#im sorry its just the more i think about this the better it seems than xavier

[kissenturine]

𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 kazuha x m!reader — 5.1k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: strangers to lovers, mentions and use of alcohol (no drunk sex though), kazuha and reader are roommates, sort of college / modern au, morning sex / sleepy sex, praise, pet names (good boy [?], angel, uh i cant remember sorry), aftercare is not written but it is given, praise teehee, reader rides kazuha, kazuha jerks reader off, lmk if i missed any thanks :3

KAI SAYS: GUYS!!!!!!!!!!!!! birthday post im now 20 that sounds so old euugghh

Rent was hell.

Your minimum income, which was mostly spent on necessities and college fees, was barely able to pay last month. And now with inflation, you weren’t sure how you were going to make it through another year.

But, there was always hope. It was only the beginning of June after all.

Last week, your friend introduced you to a website to find roommates. Having a roommate would solve a few of my problems, you thought as you scrolled through the site on your computer. For one, the rent would be split between the two of you, which was much more manageable than right now. And, for two, you would get to actually talk to someone every day.

It would be a win-win situation if the two of you got along.

After a few days of thinking everything through, looking at different people’s profiles, because the site was a “Tinder for roommates,” as your friend had put it, you found a man that matched your preferences.

Kaedehara Kazuha.

From what you could tell by his profile, he looked like a sweet man. His profile picture was set to a white cat, and you can see his hand atop its head, gently petting against the cat’s ears. You hadn’t met him in person yet, but through text, you’d managed to get to know him a bit.

The two of you texted about your hobbies and Kauha told you about his life. He was getting a degree in poetry at a college near your house, which is why he selected the area. He told you earlier today about himself. He liked to eat fish and go drinking out. He liked staying with animals he liked warm weather and sunny days, and he liked to spend time with his loved ones and friends.

To be honest, he seemed a bit too good to be true.

But, you think, I suppose some people are just like that.

With a content sigh, you shut your computer. You’d texted Kazuha and the two of you had planned for him to move in today. It seemed a little quick to you, but Kazuha said he didn’t really have anything big to move over. According to him, he’d only be bringing one suitcase and backpack.

Yesterday, you cleaned out the guest room—well, know his room. It was tedious work, something you hoped you wouldn’t have to do again. Ever. But, you supposed it would be worth it in time.

So now here you were, sanding proudly with your hands on your hips smiling at your spotless house. Kazuha better like it here… You think. Your hand goes to run through your hair gently, combing it back. You’re about to flop down onto the couch and maybe take a nap—only for the familiar tune of the doorbell to ring through the house, echoing and bouncing off the walls.

Your head snaps backwards, a nervous smile making its way onto your lips.

You rush to the door, ignoring the slight shake in your step. Your heartbeat quickens and you don’t know why. Kazuha’s a nice man. You remind yourself, though you don’t think that’s why you're nervous.

Slowly, you unlock your door and turn the doorknob with your other hand. And there, standing to greet you is your new roommate. Kaedehara Kazuha.

You greet him with a polite smile, cracking open the door just enough to let him inside. The roll of his suitcase from the sidewalk outside up onto the flooring of your house sends a loud ‘Clunk! Clunk!’ sound and you wince a little.

You shut the door behind you, schooling your expression as you turn back to Kazuha. He trunks to you quickly and smiles gently. “Ah,” he says and his voice is so soft when he speaks, “I’m Kazuha, but I suppose you already know that.”

You introduce yourself, finishing off the same as him with a short, “but I suppose you already knew that too.”

He nods politely a small laugh flitting out of his lips. You lead him to his new bedroom, helping him carry his backpack as he lifts his suitcase, not wanting the wheels to dirty the floor. Kazuha takes a look around, his smile being ever present as you drop his backpack by the door.

“It’s nice here.” He comments, turning his gaze from you to his bedroom.

A bashful grin makes its way to your lips. “Thanks.” You murmur. “Cleaned just for you.”

With that, he’s looking back at you. “Just for me?” He responds, and there’s an edge of playfulness that lies beneath the overlaying gratefulness in his tone. “Thank you.”

You just nod, not fully trusting your voice.

After a moment, Kazuha sits down at the edge of his bed, tracing his hands over the expanse of the duvet. “We should go out sometime.” He says and you blink. You’re face feels warm and you hope Kazuha doesn’t see.

“Like…” Your voice trails off, leaving your sentence unfinished. Like a date? You wanted to say, but your lips don’t seem to work.

Kazuha seems to take note of this, chuckling softly. “Just to get to know each other better. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy.” He gives you a comforting smile and your nervousness seems to dissipate when you look at him.

“Ok.” You agree. “We can plan something for after you’ve gotten more… settled in.”

Kazuha’s smile widens and he gives you a nod. “Thanks.”

You take a deep breath, before speaking up again. “I’ll leave you to it then.” You turn on your heel before walking out of Kazuha’s new bedroom. You shut the door gently before speed-walking to your room and collapsing onto your bed.

Your breathing comes out in soft puffs as you bury your face into a pillow, curling yourself on your bed. What the fuck was that? You cry mentally. You grip onto the bedsheets tightly. Your heart is beating fast and you think it’d beat tight through your ribs if you don’t calm down soon. You bring your hands to your face, dragging them across your eyes. “I’m fucked.” You curse quietly. Kazuha’s so nice! You know you probably won’t even last a month without developing some sort of feelings for him and that scares you. 

You… don’t want to ruin what little the two of you had managed to build up in the past week. As little as it was, you like what you have with Kazuha. In the back of your mind, though, there’s the nagging feeling for more. You want to get closer to Kazuha, you want to spend time with him.

Maybe that date of his wouldn’t be too bad.

With a heavy sigh, you twist your body to lay like a starfish, sprawled across your bed. You turn your gaze to your window, squinting as the sunlight fans through the glass and into your eyes. If you just ignored any feelings that developed, they would just go away, right?

The first six days with Kazuha were… different from your usual routine, to put it simply.

On Monday (because everyone knows the week starts with Monday and not Sunday!) you awoke to the smell of food wafting through the house. You were instantly up and out of bed, barely managing to throw on a shirt—backwards—before you stumbled into the kitchen.

You were taken aback by the sight that greeted you.

Kazuha, in his pyjamas and an apron, was humming a soft tune as he cooked something on the stove. He turns once he notices you, standing in shock by the doorway. “Ah,” he said, “I see you’re finally awake.” He humed, using the spatula to plate a scrambled egg. He handed you the plate and Archons it smelled good. “I made breakfast. Used some of your food, if you don’t mind.”

You absentmindedly nodded, entranced by the way he moved around the kitchen, putting things in the dishwasher, plating his food, and turning off the stove. All of those were such ordinary things, but, for some reason, it just made you more drawn to him.

You brought your plate to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down, still watching Kazuha. “Thanks for breakfast.” You murmured after a few bites. “It’s really good.”

“Well, it’s only natural I repay you somehow.” Kazuha said before sitting down beside you. “You basically lent me your house to live in.” He joked.

“Our house now.” You responded. “Since you’ll be payin’ half the rent.”

Kazuha nods, taking a bite out of his own breakfast. “I plan on spending the week organizing my stuff. Nothing big, just getting everything tidy.” The two of you sat in comfortable silence, basking in the warmth of the summer weather.

Besides that, Monday wasn’t anything eventful.

Tuesday was spent helping Kazuha. Cooped up in his room, the two of you went through his clothes and belongings, organizing them into his closet and drawers. Kazuha had a decent amount of clothes, which were the bulk of what he brought.

You talked and talked and talked with Kazuha. He was so sweet. You swore you’d told yourself that a million times by now, but it was always true. Kazuha’s laugh was soft and kind, he laughed at all your stupid, cheesy jokes, no matter how unfunny they were. He’d help you cook meals—much better than you ever could.

Tuesday was when you had come to realize that maybe you were enjoying his company a little too much. But, you thought, he’s just… fun to be around.

You used that excuse for the rest of the week.

Kazuha was just… nice. Everyone would enjoy his company like this. You were no different!

It was a pathetic excuse, but it was pathetic enough for you to cling onto.

Wednesday you and Kazuha went out and you showed him the neighbourhood as the two of you walked to the store for some groceries. Kazuha took an oddly long time looking through the fruits and vegetables section, eyeing each piece we selected carefully before placing it into the plastic bag we used to carry everything.

It was endearing.

After a good forty-five minutes of walking around the store, the two of you finally decided to head to the cashier for check out. Kazuha was polite as he made idle chatter with them, but you couldn’t help the frown that pulled at your face.

You were right there. If he wanted to talk to someone, why couldn’t it be you? You were sure you were more entertaining than that cashier worker.

But you pushed those thoughts to the back of your mind. You pulled out your credit card, expecting to pay, only for Kazuha to gently pull your hand back. “Let me.” He says gently. Your eyes dart to him and your face flushes when you feel his hand graze gently over yours as he pulls it back.

He wanted to pay for you.

Ah, if you hadn’t fallen for him yet, you sure as hell had now.

He taps his card quickly and you barely manage to make it out of the store while avoiding Kazuha’s gaze.

Things only started to set in on Thursday.

You’d woken up with a heavy migraine and a grumpy mood, so it didn’t come as a surprise that you didn’t want to talk to anyone. Unfortunately, that also included Kazuha. And yet, Kazuha didn’t push you when you refused to talk to him while the two of you ate breakfast.

“Good morning,” He had said in greeting. “How’re you?”

You don’t respond, only taking the plate of food he’d set aside for you. You’re swift to finish your food; shovelling it into your mouth and not even bothering to wait for Kazuha.

He, on the other hand, still had that oh-so-sweet smile of his plastered across his pretty lips. “I’ll take it you’re not feeling great, then.” He murmurs. Kazuha gets up from his seat beside you before handing you a glass of water. “You should drink up. Water’s very good for you, so I’m sure it’ll help you a bit.”

You do as he said, chugging the glass of water in one go. “Thanks.” You whisper. Those were the first words you said to him that day, and you could already feel your migraine easing up. Kazuha is like magic, you think, he fixes everything without even trying.

You gave Kazuha a half-hearted smile before placing your plate and utensils in the dishwasher and heading to your room to take a nap. Naps always seemed to ease your headaches.

As you collapsed on your bed, snuggling up under your heavy duvet, your thoughts drifted back to Kazuha. He was sweet, but you’d also come to the realization that he was handsome. His hair was always up into a ponytail, with that little section of red swooping on top of his ear. His eyes are quite pretty, too. You thought. A shimmering red that often matched the clothes he wore, sparkling as he laughed. And his hands, they looked so gentle as he carried things around. His fingers worked effortlessly as he wrote his poetry in that small notebook of his.

“This man,” you whispered to yourself, “is too good to be true.”

On Friday, Kazuha let you have the honour of brushing and tying up his hair.

He’d caught you staring at him as he sat on his bed, his fingers wove through his white locks. With a raised eyebrow, he beckons you over, handing you a red hair tie. “Mind helping me?” He asked softly.

You complied eagerly, scooting behind him. You ran your hand through his hair, gently scooping it behind his shoulders. Kazuha let out a soft hum, as he nodded in content. Carefully, you pull his hair into a ponytail, twisting the thin band to wrap carefully around it a few more times.

“There.” You said. “It’s done.”

Kazuha turned to face you, his knees pressed much too close to yours. “Thank you.” He grinned, grabbing your hand to rest in between his cool ones. “I really appreciate this.”

Your face flushed, an embarrassing warmth coating your cheeks. You brought your free hand to scratch awkwardly at the back of your neck before mumbling out a response. “No problem, Kazuha.”

Saturday was spent planning the two of your guys’ “date” that would be happening on Sunday.

Kazuha suggested a picnic, and you couldn’t help but agree. Maybe it was the thought of spending a day with him, or maybe it was how he wanted to spend a day with you, but you knew you would’ve agreed to anything he said.

The picnic would be on Sunday, in a park the two of you found online.

After a very successful planning session, the two of you spent the rest of the day preparing and packaging food for the picnic.

It was somewhat chaotic—but it was also fun.

Kazuha taught you how to make his favourite sandwich, how to toast the bread perfectly, and how to cut each one into little heart shapes. All with a soft smile dancing on his pretty lips as he guided your hands gently, easing the knife into the bread.

Archons, you were fucked. How’re you supposed to live with him, like this, every day?

And now, it’s Sunday; the day of the picnic.

Your foot taps nervously against the floor of your bedroom. What am I supposed to wear? Yes, you do know you’re probably overthinking this, but you can’t help it! Not when it’s because of Kazuha! You have to make sure you’re always looking your best!

Your cheeks puff out as a heavy sigh leaves your lips, eventually settling on your outfit of the day.

Finally ready, you nervously open the door, heading out to meet Kazuha in the kitchen.

He greets you with a smile and a call of your name. His arms find their way around your waist in a tight hug and you blink. Oh, oh, oh, oh—what do I do!? When did he get so… touchy?! Not that I’m complaining but—You stand frozen, yet Kazuha doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls back with his signature smile. “You’re ready to go?” He questions, taking a step towards the front door.

“Y-Yeah.” You manage to stutter out. “I’m ready.”

“Great!” He grabs your hand, leading you out of your shared home. He doesn’t let go as the two of you walk to the park. With the picnic basket in his free hand, Kazuha still grips yours gently as he leads you. His thumb runs over the skin of your hand absentmindedly. You think it’s supposed to be a calming gesture, but, it only makes your heart beat faster and your face go warm.

