#that was a slight reprieve in the tension

[nerdlytreasure]

Aww D20 got its first whisper!!!

[alyrasturnz]

respectfully matt is such a titty sucker

like after a really bad and rough day he'd def ask his gf if he could suck his titties

i kinda need a short blurb of that from you. no sex tho

SPARE ME THE EMBARRASSMENT!

❐ summary » when matt comes home stressed, you instinctively know just what he needs. you recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders and the weariness in his eyes, and you prepare to envelop him in a cocoon of understanding and care. or maybe something else..

❐ pairings » bf!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » titty sucking (no actual 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 shit though)

❐ a/n && w/c » i almost kmsed writing this. it was strongly considered • 874

your back rested against the headboard, the faint glow of your phone casting a soft light on your face as you scrolled through endless feeds. the tranquility of the moment was abruptly shattered by the resounding slam of the front door, sending a jolt through your body and pulling your attention away from the screen.

you lifted your gaze from your phone, a momentary confusion knitting your eyebrows together as you tried to decipher the source of the disturbance. after a brief hesitation, you returned your attention to the screen, the previous tranquility now tinged with a sense of unease.

then, the bedroom door creaked open, revealing matt. his hair was tousled into a wild disarray, and his eyes, heavy with the remnants of sleep, barely managed to stay open.

"hi baby," you greeted with a soft smile, gently placing your phone down on the nightstand, the tender warmth in your voice wrapping around the words like a comforting embrace.

matt groaned, letting his backpack slip from his shoulders and thud onto the ground. with a weary determination, he made his way to the bed, collapsing onto it with a heavy sigh, his body sprawling over yours as if seeking solace in your presence.

he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, as you gently threaded your fingers through his tousled hair, offering a silent comfort.

"bad day?" you ask softly, your voice a gentle murmur. matt nods, the weight of his unspoken troubles evident in the slight droop of his shoulders and the resigned sigh that escapes his lips.

you play with his hair, your fingers weaving through the soft strands, as he lets out a sigh of contentment, the tension in his body gradually melting away under your soothing touch.

you guys stay like that for a little while, the world outside fading into insignificance, before he finally lifts his face from the crook of your neck, looking up at you with those soulful, puppy dog eyes that seem to speak volumes of unspoken emotions.

you let out a soft giggle, still playing with his hair, "what?" you ask, grinning, your eyes sparkling with curiosity and affection.

his eyes dart to your chest for a fleeting moment, lingering just long enough to betray a flicker of vulnerability and desire, before they return to meet yours. in that brief exchange, you sense the unspoken words and emotions swirling within him, a silent plea for understanding and connection.

you slightly tilt your head, your brows knitting together in feigned confusion before the realization dawns upon you. but you wanted to tease him a little bit. "i don't understand," you whisper, your voice soft and playful, still weaving your fingers through his hair, the corners of your lips curling into a mischievous smile.

he pouts, "please, ma. spare me the embarrassment," he mumbles, his hands resting on your waist, caressing it gently, his touch a silent plea for mercy as his eyes search yours for a hint of reprieve.

you chuckle softly, leaning in closer, your breath warm against his ear. "and why should i spare you?" you murmur, your fingers tracing delicate patterns along the nape of his neck. “maybe i find your embarrassment endearing."

he sighs, his shoulders relaxing slightly, though his grip on your waist remains firm. "because, ma, you hold all the power," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes never leaving yours.

you smile, the teasing glint in your eyes softening. “okay,” you say, your tone gentle yet playful. "i guess i can be merciful... this time." you giggle, slipping off your sleeve, your breasts spilling out

he connects his mouth with your free limb, his tongue swirling around your nipple in deliberate, tantalizing circles that send electric jolts through your body. the sensation is both gentle and intense, a perfect blend of passion and tenderness. 

simultaneously, he brings his other hand to cup your free breast, his fingers dancing across your skin with a delicate, almost reverent touch. each caress is a silent testament to his desire, his need to explore and cherish every inch of you.

you let out a shaky breath of desire, the sound a soft symphony of longing. despite the fire igniting within you, you put your own needs to the side, your fingers continuing to weave through his hair with gentle, rhythmic motions. 

