlling nor possessive, so go - go have your fun.

But then the more you mentioned this guy, completely innocently, just filling in the blanks on your own, the more the jealousy started to unfurl.

Oh he's rich? That must be nice.

Works as a model part-time? Huh, maybe I should get into it.

Was your best friend? Good for you.

Had a crush on you? Wait, really?

Asked you out on a date before he moved away? Hold on...

And the finishing blow: made a name for himself in winning fighting tournaments over in fuck-knows-where? Ok, Taehoon isn't afraid to admit that that one really fucking stung.

Taehoon hears you noisily coming down the stairs, recognising the sound of your footsteps anywhere. He grumpily observes you readying yourself to go out to meet this loser.

"Come on then!" You throw Taehoon's green jacket at him. His hand shoots out to catch it before it hits him in the face.

"The hell you think you're doing?"

"Huh? Aren't you coming?" You stand in front of him with your hand on your hips. What is up with him today!

"Coming where?"

"To meet my friend with me?"

"I didn't know I was invited." And so what if Taehoon goes back to just sitting there with his arms folded tightly, his mouth shaped into a frown with his bottom lip poking out. This is not a sulk and that is not a pout, damnit.

"Oh..." you scratch your head in confusion. Had you really not mentioned anything? "Sorry if I forgot to say anything."

"You didn't." Taehoon glowers at you, but you can see the tightness in his body loosening.

Is this why he has been moping around all day? Is Taehoon jealous? Is that a pout? You work hard to keep the smile off your face.

"Duh, I've been talking a lot about you. They want to meet this famous Taehoon."

Wait a second - "They?"

"Yeah, my friend and his girlfriend are really excited to meet you!"

Girlfriend!? Fuck's sake. Taehoon holds himself back from facepalming.

Who knows what possessed him to not speak to you in the first place and to spiral instead. You probably did mention some of this while he was internally cursing this guy out. Taehoon files away this bit of unpleasant introspection for later.

Let's see what's so great about this asshole then. Taehoon's storm cloud starts to dissipate.

...Before leading to other points of displeasure. But now I have to be on my best behaviour for the next couple hours? I have to meet this nobody AND his girlfriend? Listen to them while they chat shit?! Ugh. The things I do for you.

Taehoon huffs as he throws on his jacket, "Let's go then, don't make me late," and takes your hand.