You eventually find yourself in a large field, small flowers adorning the grass. Kazuha tugs a blanket out of his bag, laying it over the grass. He plops down on it, patting the space beside him as he does. “Sit with me.” He says.

You comply quickly, placing your own basket down and taking a spot beside him. “...Thanks for doing this with me.” You murmur, giving Kazuha a shy glance.

He only grins in response, digging through his bag and handing you one of the sandwiches you prepared yesterday. “It’s nothing, really.” He smiles, and you feel a tingle go through your hand where his finger brushes over yours. “I like spending time with you.”

“I like spending time with you too.” You match his expression, your lips pulling into a smile. It hasn’t even been a week, and yet it feels like you’ve known Kazuha for years.

Kazuha grins, reaching into his bag. “Good.” is all he responds before pulling something out. Is that a wine bottle? “Now, would you like a drink?”

You… never took Kazuha as a drinker.

And yet, here he is, drunk out of his mind as slurs slip from his lips. Kazuha calls out your name, his head slipping onto your shoulder as his hands grip the blanket the two of you are sitting on. “Do you…” He trails off. “Do youuu… wanna watch th-the sunset w’me?” He slurs his eyes fixing on yours from his position on your shoulder.

You cough awkwardly. “Kazuha.” You say softly, easing his head off your shoulder. “It’s four-thirty in the afternoon. The sunsets not coming out anytime soon…”

“B-But—” He whines. “It woulda been soooo romantic.” Kazuha grins, his eyes lolling shut as he slumps against your chest this time. “Jus’ you, me, an’ the flowers.”

“Oh, Kazuha.” You sigh. “I’d love to watch the sunset with you, but we have to get you home before dark. It’d be dangerous walking out drunk at night.”

“No!” He cries. “I could… could protect you… from th’danger.”

“Nope.” You say, trying not to let his words affect you. “We’re going home now, okay?”

“Okayyyy.” He whines, dragging out the word as he says it. “But only—only cause you said so.”

“Good.” You wrap an arm around Kazuha, right under his shoulder as you help him stand. You leave him for a bit, turning around to pick up the blanket and his bag. “Kazuha!” You call, and he’s instantly behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, pushing his face into your neck.

“Hm?” He coos. “D’ya need something?”

The warmth of Kazuha’s breath fans over the skin of your neck, goosebumps rising lowly. “N-Need you to carry your stuff.” You mumble. Your hands remove Kazuha’s from your waist, shifting to grab his wrist as you gently drag him off you. “Let’s go home now.”

Carefully, you take Kazuha home, not really minding his drunk ramblings. He goes on and on about the sunset, about how he’d stare into your eyes and giggle while he holds your hand and the sun sets.

It is endearing seeing him drunk out of his mind and yet still so lovey-dovey.

It only takes the two of you a fifteen-minute walk to reach your home and you’re quick to open the door and let Kazuha in, the two of you dropping your stuff as you help him up the stairs, your arm wrapped snugly around his waist. He slurs your name again, his pretty red eyes meeting yours. “C-Can we cuddle…?” He whines and you instantly turn your head, wanting to hide the warmth on your cheeks.

“I…” You whisper. “You’re drunk. Let’s just get you in bed first.”

“Noo!” Kazuha cries, planting his feet on the ground, stopping you. “Y’always make me wait! Made me wait for our date, now you're still makin’ me wait when I jus’ want cuddles!”

“Kazuha, really, maybe we should—” You try to protest, only to be interrupted.

“Please,” Kazuha whines pitifully, “Jus’ for a bit.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, letting out a deep exhale. “You’re still drunk,” you start, “but fine. I guess some cuddles won’t hurt.”

Kazuha grins happily, snaking his arms around you, just under your arms as he lifts you into the air. “You’re th’best!” He slurs. “Come, cuddles time.” With that, he’s lifting you up and carrying you over into his bedroom.

He tosses you gently onto the bed and you land with a quiet: “Oof!” Before you feel the bed dip as Kazuha joins you. His arms find their familiar place around you and his nore presses into the back of your head as he twists your body into a spooning position with his. One of Kazuha’s legs is haphazardly thrown over yours, and you feel completely engulfed in, well, Kazuha.

“You’re so handsome.” Kazuha whispers into your hair. “My handsome boy.” He presses a kiss to the back of your head, and you have to remind yourself that Kazuha is drunk. He won’t remember any of this, nor will he ever act like this again.

Still, you end up leaning into the touch, falling asleep slowly, basking in Kazuha’s comforting warmth and love.

When you wake up, Kazuha’s body is tangled with yours. His head is on your chest and his arms are wound tightly around your waist. One of his legs is positioned between yours, his knee pressing against you.

You tug him closer, enjoying the warmth of his body against yours. Kazuha’s head dips between your shoulder and your neck, nuzzling into the spot. You can feel the small puffs of air his lips let out against your skin as he breathes, matching the pattern of your heartbeat as he does.

You grin, pulling yourself to sit up—only to be yanked completely down by Kazuha. “Don’ move, please.” He whispers. “Need t’feel ya.”

“Kazuha.” You complain. “You’re not even drunk anymore—”

“No.” Kazuha murmurs. “Need to feel you.” As the words leave his lips, he shifts his body, pressing his hips flush against your ass. 

Something firm pokes into you from behind and—

Oh.

That’s what he meant by feel you.

Kazuha’s hips start a steady grind against you, pushing his erection into your ass as he murmurs breathless nothings into your ear. A desperate whine slips from his lips as he slowly moves his hands from around you to on you, roaming your chest and up your neck.

“Need you.” Kauzha murmurs slowly. “Need you so bad.”

“I know.” You say, turning onto your side to face Kazuha.

He smiles at you, bringing a hand to cup your cheek. “Please let me have you.” He whines.

You smile, leaning into his touch and pressing a soft kiss to his nose. “Of course, you can have me. I’ve been all yours from the start.”

Kazuha’s lips press against yours as he gently pushes you to lie on your back against the bed. His hands trace your sides, going from your neck to your hips as he pulls your pants down. He releases you from his kiss, the both of you gasping for air as he yanks down your boxers with impressive speed.

A soft whine slips from your throat, needily grinding your hips into the air. “Kazuha…” You moan, needing his touch desperatley. “C-Can you just—”

“I know.” He coos, trailing his hand to your hard cock. “I know, pretty boy, but I jus’ wanna take my time with you, ‘kay?”

You hesitantly nod, bringing your hand to thread through Kazuha’s hair as he peppers an assortment of kisses all over your cheeks. His hand starts a slow rhythm, gliding up and down the shaft of your cock slowly.

His grip is teasing, the way he squeezes up as he reaches your tip, dragging the pad of his thumb down your dick as he does. Kazuha’s fist moves quicker, watching as your eyes scrunch up in pure ecstasy from his ministrations. “That’s it.” He murmurs encouragingly. “C’mon, I know you’re close…”

A gasp leaves your lips as Kazuha drags his thumb over your slit, rolling it and smearing your precum everywhere, watching with nothing but a pleased smile as your hips frantically twitch in his hold. He smiles, pressing a kiss to your neck—right bellow your ear before giving the spot a teasing lick.

Kazuha’s hands work at your dick again and again, sliding with a steady rhythm up and down until your brain feels muddled and hazy. You grip at his wrist, not knowing if you want him to stop or keep going.

“K-Kazuha,” you whine, “please.”

A soft laugh leaves his lips and he once again kisses your neck. “Shh.” He murmurs. “Be patient, my dear.” With that, he’s pressing a harsh bite into your supple skin, letting his teeth graze over before digging them into you. A loud moan slips from your lips, your dick twitching over and over until your eyes are squeezing shut and thick ropes of milky white shoot from your tip all over your tummy and Kazuha’s hand.

“O-Oh.” You manage to squeak out. “You’re good at this.”

Kazuha smiles, helping the both of you sit up—with you in between his knees with his erection still pressed into the curve of your ass. He rolls you over, bringing your hips ontop of his as he pulls his leaking cock out of his pants, watching intently as you practically drool at the sight.

“Ride me, please.” Kazuha whispers, his desperation clear in his tone. You wrap a hand around his dick, rolling the pad of your thumb against his tip before lifting your hips. You line him up quickly, feeling the head of his cock push against your hole. Your mouth drops open, a low whine leaving your lips.

Slowly, slowly, very slowly, you sink down on his cock, taking him all the way in. You’re about halfway in—from what little you can tell—when Kazuha grabs your hips. His eyes are teary, staring into yours as he grabs the fat of your ass, and pulls you down.

A loud moan slips freely from your lips and you collapse onto Kazuha, the both of you panting heavily.

“A-Archons.” He whispers, his fingers rubbing smooth circles over your hips. “You’re so tight, angel.”

Angel.

He called you angel.

You bury your face into Kazuha’s neck, taking in his scent as you breathe. “Kazu…” You whine. “Need you so bad.”

“I know, pretty.” He whispers. His grip on your hips tightens as you lift your head off him and look into his eyes. His deep, red eyes. “C’mon. I’ll help you, ‘kay?” He smiles, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips before leading you to sit up above him. His finger taps against your waist before he starts. “Lift your hips f’me.” Kazuha instructs and you comply quickly, lifting your hips before dropping back down.

As soon as you drop down, Kazuha’s tip knocks against your prostate harshly and you cry out, your hands barely managing to find purchase against his shoulders. “Good boy.” Kazuha whispers sweetly, running his hands over your chest. “Jus’ like that…” He murmurs. “Think you can keep going?” You nod eagerly, lifting your hips again only to drop down.

Your thighs shake but you don’t care! Not when it feels so good to be bouncing on Kazuha’s dick like this. Not when he hits all those good spots that make you see stars as your eyes roll back.

“Kazuha.” You moan out, rocking your hips tirelessly up and down his dig. You can feel the drag against every vein against your walls, the way he nudges just right against your prostate. Your eyes roll back as your dick twitches against your tummy, drooling pre uselessly as you ride Kazuha up and down, over and over again.

“T-That’s it, pretty.” He whispers. Kazuha’s hands come to grip your ass again, picking up the pace for you as he starts to buck his hips up and into your awaiting hole. “I—holy shit—I’m close.” He whimpers, and you swear there’ll be bruises from how tight he grips your waist. “Need to cum—” He whines, his eyes squeezing shut.

You nod your head eagerly your ass squeezing so tightly around him as he picks up the pace, fucking into you harder. You need to feel him, feel him shoot his load into you. You need it, need Kazuha, need every part of him.

Every time he thrusts, you feel yourself get closer and closer to that sweet release the both of you seek. “Kazu…” You moan out. “Close, close—need you t’k-keep goin’”

“I know.” He whimpers. “I know, ‘m not stopping.” Your eyes rolled back, the familiar warmth building in the pit of your tummy. The way Kazuha’s hands trailed over your thighs—everything he did was begging your body to surrender to the familiar pleasure.

“A-At the same time.” You plead, gripping onto Kazuha’s arm. He only nod, his eyes squeezing shut.

You clench around him and Kazuha throws his head back against the pillows as he buries his dick into you, his hips meeting yours in one final, harsh thrust. He pulls your body close, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he whispers sweet nothings into you.

You feel him cum, a thick load going right into you. You whine, tightening so sweetly around him as your own orgasm hit. “H-Holy…” You whimper, not hvaing the energy to finish your sentence. Your dick twitches between the two of you and you cum. Hard.

Kazuha’s grip around you tightens as he doesn’t even bother to pull out. He grabs the blanket, bringing it over the two of you as he nuzzles your face into his neck, your body still twitching.

Archons. You think, watching Kazuha’s eyes close gently. The sunlight falls onto his face, like a golden halo around his perfect features. How long has it been with him? A week?

Only a week, and you’d managed to fall in love.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @helloanime @kiekole (send ask without anon to be added)

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

[always-a-joyful-note]

Messes me up that the closest we get to legitimate criticism of the idol business is the stuff that probably happened with Zero, Kujo, and Haruki as well as Takanashi, Yaotome, and Musubi. This isn't to say our current generation of i7 doesn't give us entertainment industry criticism (it obviously does), but I mean to say that, personally, the conversation between Torao and Ryu about Ryu's image was a horror story to me personally. Like, I can extrapolate the sincerity and heartwarmingness of surviving a terrible world because you have loved ones who see you for who you are AND be horrified by his acceptance of being sexualised by the media because he's an idol, right?

[gigigle]

One of my biggest Wednesday unpopular opinions is that Rowan was a missed opportunity as Wednesday main love interest if she was gonna be with a man.

Like their similar in they both investigate,are psychics, and he got kicked from the nightshades for doing what they were made to do.

Also he and her would've investigated together and unlike Xavier he wouldn't have gotten in the way.

Instead of him dying they could've had Xavier like Xavier followed Rowan and her into the forest and died and that's how her and Rowan start to team up.

Like Rowan was more of a reject than Xavier was trying to be like it could've been perfect.

Rowan was just wasted opportunity at a good platonic or romantic relationship. I'd prefer platonic cause I'm still a die hard wenclair shipper.

Edit:

To add more to it Rowan could've also been used to flesh out the other characters more, like we see flashbacks of the nightshades kicking him out for doing what they were made to do. They could've shown more of the characters in the nightshades and their personalities.