"thank you," he mumbles, his voice muffled and barely audible with your breast in his mouth. the words, though quiet, carry a weight of gratitude and vulnerability, blending seamlessly with the intimate rhythm of the moment. 

you plant a soft kiss onto the top of his head, your lips lingering for a moment as if to imprint your affection into his very being. as your lips touch his hair, you feel a warmth spread through you, a shared intimacy that binds your hearts even closer.

soon enough, he falls asleep, your breast slowly slipping from his mouth. soft snores escape his lips, a gentle rhythm that lulls you into a state of serene contentment. as his breathing steadies, you too succumb to the embrace of slumber, the tranquility of the moment wrapping around you both like a warm, comforting blanket.

taglist — @imwetforyourmom @meatballzerz69 @pinkishpearls @bandanamatt @thedangerousalleyway @muchloveforhacker @frozenpeanutbutterr @jetaimevous @everleiqh @conspiracy-ash @ifwdominicfike @blahbel668 @slutforsturnioloss @realuvrrr @sturnobsessedwh0re @cerismo

[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.

[oceansblvds]

petals ; coriolanus snow

pairing ; coriolanus snow x reader

words ; 1.7k

about ; "The harshness and brazen demeanor that enveloped him when you were around seemed to melt away with time, this certain activity that the two of you engaged in became more of a delightful reprieve than something to do to release tension."

warning(s) ; smut, fingering, p in v sex, not edited, just a short blurb kinda?

authors note ; hello! this is me putting myself out there as a snow writer bc im obsessed with tom blyth. so anyways. please feel free to request fics or headcanons or blurbs! i hope u enjoy :)

Life in the Capital was nothing but lavish for you. 

With your family’s status, extravagant balls were somewhat a staple in your life, along with all the beautiful shoes that you wore as you walked your way into the academy, or the five star meals you were allowed to eat every night. You didn’t know how to be poor, it simply wasn’t in your blood to have anything less than what your life offered you. And that was incredibly obvious for the way that you held yourself in the presence of others. Having been groomed by your mother and father to be the perfect heir to their fortune, they didn’t expect anything less than you. You were beautiful, you were intelligent, and you knew how to control a situation and a conversation as if it was the back of your hand. 

And that simply aggravated him. 

He wasn’t sure when it had really started, this loathing for you. Perhaps it was when you purposely had him suspected of cheating on a test when you two were in your first year of the Academy, or perhaps it was the fact that you knew that he hadn’t cheated, you were simply intimidated by his intelligence. Wherever you stood academically, Coriolanus was always on your heels, just behind you clawing at your back to get ahead of you in anything. And sometimes he did manage to do better than you, and that was when he felt the most happy around you. When you were an absolute mess, a stupid look on your face as you tried to come up with an excuse as to why you didn’t do as well as him. Oh, that was where he was happiest. But he hated you, he loathed you. At least that’s what he told himself in the midst of his obsessive fixations about you, how he would sit alone in his bed at night in his run down home and think about the fact that you were probably eating your second meal of the night and you were going to sleep in silk sheets that got changed every single week. 

And that simply aggravated you. 

How he always assumed that the only reason why you were as intelligent as you were was because of your family. You didn’t know that he was actually secretly poor, but regardless of it, the Snow's wealth had never reached the high peak that yours did in the past. That much was obvious, you could see it in the way that he dressed himself that he was lesser in status. And you took every opportunity to remind him of it, every single breath that was spent around him was an insult, a jab, trying your best to get into his head. And he did much of the same. You two hated each other, it had always been that way and it would always stay that way. 