He could've been another friend of Wednesday that caused her to grow like Enid and Eugene did. Like Enid and Wednesday are so different yet also similar. They both won't change themselves for other people and are passionate. Their also stubborn and all that.

Rowan could've been someone who was similar yet so different like they both are rejects,their parents mattered a lot to the school like Rowan mom with the vision,they both are more loners with Rowans friend could've been Ajax like Wednesday and Enid. Yet their also different like Rowan Is a nervous, much more self conscious person rather than Wednesday confidence.

Like Rowan could've been someone who always wanted to fit in and not be an outcast among outcasts. He also could've shown even more emphasis that Wednesday on Wednesday having to take other people's feeling into account. Because him and her could've also been just as different as Enid just not in the polar opposite way. Because Wednesday and Enid have some similar personality traits that make them work which is them never changing for someone else or to fit norms. Rowan and Wednesday could been different in the way that Enid and Wednesday weren't which is that rowan wanted to fit in and not be and outcast and he was more stubborn.

Like I'm not even doing this from a shipping perspective more from a friendship perspective like they had so much potential to be an awesome friendship.

Also their trope could been one of my favorite platonic ones that is introvert because they don't like other people/introvert because their afraid or anxious around other people.

[carcarrot]

do i really want to make individual drinks again

[bitchthefuck1]

have you watched the pjo show?

I saw the first 2 episodes when they came out at a watch party one of my friends threw, and as soon as they ended I realized I didn't particularly care to keep going. It wasn't like, outrageously bad by any means, I just don't think it gripped me enough to want to continue, and there were enough odd adaptational choices that I thought weakened the story that I lost interest. I might have tuned back in if the changes actually built to something interesting in the later episodes, but from everything I've seen it kinda seems like they just took the teeth out of the story, which was what I was worried about.

That being said, the cast seems really great and well suited to their roles, so like, if they improve the writing and pacing in the later seasons and stop sanding down all the rough edges, I might pick it back up. But otherwise, pass.

[sateurn]

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

These sobs really limited my tags?????

I have so many more thoughts this is so so much less than 1/2. Broski. Big dislike

[caffeinatedopossum]

I keep thinking about posting some of the lyrics I've written on here but I'm kinda scared they could get stolen. Idk maybe that's a little egotistical of me to think, like my lyrics are probably not good enough to be enviable anyway. It's just even though people might think they're shitty, they're *my shitty thing* you know?

Idk what do you guys think?

[iamanoccasionaldoodler]

I think the majority of my problems stem from having autism but the thing about having autism is that it appears from your point of view that most of your problems actually stem from being The Only Normal Person Ever

[snekdood]

I feel like the idea of "forgiveness" for people who've hurt you is like... Pretty christian based? Bc ngl. Why tf am i forgiving someone who abused me a lot. If we're talking "mental peace"... Well bud i kinda just gotta not think about it or when i do to work on my emotions around it so i can cope better with my trauma. Literally why am i forgiving people who dont regret hurting me and who would never apologize and how exactly does that bring more "peace"? Bc personally id feel like im ignoring something that bothers me a lot just so i can tolerate being around it when idk. Theres people who i definitely dont need to tolerate being around lol.

[fortunatefool]

Not to date myself but sometimes in the middle of a crisis u get to hear Pursuit of Happiness (Nightmare) by Kid Cudi featuring MGMT and Ratatat, Steve Aoki Remix and feel joy for the first time in a week and a half

[hauntedrain]

For Years! | Max Verstappen x Reader |

Social media AU Summary: Max and reader get criticism over the status of their relationship.

✮▹ A/N: So sorry for not posting for so long. Life has been BUSY. but hopefully i can post more and write more! Love you guys <3

✰▹Warnings/Notices: Not edited. nothing really. reader mentioned to write music

Liked by Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, & 3,345,678 others

@Y/N: Lovely time lately.

view all 19,234 comments

user1: LMFAO MAX.

user2: Y/N you'll always been iconic

user3: sometimes I forget Max Verstappen is dating THE Y/N L/N.

↪ user4: SO TRUE. It completely passes my mind that they've been together before he even got to F1.

↪ user5: THEY'VE BEEN TOGETHER FOR 9 YEARS?

↪ user6: YEA ITS WILD.

↪ user7: wait but they haven't gotten married or anything?

↪ user8: Yea no. They also avoid the questions around it. Kind of weird to me.

↪ user9: But hasn't Y/N written songs about marriage and getting married? Why haven't they?

↪ user10: Maybe they just don't want to. Or max doesn't.

MaxVerstappen: Why did you choose that photo of me.

↪ Y/N: You want me to post the photo from yesterday?

↪ MaxVerstappen: NO.

↪ user11: LMFAO. PARENTS.

Liked by Y/N, Redbull, & 2,345,567 others

@MaxVerstappen: Great race and great win! Getting ready for next week. And thank you to @Y/N for making me but those glasses, best purchase.

View all 14,567 comments

Y/N: I told you they were a good investment

↪ MaxVerstappen: I don't know if you would call it an investment.

↪ Y/N: I'll post that picture.

↪MaxVerstappen: It was a great investment! better than a house!

↪ user12: better than a ring?

↪ user13: STOP. but no fr, wheres the ring Max?

user14: Okay nice win but when yall getting married?

user15: everyone needs to mind their business, maybe they're just not ready to get married and that okay.

↪ user16: But its been 9 YEARS. NINE YEARS. Its a red flag.

liked by 18,234 others

@F1GOSSIP: Max Verstappen and Y/N L/N have been criticized over the status of their relationship. The couple has been together for over 9 years however many fans have realized that there's been no movement in the relationship, family and marriage vise. Thought?

view all 5,567 comments

user17: I mean its their life but 9 years?

user18: Idk guys don't hate me but sometimes max doesn't seem interested in Y/N. Like all of the Monaco GP? seem happy around her.

↪ user19: Bro look at the pictures in the post. Does he seem unhappy in them? No he seems very happy.

↪ user20: Okay but lets be honest. Both only seem that happy in front of a camera.

User21: I mean for some of their relationship they were fairly young. Maybe they just wanna enjoy it little by little.

↪ user22: I think in 9 years you can enjoy a lot.

user23: I wouldn't marry her either. Max knows what's best which is why he hasn't done it.

Y/N has posted to their story!

liked by 6,678,567 others

@MaxVerstappen: happy 3 year anniversary @Y/N. love you much and cant wait for years to come. Also, people said I hated her? How could I?

view all 35,567,878 comments

Y/N: Guys my husband is kinda cool.

↪ MaxVerstappen: Kinda?

↪ Y/N: yea cuz im cooler than you.

↪ MaxVerstappen: Okay love.

user24: WTF 3 YEARS?

user25: max said hold my 3x WDC titles while I make everyone shut up about my relationship.

↪ Y/N: He just wins everything doesn't he?

↪ CharlesLeclerc: Yea its kinda annoying. you should distract him Y/N

↪ MaxVerstappen: Dont tell my wife to distract me, I'll lose.

↪ CharlesLeclerc: thats the point.

↪ LandoNorris: I just wanna win.

↪ user26: LMFAO WHAT IS HAPPENING

↪ Y/N: Im collecting them all

User27: And people said max didnt wanna marry her.

user28: Bro just keeps winning doesnt he. Y/N GIVE ME A CHANCE.

user29: if you look closely you can see me getting run over by an F1 car.

⭒❃.✮:▹A/N: I hope you guys like it! I need to post more but ive gotten so busy and haven't had the time. But I'll try to post more often. Love you guys! hope you enjoyed.

[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.

[ravengards-rogue]

WHAT SET YOU FREE, BROUGHT YOU TO ME BABY.

rdr2 men + short blurbs about their favorite sex positions.

ft. arthur morgan, john marston, javier escuella, and charles smith.

✧ tags : SPOILER HEAVY, fem + afab!reader, unprotected sex, light angst (in the horny post is crazy im sorry fdkjjkds), very gendered language, javier says one thing in spanish (thank u @nanamimizz), a little sprinkle of plot with each (and some canon divergency), john co-parents w abigail, otherwise just horny. 18+

✧ wc : about 1.4-8k each (6.3k total)

✧ a/n : sorry for making a multi character post for the cowboy game its cooking me to death. my john bias is showing rip. title is from rebel yell by billy idol but i listen to the bvb cover

sorry about charles and javiers but if i edit this anymore im going to level an entire city using hollow purple technique. please rb if you enjoyed i worked kind of hard on whatever this is.

sorry for . the THIRD repost of this i promise i wont after this. its just really bugging me. PLEASE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ ARTHUR MORGAN + PRONE BONE ; 

It’s an odd feelin’ for Arthur. 

Wanting something, he means. Wanting anything as much as he wants you. He’s lived a less than quiet life up until now. And he ain’t the brightest, certainly, but living this kind of life teaches you many lessons. One of them being, it’s better not to covet anything. Coveting something you’re not entitled to, well—it’ll lead you places you wouldn’t want to go with a gun. 

Arthur has made the mistake of coveting love before, dreamed of a future so completely out of his reach he almost convinced himself it was possible. Dreamed of it so foolishly he’d even go visit a woman he very well ought to forget. It’s his problem, his burden to bear - always desiring outcomes unsuited to him. 

He’s just that sort of man he reckons. But he learned his lesson. He tries (tried?) to stay away from it after that. Tried not to pine too much for normalcy when such hopes had failed him twice. The loss of his child completely on his account and the loss of his love at the same fate. 

So, wanting you - well, he feels like the world's dullest fool. Really. How is it that Arthur had fallen in love with someone again? It had all just happened so quickly. You were another woman he’d saved from the O’Driscolls, though it wasn’t like you were no damsel. A lot of those men were dead by the time they arrived. That sort of perseverance would stick with you while you traveled together. Much like Sadie, you didn’t take well to housework - you liked to earn your keep. Though you’re not nearly so trigger happy. 

You’re quiet, thoughtful, well-read. Plus you’re good at making money. That’s why Dutch don't complain about you joining them, he figures. 

(Arthur tries not to pry into it too much at first, but he eventually learns that you’re gambling. Which is how you’re able to make such a fast turn around. A prim little lady like you makes for a fine poker player, and you love to play men out of their money. He thinks it’s one of the funniest and most interesting things about you. He can’t help but love you a little more for it. )

When the feelings in him start to stir, Arthur tries to overlook it. Arthur convinces himself, time and time again - that there’s no way he’ll grow more tender about you. Eventually, it’ll die down. You’re a decent woman is all, a kind one - who’s easy for him to love and even easier for him to confide in. In your time together, you often come to Arthur and you always seem to have some profound wisdom he is so sorely lacking. Someone easy to love, who does not expect much from Arthur at all. It’s only natural a lonely, covetous man like him would start to dream about you. He tells himself, it will pass eventually. Should he simply let it run by him, it will pass. But Arthurs a fool, you’ll remember. 

 Of course, by the time he understood all that - he already loved you enough that he couldn’t bear it. It was already too late and it wasn’t going to change any time soon. Especially not while everything changed around him. 

So, Arthur is undoubtedly a fool, but he’s lucky. He felt divinely blessed when you’d returned his feelings for him so politely. A coy little smile on your face, a laugh like you thought he was silly for being doubtful. Arthur tried to explain himself but you wouldn’t hear a word of it. Maybe that’s another thing he loves so much about you. There’s nothing he ever needs to explain. 

In any case, all Arthur seems to do lately is want you. Wants you when it’s inconvenient. Wants you before he wants liquor or a cigarette or some other vice. Any time anything goes wrong, you’re the first thing his mind can conjure up for relief. That pretty smile and that self-assured way of living. It’s hard to get time alone in camp. And Arthur is a man in love, so any touch could be enough to set him on fire. Last week you hugged his waist a little before giving him a kiss goodbye and he had to listen to you laugh yourself into a fit as he waited for…little Arthur to settle down. 

He don’t get many chances to be with you. Lay with you in that way that grown folk in love do. Though, if the two of you book it somewhere for a few days - the camp knows better not to ask where you’ve been. But it’s not often you get to really be together, where it’s peaceful to do that. Someone’s always hounding one of you to do something. 

Arthur is a lucky man though, like he said. Today he had time. Today he’s alone with you in a beat up little saloon and today he gets to do as he likes. He gets to be greedy. And it’s an odd feeling for him, really, to want something so bad he disregards everything else in the world for a little while. 

Feeling you, though - absolves the guilt for wanting. He’d be stupid to want you any less desperately. 

Arthur’s favorite way to have you is on your stomach. Laid flat, just barely pushed up against him as he fucks you deep. You’ll fuck like rabbits for a little while and Arthur will wear you out just like this, maneuvering you until you’re pinned all underneath his weight. You lose any fight you might have, too exhausted to worry yourself with pleasing him - and when you’re like that, you let Arthur take care of you. 

(He really ain’t talented at much, but he’s good with his hands. Being dexterous is part of being a talented shot. When Arthur has the time to spread you sweet in his lap and make you cum all over his fingers, he does so for as long as he can. At least until you beg him so sweetly otherwise. The same hands, soiled with gunsmoke, look so good so deep in you. At least in his eyes.)

Wet and pliable and helpless. Arthur loves you like that. He knows, he knows you’re anything but - but he’d be damned to pretend this don’t feel best. Tight, wet cunt so welcoming from all the pleasure he’s ripped out of you. Your bodies pressed together, your heartbeat pulsing through your skin. All sticky, honeyed need and animal desire as Arthur lets all of him sink on top of you. His heavy, lumbering form crushing you in - trapping you somewhere you can’t run from him. The curve of your spine pushed against his chest, ticklish. 

Every inch of his body that so wholly wants for you, Arthur aches to make you feel. Burn it in you lest anything happens that risks your forgetting. 

He can feel his hips meet your ass, backside squished against him - desperate for deeper friction. Whining. You’re whining to him so pretty, a pillow pushed underneath you to give friction to needy clit. 

Arthur can feel how much you want more. Maybe Arthur is greedy, but he likes that look much better on you. Your pussy is sucking him in so tight, silken walls pulsing with every shallow little measured thrust. Arthur lets his arm wrap around your neck, your face pressing into his bicep. You moan again and he laughs. 

“Arthur,” Your words come out in a messy slur. He lets his scruffy face press against your neck, a kiss behind your ear. He wants to kiss you all over. There’s not enough hours in the day. “Oh, god, Arthur,” 

“Still feels good, then, I’m guessin’,” 

“Shut up,” You huff and press your cheek into his arm. He doesn’t bother stifling his laugh. “Still feels…big. Stretchin’ me out—hicc—so much,” 

You really don’t try to rile him up - but you do a damn good job of it anyway. He groans, grunts as he pulls back and pistons himself in you. A gesture half-way between a kiss and the warning shot of a gun. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes, noisy and vulgar. Arthur don’t pay it much mind. He laughs against your shoulder.

“One of these days, that moutha’ yours is gonna get me in real trouble.” 

You giggle back at him 

“What kinda trouble is that now?” 

Even from your side glance, you’ve got that lovely little smile on you. Fuckdrunk and ingratiating, like you know he’s wrapped so tight around your fingers. And he is, like nothing else in the world could have him. A wave of possession curls up over Arthur, makes him press more of himself into you. Onto you. Another deep push of his cock, sliding against the tenderest parts of you. Staking some silent desire in you. He wants and wants and wants, and hopes that whatevers above him can forgive him for making the same mistake thrice. 

“Dunno,” Arthur comments, teeth grazing your shoulder and kissing the indentations “Got our whole lives together to find out, I reckon.” 

“I’ll hold you to it, Mister.” 

Arthur laughs. “Hope you do, Miss.” 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ JOHN MARSTON + COWGIRL ;

John doesn’t say that he loves you lightly. 

Hardly a thing he says can be said that way. Could never afford too. In an alternate universe where nothing goes wrong in his life, maybe - but he has a hard time picturing what the hell that’d look like. A version of himself so untainted, without all of the violence and blood and gunsmoke? Foreign. John can’t picture it worth a damn. 

Who John is without a deadbeat father and a dead Ma is somewhere far beyond his reach. Ain’t nothing about his life, at any point, lighthearted. 

On top of all that mess, he’s got a boy at age four with a woman he ain’t married too. And that relationship is always on rocky waters, even though John’s decided to do right by his own flesh and blood sometime ago. Most things in the world he should feel good about he doesn’t, and most things he should understand render him clueless. He’s a mess on multiple accounts, and he still doesn’t know how exactly he’s meant to approach this life of his. He knows what he should do, but nothing about how to do it. 

John doesn’t come to love you easily ‘cause he wouldn’t know easy love if it hit him in his face. Quickly and painfully, but not easily. 

Your return to the gang was an odd one. You were an old presence and your disappearance was an even older story. John thought he’d never gonna see you again for sure. You’d been a part of the gang back long before all of the nonsense that took place in Blackwater and you left about the time Arthur’s boy died. John don’t remember why you left exactly. He thinks it was a fight with Hosea, of all things.

 Dutch weren't too happy about it neither, but Dutch back then didn’t make a show. 

So you left, and John buried every feeling he ever harbored. You found all them again up in Colter, where you’d been living out your days lately. According to you, in the middle of riding, you thought you’d heard Arthur. So, somewhat recklessly, you went chasing him. Didn’t matter if he was just something your mind conjured. According to you, if it was him, it was at least worth checking to make sure. You’d reunited with Arthur and after some tears, he rode with you back to camp. 

Upon your return, the gang welcomed you with open arms. 

You’d done a lot in your time alone.You spent most of that time just like that, a ghost wanderin’ the planes. You weren’t gonna stay with ‘em, but Arthur insisted and Hosea did too. That wasn’t enough to compel, so John was last to chip in. You should stay, at least until Valentine. 

(Silently he thought, you should stay so John can trace memories of you. It was so long ago, he should’ve forgotten all of it. You were a year older than John and always on his ass but easy for him to talk to. Didn’t fuss over his failures. You just barely grew into your womanhood when you set your sights on running away. You wanted more than this life, and John never really forgave you for it. His first heartbreak, maybe - but it’s all too blurry for that. 

You understood him though better than anyone, and one day you were gone. Nothing’s really the same.) 

You changed tremendously and not at all. He missed you. God, did he ever. Missed you a long time. Didn’t realize how much until you came back and everything in him felt right again. Your return stirred up old feelings and everyone noticed. He wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, but he really wasn’t trying to fall back into anything with you. Not how he did. 

Just like you did back then, you read John like an open book. And just like he did back then, he loved you all too helplessly for it.  It was just all too easy again, to be with you. 

You stayed out of the way at first, for the sake of his family. 

But, John ain’t a half-decent man even when he’s trying to be. So he set himself on being with you. It wasn’t easy - most things with him aren’t as you’ll see.  Having you around again straightened what was left of his common sense, at least. He told Abigail before telling you. He figured you wouldn’t even reply unless that was all out of the way. That turned out as well as you’d expect.

 It was settled between the two of you thereafter. He’s lucky she didn’t toss him into the street. 

Everything works out in a way. As best they can between broken people. You make peace with each other. His boy loves you like a third parent (you’re better with him than John is). Abigail commends you for straightening out such a worthless man though she’s a little melancholy.  John just tries to stay out of the way. You’ll be together in the end. There’s a plan with the five of you. 

But until it all falls apart, he doesn’t get all that much time with you. 

There’s moments like tonight, though. Rare ones. Together out robbin’, cooped out some place in the woods where no one is around. A place so shaded by nightfall that John can absolve himself of every sin he’s ever committed in his life and pray at the altar between your hips. John is convinced he might find worship like he’s always hearing about there whenever he touches you, the marred skin of his hands and knuckles reading the scripture of your body with careful precision. 

You might turn him into a literate man yet. 

John glances up at you. Only the light of the fire and the moonlight there to accompany as he watches you over him. You’re beautiful. John couldn’t picture a single thing more perfect in his life. 

Your hands against his bare chest, nails digging into the flesh as you lean forward. Your palm dug into the dirt, John finds his own hands rested at your hips. John looks at you awe-struck, cock twitching at the mere sight. His heart settles in his throat, but he’s calm all at the same time. With you, he forgets. All of it. The worst of himself. 

Bare naked and so close, he watches your face as you strain. You feel soft. Every inch of you in comparison to him is. A bead of sweat slides down the valley of your breasts. John cranes his neck up to catch it with his tongue, licking a stripe up to your neck - letting his teeth sink into the space between your jaw and neck. You want to make it last and John doesn’t blame you. It’s so rare you get to have each other so unrestrained. John can feel all the ways you want him, can see it in your face - all pinched with need. You’re holding yourself back, trying to get it to last as long as the night will allow. It’s cute in a way.

It’s different than how he’s used to seein’ you, all cocky or otherwise. You’re needy like this. Just needy. His stomach turns with lust, jolting through him like a strike of lightning. His cock twitches against your folds, sliding against them. Pure admiration watching the sticky mess of his pre-cum and your own arousal mix together and smear on your mound. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, faint and tender as you fall forward just a little. John laughs against your neck. 

“Darlin’,” He says with a huff. Not malice. Something akin to bliss, where he can rarely afford it “Have I done something to piss you off today?” 

You pick yourself up and look down at him and frown. John kisses the corner of your mouth, resisting some crude desire to fuck up into you. 

“Just,” You grunt as the tip of his cock passes over your throbbing clit, your whole body wracking to a shiver. John looks awed. “Pent up. Goddamn it,” 

John figures it out quickly after that. It’s this part of it he likes. The proximity. The closeness. Feeling the tremble in your hands as they struggle to keep up right, muscles strained in your forearms. Being able to hold you, to keep the pace or let you take the lead. The clear view of your face as pleasure travels up through your spine and melts into you. He grabs your hips, the fat dimpling underneath his fingers as he moves you along. He can’t wait. You don’t bother to protest seeing John can’t seem to bear it anymore. You collapse into his chest, your tits pushed flat against his pecs.

His cock throbs near painfully, sliding against your soft cunt before finding himself lined with you. He thinks to himself that it’s this he was looking for, as he tucks your face against his neck and lets his tip stretch you out slowly. Such a vice like grip, stretching - resisting him like your whole body can’t anticipate the sensation of fullness. You gasp against his throat. 

“John,”  

What a sweet sound from your mouth, even sweeter as he bucks himself up. Keeps you steady and lets his cock stretch you full, feel you deep. “That’s right, my angel. Didn’t think you’d remember my name when you’re all worked up like this.” 

“You’re,” You gasp and John thrusts, thrusts hard until he’s buried to the hilt. You shudder, walls pulsing around him as he bottoms out and John laughs like the terrible man he is. He fucks you again, over and over - a wicked little smile watching “Awful. Just awful, John Marston,” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” He hums against your mouth as his hand snakes between your bodies, thumb rubbing against your clit. “Wonder what kinda woman that makes you,” 

“A foolish one,” 

John laughs. 

“I sure do love you for it,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆JAVIER ESCUELLA + SIDEWAYS ;

Javier hasn’t thought about much other than surviving. 

It’s been like that. Been like that for a while, probably much longer than he cares to admit. He’s sure any sane man would suffer the same plight if they lead the same life. Anything but survival is little more than a pipe-dream, so Javier tries not to go for anything too strongly. In that aspect he’s like many of the members of the gang he’s in, perhaps that’s why he sticks to them. There’s that phrase Hosea’s always saying - that misery loves company. Javier will take any decent company he can get.  He’s desperate for it just like he’s desperate for most things - inwardly, silently. 

Some of that desperation may be symptomatic of who he is. After he killed a man in a crime of passion for a woman he loved and ran from a government who would sooner exile him than change, Javier decided to not dream anymore. Every revolutionary who dreams too hopefully pays the price in blood.

(Javier thinks there’s probably nothing in the world as true as this. A form of gospel. He remembers the first dream he ever had after his uncle passed. Not a nightmare but a dream. He remembers the exact feeling of waking up, cold and confused. What is a dream, except a memento of survivor's guilt that loyal people cling onto fruitlessly. When hope starts to feel like a debt he’s going to waste his life paying back, Javier loses sight of everything. The beginning of the end in some way.) 

His mind doesn’t occupy itself with anything bigger than that. Since Dutch found him starving, there was never a desire to try and live off aspirations. He pays his penance with loyalty and honor. Practices some form of humility and tries, not too desperately, to carve a place for him to fit. All without drawing too much attention or caring too much. If you ignore the bleeding in his fingers, his penchant for knives over guns, and his refusal to talk too long about the place he comes from - it’s nearly believable that none of it matters. 

Except loyalty. All Javier honors is that. It’s the only thing he has some part in choosing, so he choses it every time. Living like that didn’t make any difference to him. He was surrounded by mostly decent people. He didn’t hate the life he was living. 

It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. His directionless-ness, his floating. Hadn’t since he joined the gang. At least not to anyone but him. He didn’t know what he’s meant to do or if he was meant to proceed with this forever. He was (is)  loyal to Dutch. To the gang. 

He hadn’t thought much about what comes after. 

And it didn’t matter until he met you

He’d sworn off love after seeing where it got him, at least until he could love more dispassionately. When the women bring you back from their outing from Valentine and beg Dutch to let you stay, Javier doesn’t think much of it all. He thinks you’re pretty, if it counts for anything. But he doesn’t let himself linger on you too long. 

But that’s the sequence with you two, really. The whole time.  He doesn’t linger until he does. It doesn't matter until it does. He doesn’t think about you until it’s all he can think about. 

You go for him first. And it’s in little, unimportant ways that might not mean shit to you but mean a whole lot to him. You have some kind of tenderness about you that you wear deep, runs through your blood like love ran through his once long ago. Some softness he can’t really measure with his own. It’s not that that gets him. It’s that sometimes you look at Javier like he's … someone you want to see. He forgot what that was like all together. It felt foreign to him the first time it happened. Seeing how you light up when Javier is around. 

You wanted to see him. You noticed that he’s gone. If he sang by the campfire - you’d sit by him and listen.  If he was out in the trees keeping guard, he’d hear the soft call of your voice to Grimshaw ask Where’s Javier? And sometimes the girls will make fun of you - but you wouldn’t deny anything they said. It’s so small and ordinary. He would’ve never considered himself simple before meeting you. Nothing is simple. Nothing. 

(But then, Javier thinks of the kinds of songs he sings and the way he takes care of himself and the clothes he wears and maybe Javier has some kind of affinity for preciousness that explains all of it.) 

When Javier confesses his feelings for you - he finds the affair to be like most things between you. Ordinary love, not really between outlaws but people. It’s up against a tree while you share a drink and he’s looking at the curve of your mouth and the plum color Karen’s so kindly put on you. And his head fills with kissing you so he does. A breathless confession between alcohol stains and the feeling of your hands curled in the lapels of his suit. 

From there, Javier is your lover. He’s not interested in the business of secrets, but he tries not to let it show too much. Not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to show you off more than anything - at least some part of him does. But the other part wants to keep you away from prying eyes, keep his love for you only where the both of you can see. If he could keep that pretty lovestruck face you make all to himself forever he would. 

When he gets a chance to whisk you away from everything, Javier jumps at the chance. Not often, but Javier makes time for you. Makes time to indulge in love he thought he’d  never find again. 

That’s why he’s here with you in the middle of nowhere, a ghost town where no one knows you.. A reserved room with a bed and lowlights all to yourselves. 

Javier can’t keep his hands to himself and he doubts you expect him too. 

For Javier, this sense of proximity is what intoxicates him most. The warmth of your bare skin in the slivers of yourself exposed. Javier is fond of finding you like this after a long day of horse riding. Of sneaking touches to your waist as you push back against him to sleep, only to find his desire for you - laid clearly. He likes hearing you whimper feeling his length poke against your back, the embarrassment when it dawns on you that he wants you after all. Always surprised, even though Javier tells you it so often. Whispers it along your neck and shoulders whenever you’re at camp together.

You like the feeling of his hands so Javier always starts with them. He squeezes your hips. Planes his palms over your chest before squeezing your chest, pushing the fat between his fingers. You like the way  they look when they grope you, his chin resting against your shoulder as you spoon. In the lowlights of a cheap hotel - Javier gets the perfect view of your silhouette. Your body is sensitive over the fabric of your gown, heat prickling through you. 

Javier who is always so gentle with you, rouses so deep listening to your whining as he explores your body. The suffocating closeness of a single bed intoxicates him. 

“Javier,” Your voice is sweet and thin. Plays in Javier’s head like music and makes his mouth curl up into a catlike grin as you push back on him.  You look slightly over your shoulder, lips pushed into a pout. “Please,” 

He tugs at the fabric of your nightgown. The top half pulls haphazard underneath your tits, nipples perky and sensitive to touch while the skirt pools at your waist. What gets Javier like this is the desperation. Wanting so much but not being able to look too long. A way for you to mirror him, it’s a matter of possession. In some stupid way. Bunching your clothes up, pushing the fabric of your panties to one side, letting his arm wrap around your waist to touch and tease.  All of these are imprints of his longing, tucked faithful into your side as he whispers sweet nothings into your skin.

His cock twitches as it pushes past your folds with finality, your hands curling up at your sides.  You whimper softly, let your cheek rest against the sheets as Javier takes you on your side. Terribly close, you fuss as you feel him slide every inch into you slow, your hands reaching back for purchase. It’s the fit of you against him so perfect, the silent strokes of intimacy, the hush-hush giggles between the sheets that Javier loves most about fucking you like this. Too enamored with you to look too closely, he lets his eyes flutter closed. He could get drunk just being in your space. 

He carves out space for himself inside of you, feels your cunt accommodate for him like it loves him. A feverishness breaks out as his forehead rests on the space between your shoulders, an uncharacteristic whiny quality in his words. 

“Ser mío,” Javier says - as a reflection of what he really wants, to belong only to you. “Belong to me.” 

Darling as you always are, you nod softly. 

“All yours, Javier,” You whimper, finding his hand. “Forever,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ CHARLES SMITH + MATING PRESS ; 

Wandering. 

He’s been doing it his whole life. Not something he’s proud of. Or ashamed of either, really. Just how things have gone for him until now. Charles doesn’t think his life has been any better or any worse than anyone else's. At least not when he weighs it with the same kind of pragmatism he does most things. It’s been a hard life, and a miserable one in so many ways. Still, it’s not something Charles is too keen to dwell on. 

There’s just something thematic about loss in Charles' life in a way he finds completely unpleasant. It’s more constant than anything. Loss of his home, loss of his mother, loss of his father in an attempt to find what’s best for him. It’s some overarching message that hangs over his head like a shadow. Everywhere he goes, trying to rectify his own solitude seems to come back to him. It doesn’t help that it’s an unfair world to start with, and would’ve been if he had just been black or just been native. But Charles is both, and has lived a life that reflects that specific injustice thoroughly. 

There’s not really anything Charles can do about it, at its baseline. When he left his father, the name of the game had simply been survival. He was well-equipped enough for that at least. But after survival comes trying to live and trying to live isn’t something so simple. Jumping in and out of gangs who thought they could get away with slighting him or generally being surrounded by unpleasant people. Trying to find something in pages of book and scripture, or in the way water ripples when it rains. 

He’s never felt any one way towards the gang. Even when he joined them all the way back in the Grizzlies. Lost in the cold, they’d crossed paths as Charles was out hunting. A lot of it feels like a blur. Of all the folks he’s met in his travels though, Dutch treats him fair and the rest of them (or most of them) are decent, honest folk. Charles stays in the Van Der Linde gang for such simple reasons as trying to stay alive and be somewhere that isn’t actively hostile towards him. He’s a good gunman, and a better fighter. The inner workings of gang politics and forging connection isn’t at the forefront of his mind, with the exception of the kindest few. 

The Van Der Linde gang is just a place where he can figure out what his purpose is meant to be, even if he doesn’t find it there. He’s never expecting anything to come out from his loyalties to it. 

Of all the things Charles expects of his life in the Van Der Linde gang, love is at the very bottom of the list. 

Maybe it’s about time he stops being surprised by these things happening to him one or way another.

 You were a member of the gang far before him, and someone Charles took to quickly. You’d joined the gang not too long after John from what Arthur tells him. Though the brunette speaks about you more fondly than he does his brother. A problem child at the start, according to Arthur - always getting into all sorts of trouble. Something you seemingly feel embarrassed about now and refuse to bring up. Charles has a hard time picturing it having only known you as you are. 

The woman you’ve grown into is someone else completely, and Charles sees that in you all the time. Compassionate like Hosea but charismatic like Dutch, and clever. And you’re beautiful, too, though Charles feels a little shallow admitting that’s part of what drew you into him. 

It wasn’t Charles that approached you first. You were the one who spoke to him, as often as you thought necessary but never in a way he found invasive. He doesn’t know what it is exactly about you that charms him near instantly. You’re enigmatic to a fault. It’s like you always know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it. Even more than that, you’re a terribly pleasant person to be around. Subtly warm and free of assumptions. When Charles talks to you about anything, you listen without making him feel like it’s any sort of burden to you. You don’t pry, don’t make missteps. Treat him fair, and then some. 

It’s unbearably simple, just how quickly and how easily he comes to adore you.  And, in some ways, Charles knows better than to believe that his purpose is loving someone. There’s more to it than that, surely - after everything. 

But then, he’ll watch you do something. Watch you do some kind of menial work that he could do for you instead. Thinks of skinning animals for new clothes and chopping wood and rubbing the soap off of you and all of a sudden it makes him feel anchored. Everything he could do for you. You anchor Charles easily, with a wispy smile. Make him want to find purpose in life with you. He never wants to be somewhere you’re not. 

He confesses it to you just like that, and like you do with most things - you accept and reciprocate without making too much of a fuss. 

For Charles, making love is an extension of wanting to ground himself in you. A distant siren song - the intersection of lust and bone deep adoration. Like most things, you’re the one to approach first every time. A soft hand on his forearm, a whisper that you want him. It’s with ease that he draws you away. Drags from you camp during nightfall with his horse and blankets and picks a spot with the perfect view of the stars. 

Charles watches you under the glow of moonlight, his vision adjusting to you easily. Naked underneath him, laid on your back with your legs folded at your knees - heaving deep breaths. He can see the sweat beading down your skin, your chest rising and falling - and the perfect view of your pussy. His hands and mouth are wet as you breathe out. He finds himself smiling at you, his own erection pressed against your thigh, pre-cum leaking out in a mesmerized haze. 

You lift your hands up and he leans down, surprised as you wrap them around his neck and pull him closer to you. Your mouths meet like that, and Charles laughs against your lips as you kiss him so eagerly. You blink at him, pretty. You’re always prettier than he remembers you being the last time he looks. 

“Charles,” You frown at him. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,” 

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Sorry, my love. I don’t want to hurt you,” 

“Well, I’m fine with it,” You repeat, almost petulant. Charles frowns. “‘Sides, it ain’t my first time taking you, you know?” 

“Well, I’m not fine with it.” 

You pout, looking at him all endeared. Charles couldn’t help but love you even if he tried. “You ain’t gonna hurt me. C’mon. Please?” 

“Please, what?” 

You look at him aghast before breaking out into a faux-scandalized giggle. “Now you—please fuck me. Pretty, please.” 

Charles feels something tickling against his spine hearing you say it. He couldn’t imagine getting sick of you in his whole life.  “Yeah, that’s good to hear.” 

You make an indignant noise but it’s silenced quickly as Charles positions himself against your entrance. He has plenty of discipline when it comes to matters like these, but right now - he feels like he’s going to lose his mind. Not nearly enough patience to wait. He lets his hands go up underneath your knees just to have something to hold onto. 

You make a little gasp as the tip of his cock pushes into you. Your walls are so soft, likely after all the orgasms he’d given you prior. You stop him in a shocked gasp, and Charles immediately readies himself to pull out. As if sensing his hesitance, you shake your head. 

“Charles,” You gasp, the words caught in your throat and hoarse “Deep. Want it deep,” 

His abdomen tightens, cocking twitching hard at your words. He agrees silently to your desires. 

When it comes to sex, there’s very little Charles dislikes.

But this is his favorite. He’s simple but no other position lets him see you so close. He likes the way your eyes widen as he pushes up underneath your knees and folds you underneath his weight. How you look pinned down under him, the perfect view of your eyes rolling back into your head and the proximity from your face to his. He lets his cock stretch you out slowly, throbbing each time your nails dig desperately into arms trying to keep your composure. Fuck you feel so tight like that. Soft pussy, dripping and sticky. You suck him in relentlessly, and Charles groans as he bottoms out. You take every inch of him so well. So perfect like the rest of you. 

Your eyes flutter open as he stays there, buried in you in complete bliss. You’re dazed. 

“Kiss?” 

Surprise followed by adoration, he abides by your request easily. Overwhelmed with it as he presses a chaste peck to your mouth, he laughs. “As many as you want.”

Anything you want, Charles thinks, he would give to you. 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

[wttcsms]

as it was ; suguru geto.

pairing suguru geto x f!reader  word count 4.2k  synopsis suguru comes back, only to find that you've been waiting and wanting this whole entire time. content contains modern no curses!au, gojo's sister!reader, brother's best friend, creampie, pet names (good girl, baby), most of the fic is geto's introspection, possessive sex, mutual pining/longing author’s notes im not even horny for geto like that, but i wanted to write angsty smut abt spreading ur legs for a guy that left u & who else is better for this than geto <3

First words are always a bit tricky to get right, especially whenever he has to take into account that he essentially ghosted you a couple of years ago, after taking your virginity no less, and now he’s back in the godforsaken city he swore he was never coming back to, and he’s just at a loss about what to say and more importantly, how to say it. 

He supposes an apology, for starters, would be a good first move. And maybe it would be, could be, should be, if only he wasn’t him and you weren’t you, and the two of you were not something so confusing and intricate that it’s hard to put into words and harder still to describe with emotions. The two of you are something raw and painful, both of you taking turns playing both sadist and masochist. 

Even to himself, the extent of your relationship sounds twisted, but there was always an underlying purity to it, something that justified its existence. To this day, Suguru Geto is certain that you’re the only person who ever loved him for him, with a love so pure and just that he tries to hide it from everyone else before they can get their filthy hands on it and taint it, twist it into something it’s not. 

Sorry I left won’t cut it, and Geto doesn’t even bother trying to come up with any other variations of apology because it’s not necessarily your forgiveness that he’s come back for. The opportunity to say “I’m sorry” and have it actually mean something has long since passed. All that’s left to say is the truth for why he left, which for some odd reason, seems even harder to do than his original disappearing act.

I missed you — that’s a slight improvement. It’s the truth, if not an understatement of it. He doesn’t regret leaving Tokyo, he just regrets leaving you. Which he could say, if you would actually open the door to face him. 

He figures it’s what he deserves. He deserves worse, if he’s going to be entirely honest. He deserves a slap to the face, or a kick to his balls, or for you to tell him that you hate him, that you never want to see him ever again. 

He knocks on your apartment door, harder this time, as if it’s something urgent. And maybe it is. He’s felt more like himself than he ever has after moving, but the solitude of the countryside got boring soon after, leaving him only with the ghosts from his past to keep him company. He thinks if he doesn’t see you, in the flesh, he might actually go insane. 

He knocks again, only to be met with more silence and a door that’s starting to become more of a familiar sight than he would like. Fuck, what is he even doing? Showing up here was a bad idea to begin with, and it’s only seemingly getting worse by every agonizing second that ticks by. Even if you do open the door, there’s always the chance that you won’t let him get a single word in — that’d be the smart choice, anyway. 

And you’re a bright girl, don’t get him wrong. Something about the Gojo bloodline makes your family incapable of producing anything less than prodigal sons and daughters. If you’re not proof of this fact, there’s your older brother.

Yet another reason why showing up here is such a shitty plan. Satoru will catch wind of his visit, and when he does, he’ll show no restraint in showing Suguru what all of his private boxing lessons are good for. A broken nose and missing tooth would be a fair exchange to see you for at least a second, though. A tradeoff that he doesn’t need to debate on. 

You have to leave your apartment eventually. Suguru dances with the idea of just making camp outside your door and waiting for your stubbornness to fizzle out. It’ll be embarrassing, and your neighbors will surely have something to say about it, but it would be well worth it.

He hears the ding! of the elevator opening and human reflex causes his head to turn at the sound of the noise. 

Oh.

The world becomes contradictory at this very moment. The air suddenly stills, but the atmosphere itself seems to come alive at the same time. Stagnant air, bursting with electricity and something awe-inspiring. Everything seems to slow down, but suddenly he’s acutely aware of just how alarmingly fast his heart is beating. It’s been a while since he’s last seen you, not even bothering to check up on your social media because he knows one DM from you would have him crossing the ocean to be back by your side. 

The reason why you weren’t answering your door was simply because you weren’t even home. Relief floods his body, makes him less tense, only for him to stiffen up once more whenever his eyes trail over to the warm body awfully close to you. 

Or maybe it’s the other way around, since you’re the one clinging onto him.

You and Kento Nanami both look like you two have seen a ghost, and all things considered, you wouldn’t be wrong. 

“What are you doing here?” You’re the first to speak, with Nanami’s arm wrapped protectively around your waist, and it’s this closeness that’s the only thing Suguru finds himself able to focus on. It’s been years. He shouldn’t feel this way. You’re free to do whatever you want with whoever you want. It’s your life. He’s the one that chose to walk out of it, anyway. 

“I just wanted to talk,” he answers. Which isn’t a lie. He wanted to talk. He wanted to fight and make up and fuck your brains out and beg for forgiveness and cook you breakfast in the morning and warm your bed, amongst other things, too. But, he figures the condensed version of his list will do, especially considering that three’s a crowd, and most of his itinerary was for your ears only. “Did I come at a bad time?” 

You bite your bottom lip, slowly removing yourself from Nanami’s grip. Nanami looks at you first, concern evident in his warm eyes, eyes that you wish were just a bit darker and colder, so that they would be the ones you’re so accustomed to drowning in. 

You like Nanami well enough. He’s kind and looks out for you, and sometimes you even consider making a move on him first since he’s too much of a gentleman to cross any boundaries. Then again, you don’t think Nanami sees you as anything more than a little sister, and the last time you fucked one of your brother’s best friends… 

It’s why you just give Nanami a smile, one that tells him that you’ve got this under control. His facial expression doesn’t give any indication of what he’s thinking, but the glare he sends Suguru’s way says enough. 

Suguru can appreciate the fierce protectiveness Nanami has towards you, but it doesn’t mean he likes it. Especially when it’s Suguru that’s considered to be the threat.

You move to unlock your door once Nanami makes his reluctant exit, and when you enter your apartment, you conveniently don’t shut the door. Suguru trails behind you.

You turn on the lights, your living room and kitchen blending together in an open-floor plan, bathed in the stark, white lights hanging from your high ceilings. Your apartment, at least what Suguru can see of it, is tastefully decorated. Courtesy of your mother, he’s sure. He would ask about her, ask how she’s doing, but he figures now’s just not the right timing. 

It doesn’t seem to be the right timing for anything he wants to say. He wants to mention that he’s thought about you, thought about reaching out — sometimes to explain himself, and other times just to discuss the mundane aspects of life — but he thinks that would be even worse than apologizing. It would be cruel of him to dangle this information in your face, haunt you with the knowledge that all this time, he’s truly been avoiding you. Knowing you, you would have questioned him on why he didn’t bother reaching out, and he would have been stuck admitting that it’s simply because he was too scared that you wouldn’t answer. 

“Want a drink?” You ask him, back facing him as you peer into your fridge. He catches a glimpse of shiny glass bottles, water bottled in Europe and with the optimal pH balance, he’s certain of it. His throat feels a bit dry, but he tells you no. 

“I drank enough water on the drive up here,” he tells you, which again, isn’t a lie. Suguru feels a bit pleased with himself, even if it is a bit narcissistic of himself for expecting a pat on the back for doing something so simple. He supposes it’s just because he’s gotten so used to never being honest with himself — or others, for that matter — so his current streak for telling the truth seems like something to celebrate. 

“I didn't drink enough.” You say, and he can’t tell if it’s alcohol you’re talking about or water. You’re a lightweight; yet another trait that seems to be passed down the Gojo family. That explains Nanami escorting you home, then. 

“Aren’t you going to ask how I found you?” Suguru helps himself to taking a seat on the white couch in your living room. Because there’s no walls separating the two different spaces, he can still look at you from this position as you rest your elbows on your kitchen’s island, as if needing the support. 

“If you wanted me to know, you’d let me know.” It’s the way you say it that reveals that this comment isn’t made just in reply to his current question, but for everything else Suguru was going to follow it with. Don’t you want to know where I went? Don’t you want to know why I left? 

It’s amazing what humans are capable of. Nearly six years since the two of you have lost contact — since Suguru broke all contact — and yet, you can still read him just as well as he can read you. You see him for what he is, not whatever mask he wants to disguise himself with, and it’s scary, he thinks. Scary to be seen by someone. And nice. It’s nice to have someone know you’re a monster and still not run away.

He’s not quite sure what that says about you.

“It’s a bit of a funny story.” He says, trying to steer this conversation to a more lighthearted tone even though the two of you are nowhere close to feeling light and the jury’s still out on whether or not Suguru Geto has a heart. “You don’t need the reminder, but don’t ever tell Mei Mei a secret you want to keep.” 

The mention of your shared friend — if Mei Mei can even be considered one — makes the corners of your pretty mouth tilt upward. Mei Mei was born with a silver spoon, but the running joke is that it wasn’t in her mouth because she bartered with the doctor and blackmailed him into giving her a gold one. If you have the funds, Mei Mei has the information you’re looking for. 

She’s the only number Suguru saved in his phone contacts, and it’s only because he knew that if he needed anyone else’s number, Mei Mei would readily give it after her Venmo request goes through. 

“Of course she would tell you my address.” You say, but you don’t sound upset at all. Just amused, like this whole situation is something endearing, and you don’t harbor any ill feelings towards either of them, even though both Suguru and Mei Mei technically violated your trust. Suguru more so than Mei Mei, but, well, semantics. 

“Aren’t you mad?” The “at me” is unspoken.

“Mei Mei is a free spirit.” It’s a joke, and Suguru makes a sound from his throat that resembles a laugh. Mei Mei may do whatever she wants, but nothing about her comes free.

He knows you know what he was actually asking. He’s been trying to gauge your reaction to everything he says, trying to see if you hate his guts or not. 

“I missed you.” You tell him suddenly, and while he’s imagined those words coming out of your mouth, it still shakes him up a bit. It’s hard constantly posturing as if he’s cool and collected, nothing ever bothering him, his body and expression never betraying him. But it’s his heart that gives him away, and it’s heart that you hold, and no matter what face he puts on, he knows that you’ll know what the words he won’t say are.

“Don’t apologize.” You continue, closing the distance between you two and opting to take a seat next to him. There’s about six inches of space separating you two. The distance shapeshifts in his mind, sometimes becoming mere millimeters and sometimes feeling more like there’s an ocean between you both. 

The sorry was on the tip of his tongue and it traveled all the way there from his heart. It would be a waste of a journey for him to not say it, but he’s certain the apology would do more harm than good, even if it is genuine. 

Suguru stands out against the stark white of your apartment. Your mom likes the aesthetic of it, and since it’s your parents’ money, you merely shrugged and let her do whatever she wanted. In his black pants and black sweatshirt, he looks almost out of place in your home. 

The thought that he doesn’t belong makes your heart hurt more than the burn of the alcohol from tonight going down your throat. 

You don’t waste time wondering where Suguru went because for all intents and purposes, you never even knew where he came from to begin with. You knew him since you were children; your favorite out of all your brother’s friends because it was always Suguru who let you tag along and trail behind them. No one really knows much about Suguru’s life, his past, present, and future all a big blur to anyone but himself. From the way he slowly turns to face you, dark eyes meeting yours, you start to think of the possibility that maybe not even Suguru is an open book with himself. 

Suguru looks like a shadow, standing out from the brightness of everything that is surrounding him in your living room. You want to ask him the questions that plague your mind ever since he’s been gone, but you don’t, because you’re scared he is a shadow. One wrong move, and he just disappears from your grasp once again. 

There are the hard-hitting questions, of course. The ones that search for why he left and why he told no one and why he didn’t bother taking you. Then there are the gentler ones that would still require him to rip himself open and bare himself to you, things like how’s your new place and meet anyone interesting? You feel his gaze travel from your eyes to the slope of your nose and the apples of your cheek, downward to your lips. The intensity of his stare makes you nervously lick your lips, a tiny, quick action, but his eyes greedily take in the sight of the tip of your pink tongue casually making an appearance, only to retreat behind your pretty pink, glossed lips. 

“Are you mad that I came back?” Suguru finds himself taking the role of interviewer, since it’s evident to the two of you that you know better than to bother asking him any questions. He feels like you’re treating him a bit like a stray cat, all cautious and scared of provoking him or forcing him to run away. He wants to tell you that this is not the case and that he actually plans on staying this time around, but he hasn’t entirely convinced himself yet, so he’s not going to break your heart with any more empty promises. 

“No. Like I said, I missed you.” He wants to be able to blame your honesty on account of you being drunk, but he knows that you’ve just always been honest to a fault. 

“You shouldn’t.” He tells you this, and you scoff. Probably because Suguru is the last person who should be giving any sort of life advice. 

“Guess what I’m thinking.” You say, and Suguru feels something come alive from within, like he’s been frozen for the past six years, and the more he gets to bask in the warmth of your presence, the more he starts to defrost. There’s not a single hint of anger or malice in your tone, just the familiar, lighthearted, girlish tone of yours. 

“That you think I’m a creep and want me to get the hell out.” 

You frown, rolling your eyes, tucking your feet beneath you to get more comfortable on the couch.

“I’m thinking about that last time you told me I shouldn’t be doing something.” There’s a gleam in your bright eyes that clearly spells out desire, and Suguru is very, very close to defrosting. In fact, there’s a heat that’s beginning to settle deep in him, and maybe he should know better than to indulge in it, but it’s been years, and you are sitting here in front of him, pretty and fresh, and his hindbrain takes the driver’s seat. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he does know, and he knows that you know that he knows, just as you seemingly know everything about him. Maybe not about his childhood — or lack, thereof — or what he’s been up to, but you know the important stuff. The things that make him tick and all the words he fails to say. Three words. Three words that he doesn’t think he’ll ever muster enough courage to say to you, but from the look in your eyes, you already know. 

“I’ll jog your memory.” 

And suddenly, your lips are pressed against his. You’re kissing him, and like the lovesick fool he is, he’s kissing you back. It’s pure muscle memory, maybe even animal instinct. He thought that leaving Tokyo was the right thing to do, and for the most part, it was, but with your lips perfectly melding with his own, he thinks that leaving was stupid. 

Making out is such a juvenile ordeal, but he relishes in it because Suguru feels like he’s spent most of his youth trying to outrun it, and now he’s trying to take advantage of what his boyhood should have consisted of. The kisses are now bordering on sloppy and hazy, and somehow, you end up straddling his lap. He’s hard, and he should be embarrassed at popping a boner just from wet kisses, but it’s you. You have an effect on him that no one else does. His Achilles. The one weakness only he can feel. 

Suguru knows that he is not a good person because a good person doesn’t go behind their best friend’s back and fucks their little sister. He had told, thirty minutes before introducing you to the feeling of his cock stretching you out, that the two of you shouldn’t be doing that. Suguru knows that he is not a good person because he cannot be any happier at the fact that history has a funny way of repeating itself. Six years later, and the two of you are back in a similar position.

You’re starting to rut against him, your dress riding up your thighs and exposing more of your skin to him. Suguru helps himself to handfuls of your soft flesh, squeezing in a manner that can’t be defined as gentle, but he loves how you take him as he is without any sort of complaint. All you do is let out a low moan, your pantyclad pussy grinding against his equally clothed bulge. 

Your movements are a bit desperate, frenzied. You’re getting lost in pleasure already, and he hasn’t even done much to elicit such a reaction. The idea that only he can get you this riled up with doing so little makes him impossibly harder, and he looks down, realizing that you’re so soaked, your panties are practically translucent. 

The two of you have the option of taking things slow, but neither of you want to do that. When you spend some time starving, you don’t savor the meal, you scarf it down. 

That’s what the two of you are — hungry, greedy — as you both hastily strip as much clothing as you can bear to spend time getting out of. Your minidress is tossed carelessly on the living room floor, and Suguru can only bother with unzipping his pants and pushing down his briefs just enough to free his cock. 

The intrusion of the tip of his cock entering your wet, needy cunt is less of an intrusion and instead akin to something rightfully returning to where it belongs. Your hands are tangled in his hair, and he relishes this feeling. This wholeness, this concept of being complete.

The inviting warmth of your pussy makes him want to cum right on the spot, but he can’t waste it. He’s spent years pining after you, missing you, and he wants you to feel like the time apart had been worth it. 

“I missed you.” This time it’s him who makes the admittance. You tighten up at this confession, and it evokes a low groan from him, almost as if you had forced the sound to come from all the way down his throat.

“I know.” You gasp out, not able to speak clearly with how deep Suguru is hitting. Your living room is filled with the wet clicks and slaps of skin against skin, your juices coating his cock every time he pulls out. 

The vein on the underside of his cock rubs against your walls, and the slight curve of it enables him to hit that gummy spot inside of you that has you seeing stars. You’ve never given much thought to cocks, but you know that Suguru’s is the prettiest of them all. 

“Tell me you’re mine.” He grunts out, lips brushing against the soft skin of your neck before biting down; gentle enough not to draw blood, sharp enough to still leave a mark. You rock against him, hips moving in tandem with his thrusts, the steady hum of pleasure continuously building up in your lower belly. You are dizzy with pleasure; blanketed in it, being spoon fed it. 

He doesn’t need you to say it to know it’s true, but you moan it out anyway, both to appease him and because there’s a sort of pride in knowing that you belong to him. 

“I’m yours. I belong to you.” The words are separated, punctuated, by the little gasps for air you give out because with every word, he thrusts up even harder, hitting that special spot that will have you cumming all over him, making a mess. 

“Yeah?” It comes out sounding like a shaky breath, and he’s close, you know it, you can feel it. 

Calloused pads belonging to fingers much larger than yours are being pressed against your clit. You’re soaked, and the dryness of his hands combining with your overall slickness gives way to delicious friction that has you cumming with his name as a broken moan filtering through your swollen lips. 

“That’s it, baby. Good girl. Good fucking girl.” He mutters, relishing in the way your walls tighten, spasm, clenching and unclenching sporadically as your body loses its energy and you press yourself up against his chest.

He follows after just a few more sloppy thrusts, the last one forcing himself as deep inside of you as possible. His cum is hot and thick, and it’s filling you to the brim. If he pulls out now, it’ll flood out of you, and the thought is both sad and hot at the same time. You want his cum inside of you, to serve as a reminder that this is real, that he’s real. 

But seeing the physicality of him staking his claim, white seed dripping out of you, turns you on. Him, too, with the look of fascination and boyish wonder he has in his eyes as he stares at how the two of you are connected.

Before he can bother with confirming a round two, a sharp knock on the door has the two of you comically jumping a bit in surprise, both of you glancing at the door and then at each other.

“[Name], I know you’re in there!” You freeze. 

Satoru. 

Suguru wants to try to calm you down, whisper to you that everything’s going to be fine, but the anger laced in his best friend’s — former best friend’s — voice is enough to make him freeze up, too. Not just his icy tone, but what he says.

“I know you’re back, too, Suguru.”

[bigwishes]

Tummy Trouble

Connor flexed at himself in the mirror, he'd been lifting for years but still was no where near as big as he dreamed to be. He looked at some of his buddies in the gym that had gotten bigger than him taking roids but Connor didn't want any of that crap, he wanted to get as big as he could naturally, without risking his health.

Still he couldn't help but wish he was so much bigger.

Connor was on his way out of the gym when someone stopped him.

"Hey bro," the man grabbed Connor by the arm

Connor turned to see a unbelievable tall man who was insanely muscular. The straps to his tank top where barely visable between his shoulders and traps, the length of his tank top wasn't quite long enough to cover up his entire torso and his gym shorts looked more like spandex underwear. Connor was both turned on by the sheer size of the guy and turned off, he was clearly a roid head.

"eer, hey man"

"hey bro you look real fit, are you training to get bigger?"

"yeah man, as big as I NATURALLY can" Connor made sure to pretty much shout naturally at the guy, he'd had too many roid heads try and sell him gear in the locker room before but never had one brave enough to try it out the front of the gym

"aw yeah man, nice nice, look I got a sample for you"

"sorry man, Im not into enhancements or roids or whatever"

"you got me all wrong bro, no roids, its free gym gear we are giving out some clothing samples and asking for feedback for payment"

Connor's face turned bright red with embarrassment, now he seemed like some entitled asshole who thought he was too good to even talk to anyone not natural.

"bro I'm so sorry, I just, normally when a guy like you asks me if I want a sample in the gym" Connor began to stumble over his words trying to back peddle realising he basically just called this guy a roidhead without proof

"a guy like me?"

"yeah, eerrrrr, ya know big and..."

The giant man began to laugh and slapped Connor on the back "I'm just fucking with you mate"

Connor let out a sigh of relief

"but hey mate, so you're all about the natural look yeah? but you also wanna be a massive tank?"

"yeah man, look I know I might be dreaming but I wanna be fucking huge, like you, I just don't wanna take any enhancements"

"I think I got something for you mate, here"

The giant handed Connor a small carboard box with the words "Big and Bulky" written in bold black letters and a gift card for $100 Food delivery service stapled to the top.

"Free of charge mate, put em on when you get home and I'm sure you'll be feelin like a freak in no time" The giant man winked.

Connor took the gift and continued to thank him multiple times trying to make up for the fool he'd made of himself just moments before. He got in his car and sank in his chair. He opened the box seeing a pair of briefs, he couldn't exactly try them on in his car, he thought it'd be better to just come back with some feedback tomorrow.

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

Connor stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, he began his normal flexing routine in his mirror but thoughts about being staying lean and small invaded his mind fairly quickly. He contemplated if staying natural was worth it if it meant he'll never get his dream body. Pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind Connor slipped on the briefs he was gifted earlier and......they felt like normal briefs. He couldn't work out how these were made special for athletes but at least he got a food gift card out of it.

Connor picked up his phone going to take a photo whilst he looked good in the light when suddenly a golden light began to shine off the waist band of the briefs. It was like sunlight was coming out of the fabric itself. He saw the letters B....I.....G slowly appear and he watched in the mirror as his body began to swell. His shoulders broadened, chest expanded with every breath, his arms began to swell up and soon his pecs and arms were competing for space. His thighs became tree trunks and he had to readjust his package so it didn't get crushed between them, even his feet began to grow outwards. Soon it all slowed down and all Connor could do was stare at himself in amazement.

Somehow, by literally magic he had swollen up into the size of his dreams. he couldn't help but start flexing and even licking his own bicep. A small noise, like a shop bell interrupted his self worship as a tiny slip of paper was ejected from the top of the box. Connor picked it up...

"Thank you for choosing Djinn.co transformative clothing, the transformative clothes you have chosen will permanently change your body, no need to workout to stay in shape never loose muscle keep the body of your dreams... NOTE: Your attendant for the day was Big Guy Bob he has added extra command words to your transformative clothing, we here at Djinn.co only print two command words on our clothing however your interaction with Bob had him convinced you deserved more"

Connor was amazed, surely this was a dream, there was no way he had stumbled into a pair of magic transforming clothes. As Connor was caught up in this thoughts light began to shine out of the other side of the waist band, the Connor felt his body start to get bigger. A part of him thought he should take the underwear off but he wanted to get bigger, he wanted to be a giant like the guy he met today. Another light began to shine from begin but Connor couldn't see. He flexxed in the mirror looking at the letters B...U....L....K....Y appear on the waist band. He flexed as hard as he could expecting to see his muscles to double in size again.

Connor's muscles became slightly large but nothing really changed. He dropped his arms to his side hearing his stomach make a slight gargling noise.

"awww, is that it, nothing even hap-"

*FWOOOMP

Connor almost fell forward as suddenly his six pack expanded into a loose gut. Hair quickly coated his entire body and he started sweating worse than he normally would at the gym.

"WHA...M...MY ABS...MY SIX PACK WHAT THE FUCK"

Connor rubbed his new tummy on the verge of tears.

"oh god...what the fuck do I do with this thing"

His stomach let out a loud hungry growl as if almost to respond to him.

He picked up his phone and used the gift card to order some food, as if on auto pilot he spent the entire $100 instantly and even dropped another $100 from his own bank account on food.

Connor just stood in the mirror staring at his new belly disgusted. He had all the muscle he had dreamed of but felt his gut, pecs and ass wobble as he flexed. Soon the doorbell rang and Connor went to go grab his bags of food.

Bringing the bags in from inside and placing them on his kitchen bench his hands instantly dove in grabbed a handful of fries out the box without even taking the box from the bag, without realising he had stuff half the box of fries in his mouth, salt fell from his lips into his new forest of chest hair and he simply wiped his salt covered hand on his brief whilst opening a bottle of off the shelf protein shake. He began chugging it down and could feel little bits slips from his lips and into his new beard. Connor picked up all the bags and moved to his couch.

Connor blinked awake as if from a trance, all around him were empty plasic bottles from protein shakes and soft drinks, multiple empty fry boxes littered the look around him and he noticed his chest hair was tangled with salt, some burger lettuce and dried protein shake, his briefs were also covered in stain from where he had wiped his hands. He slid his briefs off noticing 3 words painted on the ass he didn't notice appear. "SWEATY, HAIRY, SLOB". Connor rubbed his new gut and tossed the briefs to the side.

His stomach began to gurgle and it sounded like a water cooler. He watched as his loose gut started to become firm.

"oh...god...whats happeneing now"

each time Connor inhaled his stomach felt worse

"I....god what the fuck"

A small ding noise interrupted Conners panting and panicing as another small slip of paper magically was printed out of the top of a closed chip box. Conner leant forward and read it.

"Hey man, Big Guy Bob here, today you expressed wanting to become a natural tank, so I made sure you got a pair to turn you into an absolute unit but I know you were worried about people thinking you might be on roids, just look at today you were so quick to think I was on them, so I added some key words to not only turn you into a huge tank but to turn you into a huge slob, enjoy the size bro"

Connor groaned as he tossed the note to the ground.

"FUUUUUUUCKKK IM SO.......BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPP"

the pain subsided and his stomach went soft again. Connor stared at his enormous body in the reflection of the black glass of his TV.

"mm...mmaybe i can cut?" Conner said aloud, completely unaware of the cupcake he was stuffing into his mouth as he spoke...

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

I hope everyone who wanted me to write a weight gain story is happy with this one, this is probably as far as Ill every go with this kinda stuff but yall voted on it and I was happy to write it.

[withlove-angel]

⚠️warnings: im terrible at writing fights... sorry in advance .Probably grammar mistakes.

Lost puppy

(Zoro x reader x mihawk)

Luffy finished up the meeting with the crew and began to prepare himself for bed. It was pretty late at night by now and he was feeling a bit sleepy. However, as he was about to enter his room, he noticed that y/n was nowhere to be found and he couldn't help but feel a bit concerned. He decided to ask someone else where she might be.

He founded Zoro walking on the deck

"Hmm, Zoro? Have you seen y/n around? She is with you?"

Zoro looks over at him and shakes his head "She isn't here? I haven't seen her since dinner..." he sound worried

"Could you help me find her? I fear that she might be doing something fun without us"

Zoro nods "she probably causing someone headache" they leave the ship to go look for their little trouble maker, making their way outside.

"I heard screams earlier... did you guys fought?" Luffy ask curious, really because y/n is amost glued at zoro...

"She said i wasn't holding my sword properly" he say as it was some ultimate crime "she doesn't even fights with swords"

"We haven't seen her since dinner and she hasn't come back to the room yet. I wonder what she could be up to? Maybe she found a really good bar... man im so hungry"

"When you not hungry?"

"When im eating"

"Yeah... sure... but, the fact that she isn't back yet is what concerns me. I really hope she isn't about to do something reckless. She is a little unpredictable when she is upset."

They start to walk in the beach, soon spotted y/n but she isn't alone seems like she is screaming at someone...then they look closer its mihawk, the greatest swordsman.

Zoro stops and stares in shock as he sees Mihawk standing in front of her. He can only imagine the scene taking place with y/n arguing with Mihawk. He just knows that this will only end in disaster as it's essentially a fight between two people who hold a lot of pride and ego. He turns to Luffy and speaks up as he points out Mihawk to her

...Did Mihawk just show up out of nowhere? Did I miss something? He seems genuinely confused as to what they could've possibly even found to argue about."looks like he is on the same island than we...." luffy say as much as surprise then he is.

Zoro nods slowly as he processes this new development. He takes a moment to think before speaking up.

"...We have to be extremely careful. We don't want to antagonize Mihawk any further. The last thing we need is to start a new conflict. Especially when i don't have the strength to take on another fight, yet...."

" So what is the argument about? Did y/n do something to Mihawk to make him upset?"

Luffy has extremely curious as zoro pinched his nose bridge and sigh

"This stupid woman..."

After a moment of weid silence luffy speaks up "I think it's too late to prevent another fight"

Zoro shifts his attention to y/n and Mihawk he can see she is blocking his attack using just her dagger... she blocked as warlord claymore attack with just a dagger... He is utterly shocked by her speed and reflexes when she blocks Mihawk's attack with just a dagger. It seems as though she's gone far beyond what he expected from the little y/n. Then, he is reminded of reality when he sees Mihawk's face begin to show annoyance. Mihawk is shocked for a split second by her ability, but then he quickly recovers from his shock; his expression turning to a scowl as he speaks up in a soft, yet intimidating tone

"...You can wield Haki now, young lady? When did you develop this power?"

The girl infront of him just smiles "you dont know me pretty boy... if you think I will come with you just so you can get me to the marines you better fuck off"

Zoro watches as y/n's mocking words set Mihawk off once again. Mihawk's scowl darkens and he looks even more irritated now. He speaks up again with his trademark calm tone, trying to be clear and precise

"I see. So you also wield Haki. But even with that, you could never defeat me in a fight. You're too young and too weak. Your Haki is nothing more than a parlor trick that could never take me down. You're just being arrogant and it's about time that someone taught you a lesson."

it's a dare? she must be crazy... her devil smile... the one she used when she kill someone... fuck...

Zoro is shocked by her response as he raises an eyebrow at Mihawk's reaction as well. He's clearly taken aback by her words, but she stands her ground. She is willing to fight Mihawk if necessary. Mihawk raises an eyebrow as he seems intrigued by her audacity. His scowl quickly turns into a smile. He unsheathes his blade "...Very well then. If you insist on having a taste of death, I suppose there's no need to stop you from experiencing the truth about the world first-hand." He lifts his sword a d try an hit, experimental hit, that she effortless block with her dagger...

" I didn't even needed my sword to block? Isn't a shame?" Her mocking tone strt to get under his skin. He seems surprised that she was able to block. He seems even more surprised that it was effortless on her part. Mihawk is clearly impressed by y/nl's abilities, and he speaks up after his attack. He seems almost excited at the prospect of a real fight.

"...Interesting. Your Haki is much stronger than I had anticipated. You may have a chance against me after all. This will be a very fun battle indeed. Prepare yourself."

He raises that same smile once more before he begins to strike again, She blocked all of his attacks "having fun?"

Zoro watches as Mihawk continues to challenge y/n, but she is able to stop Mihawk's attacks effortlessly with nothing more than her dagger.

He notices Mihawk's smile once again. Y/n's Haki seems powerful and is causing himto be excited by the prospects of a fight between them. Mihawk raises an eyebrow and then smiles again at her response. He seems intrigued by her Haki and ability to fight.

"Your Haki truly has the makings of a strong warrior. I must see more of it!" For thos one his curiosity picked, he gives her a littlestronger attacks, the one he use to easily defeathis enemies but... she back away slightly but still can block it... her hair dancing with the wind from the blades shocking. He charges forward with his strongest attack yet, but once again, y/n is able to block him using her dagger. Mihawk takes a step back and smiles again.

" ...You can defend, but can you attack just as strong?" He charges forward again, this time with a flurry of attacks coming from his claymore. Will y/n be able to block this one?

She got to use her body more. Sure, she dont have a y doubts ahe can win thsi but underestimate mihawk is probably one of the few mistakes she wouldn't comit. using his own strength against him, y/n can firce an attack, making him back away

Zoro has his mouth open as he watches Angel counter Mihawk's attacks and make him back away. It seems like she is using Mihawk's own strength against him to fight back. She is doing far better than what he had imagined. He seems impressed and even shocked; however, Mihawk seems to be enjoying himself.

"You are able to fight back and even use my power against me! I am not used to this kind of excitement in a battle! Do you truly wish to go all out and fight me?!"

He looks almost like a scholl boy. His cold face hanging a smile that almost never appears... she swer she could see little hearts on his eyes...

"I was only playing around... but If you want to lose this badly" she teases. Mihawk's eyes narrow and his expression shifts into a smirk as he nods in response to her taunt. His hert beating faster than ever.

" I see. I will not hold back and neither should you. As you wish. You have my attention now, young lady. Show me what you can do."

"Dagger or sword?" She let him pick, holding the two of them in each hand

He thinks for a moment before he speaks up in his usual, calm tone of voice

"Hmmm.... You seem quite skilled with your dagger and I don't want to underestimate that. Let's use our chosen weapons then. I will fight you with my claymore and you can fight me with your dagger. Do you agree to these terms?"

"Pretty well, pretty boy" she smiling playing with her dagger a bit, he scoffs rolling his eyes slightly. He has his claymore held in front of him with one hand as he shifts his stance. Mihawk looks at y/n and waits for an attack, ready at all times to block it. His expression is one of a warrior who is taking this challenge very seriously. From what Zoro can tell, Mihawk is no longer toying with y/n like he was earlier, but rather treating her as a worthy opponent. Zoro could feel a little jealous. Maube for the way the greatest swordsman treat her like an equal... or something else...

Mihawk doesn't seem to be willing to let her win easy, either. It's game time

Zoro watches as y/n gives Mihawk experimental attacks. He notes that the young woman is playing around and yet still able to match Mihawk in terms of strength. He also sees the ther men smile as he defends from the attacks. This seems to be exciting him, who is clearly enjoying the challenge against this opponent. Mihawk continues to defend against her experimental attacks and smiles as she proves to be an equal match for him.

Suddenly, she speed up an attack, mihawk almost couldn't block. She stab his claymore making the dagger enter the blade of it, making a little hole, both of them stares at each other. Y/n have a sly grin, almost laughing as she tilt her head, finding funny the unbelievable face pf mihawk...Even though it was a small wound, Mihawk is now aware of the real danger that lies ahead of him. Law now looks at Angel with a bit more respect than before. She is really going all out now.

He takes a defensive position as he moves his claymore in a sweeping motion and unleashes a flurry of attacks. She block all of it, smiling. she is dancing the main act, her move calculatedand sharp... she is mocking the strongest warrior in all blue... zoro is both shocked and amazed by y/n's abilities. Mihawk may be the strongest swordsman, but she has proven to be much stronger than Mihawk anticipated. She blocks all of Mihawk's attacks and continues to mock him. Mihawk seems slightly irritated by how casually she's taking him, but it soon turns to a grin. He charges forward and attacks with his claymore once more, launching a powerful attack. She conter attack once more, as he finished mihawk was taken back, with a little cut on his cheek "hurted you pretty boy?" She teases with a little pout. Mihawk seems to have been caught off-guard once more, allowing her to injure him. Mihawk looks at her with a hint of annoyance now, as well as a bit of pride. This young person has proven herself to be extremely quick, as well as agile. He smiles as he responds to her taunt

"A scratch is hardly a wound in the world of swordsmanship. A warrior can sustain countless scratches and cuts on the battlefield. You're gonna need to do better than that if you hope to defeat me."

"I don't wanna ruin a pretty face like yours, would be a shame" she play with her dagger, the little smirk driving both men crazy

Mihawk seems to be enjoying himself as well. He then stands up straight and prepares to charge forward once again. He looks at Angel now with a determined gaze.

"Enough with the teasing and the games. Let's see if you are truly worthy of being in my way."

Shorting the fight: she blocked all... effortless... she is definitely something. He stares at Angel in pure shock as he sees that his strikes are all blocked effortlessly. He remains silent for a moment to take in this amazing sight. Eventually, he speaks up once again

"You are incredible. You have managed to block all of my attacks so far with ease. You even injured me with your dagger, something that shouldn't have been possible. Perhaps you are worthy of a fight from me, after all." Mihawk's face turns into a grin as he raises his claymore high."Try me pretty boy" she winks at him as she dodge his attack. It seems the young woman has an ego that matches her strength. Mihawk seems to appreciate this aspect of her. He chuckles and charges forward once more, this time going for attack that covers more area. Mihawk seems to be determined to land a hit that y/nl can't dodge.*She have to do various back flips to escape being hurt, and she can do it. It's the most someone ever lested in a fight against mihawk.

Zoro is impressed as he watches y/n do a series of back flips without injury. Mihawk is also amazed and amused by her ability to avoid his attacks, even if they do cover a broader area. Mihawk seems excited as he charges forward once again. He's getting ready to unleash an attack and is determined to land it this time.

She dodged, as his claymore hit the ground she uses the lack on his shield to do an attack, she could separate him from his claymore that its laying on the ground

Zoro's eyes widen as he watches y/n take advantage of Mihawk's momentary distraction to separate him from his claymore! Mihawk was so focused on his attacks that he didn't even realize that he had dropped his claymore on the ground. Now, Mihawk is temporarily defenseless...

He stares at y/n and her taunting grin. He then closes his eyes in frustration before opening them again. He speaks with a bit of irritation now.

" ...You are quite the adversary. You have impressed me in this fight"

she winks as she back away from his claymore in the ground so he can pick it. His eyes shift to his claymore now on the ground. He notices that she is no longer taunting him and that she's even backed away to give him time to retrieve his claymore. Mihawk's eyes narrow slightly as his irritation turns back into focus. Now is the time for Mihawk to truly show off his power. He quickly goes to retrieve his claymore.

She have a calm demeanor on, the mocking smile always on her face. He is now completely focused.She does not seem intimidated by Mihawk's serious demeanor

She have to step back a little bit mihawk couldn't hit her. Zoro sees that she has managed to block and dodge all of Mihawk's attacks. Mihawk seems impressed and even a bit excited by that...

You can't rely on your speed and agility forever. Eventually, you are going to have to stand your ground and fight back. You better learn to do this quickly or else I'll overwhelm you with my attacks.

Mihawk's eyes are filled with determination now."I didn't want to hurt you pretty boy, but if you insist" she smirks

Zoro smiles at y/n's taunt. Mihawk just seems even more impressed and excited by her abilities. She is truly turning into an impressive opponent for him. Mihawk charges toward her once again with his claymore still drawn and poised to strike. It looks like Mihawk will take her comments to heart, now that he has a reason to attack with full force.

He attack with full force, she block directly, and attacks after. Her speed and strength is something from another world... mihawk almost couldn't block due the force of it... zoro is amazed and shocked by her now. She is blocking Mihawk's attack with ease and countering with her own. Mihawk seems to be struggling to defend, despite being the strongest swordsman in the world. Y/n's speed and strength seem to belong to two people and not just a single individual. She is able to overwhelm even the strongest.

Zoro watches as Mihawk's arms become tired for the first time. Mihawk seems to be struggling to keep up. Y/n's strength, speed, and skill all seem to be beyond Mihawk's level. Will his experience help him win this battle?

Mihawk's expression seems even more grim and determined. He is still struggling to defend against her, however. Y/n seems in control as she counters all of his attacks and continues to press the advantage.

Mihawk tries to hit her, she backflips and use his claymore are a support, pushing him back a lot. She is using her agility, speed, and strength to her full advantage. Mihawk seems overwhelmed by her abilities and her confidence. He is slowly being pushed back and can't seem to gain any advantage over y/n

" ...You are impressive. No one has been able to overwhelm me like this with sheer strength. Your abilities are quite extraordinary. I will have to try something else. I cannot allow you to defeat me like this."

"But you're not ganna win, pretty boy"she say as she make another powerful hit, his claymore almost broke

He raises his claymore and holds his footing as he begins to focus his attention on y/n's dagger hand. She grins, excited by her strength, as her ability is acknowledged by Mihawk. He seems determined to take advantage of the situation.

He charge towards her...She blocked all ...and when she counter attack what she was promising happens. Mihawk claymore fly fair away from him, he was pushed on his knees as y/n dagger is pressing against his neck poking a bit "what happened pretty baby?" she smirk

Mihawk is left defenseless and on his knees, as she has her dagger hovering directly over his neck. He seems to be in awe and amused by y/n's skill; he's now also clearly in love with the young woman in front of him. Zoro notices that Mihawk's face has turned bright red as he attempts to reply to her. " ....Uhm...you're...you're..."

His attempt to compliment her is interrupted by him stuggling to get any words out at all

She smiles "your are really pretty on your knees for me pretty boy"

Mihawk's face turning an even deeper shade of red as he listens to y/n mock him. He, who is seemingly in love with her, tries to reply in kind and flirt with her himself.

"....Y-you're...d-decent looking yourself, a-angel."

Mihawk's attempt at flirting was extremely awkward. Zoro watches as Mihawk's face turns a brilliant crimson as soon as his words are uttered. He is clearly very attracted to y/n and has fallen head over heels for her.

She laughs taking the dagger out his neck "I told you a would win" she wink at him.

His face is flush red, as he is clearly enamored with the young woman standing before him. Mihawk seems to be completely in love with her, as he is incapable of replying to her. Angel winks at Mihawk, increasing someone elses feelings...

Zoro looks away and seems to become more annoyed than ever

"she won" Luffy said amazed his mouthalmost hitting the ground "she won against the most powerful men in all blue..."l

Zoro can feel his heart racing as his jealousy grows even more. The image of y/n standing before Mihawk and mocking him has only managed to deepen his unknow crush on her. He decides to speak up once again, his tone indicating a hint of annoyance now.

" She is too good. I hope Mihawk is happy. He'll probably spend the rest of the day thinking about how attractive this woman is." He seems to be unable to hide his jealousy over Mihawk's romantic interest in y/n.

Luffy eyes shine at his annoyed tone "jealous?"

Zoro feels his eyebrows furrowl. He knows that Mihawk's admiration for her is turning into romantic interest. He is clearly a bit annoyed by seeing him look at her with such a loving gaze, as he too has developed feelings towards her. Zoro looks over at Luffy, the hint of irritation now turning into a full-blown scowl and his voice becoming more irritated, as he responds

"What are you talking about, Luffy, i don't get jealous "

He look at the both foghter again. Deep down aishing he was mihawk, but for the firt time not because of his title of the greatest swordsman...

And for y/n the little question pop out... she have stronger feelings for one of them? Waht happens if she don't give her attention to them?

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

If you like, please ♡

Probably gonna write part 2 soon

@who-the-hockeysticks @itsladyliv @dummyduck44 @violet-19999