That was, until the two of you had been paired up for a project together. Something about how to better raise attention for the Hunger Games, how to make them more enjoyable. You two had been at your house when you prepared for it together, the slight arrogance in your heart not even noticing the way that he had completely dodged all your questions about working at his place. It had gotten late, and despite the normal amount of bickering between the two of you, the bickering turned into a crude form of flirting. He said that your mouth could be used for such better things rather than to insult him the way that you did, and you were desperate to prove to him wrong. You wouldn’t fall for the flirtations of Coriolanus Snow, you were so sure of it. But soon enough, his lips were on yours and your clothes were on the expensive carpet of your room and you two had your limbs tangled in the silk sheets. A month passed, and like clockwork, the two of you would end up with each other with your clothes off. It didn’t matter the reason or the place, it always happened. 

He pushed you into the cold, almost sterile lab table, muttering something under his breath about how he only had a few minutes before he needed to go to lunch. You laughed, the sound getting cut off by his lips placing themselves on your own, like they always did. His kisses were bruising, like he was trying to prove something, and maybe he was. The harshness and brazen demeanor that enveloped him when you were around seemed to melt away with time, this certain activity that the two of you engaged in became more of a delightful reprieve than something to do to release tension. You paid no mind to it. 

“Then you better make those few minutes worth it,” You whispered, taking note of the footsteps that you could hear from outside the door. This wasn’t the first time that you had snuck around in the University, but every time it did fill you with a sense of urgency to get things started lest the two of you be caught. 

Coriolanus let out a chuckle. “I always do.” His lips pressed to the skin of your throat, teeth grazing against your pulse point before sucking on it loosely, enough to make a mark for only a moment. 

Cheeky. You thought to yourself, your hands finding refuge in his blonde hair, certain tufts of it retaining the curliness that you had known them to have during your time at the Academy. You pulled him closer, ever so closer, like you didn’t want to let him go. His hands helped to lift you up onto the lab table, your legs opening and his body slotting in between them, a perfect practiced dance. The University uniform was much more relaxed than the Academy’s was, a low cut black skirt making for easy access during these moments in between classes and lunch. His hips grinded against yours for only a moment, a gasp escaping your lips that was captured by another searing hot kiss, enough to know that he was telling you to be quiet. He continued to kiss you as his hand came down under your skirt, fingertips ghosting against your inner thighs before reaching where you wanted him most. 

He was met with a wet, sticky mess, an after effect of the fact that the two of you hadn’t fucked in over a week. Despite all of his brain power wanting to tease you for it, he found himself keeping this as a silent victory, the pad of his thumb coming in contact with your clit, slipping one finger in and curling it. You arched your back forward only slightly, already conveying the message that you wanted him inside you already. “Patience,” He whispered. 

You whined. He was the one who wanted to go to lunch anyways, and now he was stringing you along? You had half a mind to fight back, but the words died in your throat as he added a second finger, slipping in almost effortlessly. He continued to pump them in and out at a languid pace, his left hand holding your waist so that you couldn’t move. He was keeping the rhythm, not you. All the while his thumb kept rubbing against your clit, making you a squirming mess in his hands like putty. 

“Coriolanus,” You breathed. “Come on, please.” 

He hummed in response, acting as if he didn’t hear you. But he did, because soon enough he was withdrawing his fingers, hands working to free himself from his neatly pressed pants, his cock springing free in a matter of seconds. You wrapped your hands around his neck, his face coming into the crook of your own as he guided himself towards your entrance, the tip of his cock grazing as if to tease, before sheathing itself in. Once he bottomed out, he already started a fast rhythm, giving you little to no time to adjust. but you were so needy you didn’t care, not one bit because he was making you feel so good that you wished for this moment to last forever. and you were already so wet and willing, Coriolanus couldn’t wait a second longer. 

If he was tired from staying up all night to finish homework and studies, he didn’t even show it. Coriolanus fucked into you with such a frenzy that it was almost animalistic, which made you wonder how much energy this man possibly had. What you didn’t know was it was your moans what were spurring him on, your moans that kept him going. And you loved it so much that you couldn’t think straight. all you could do was try and keep yourself still, words stringing together into barely put together sentences of oh fuck yes and that feels so good. It was a moment of such pure bliss that you didn’t even feel yourself start to clench around him, noticing it finally when you felt every inch of him scrape against your willing walls, bringing you closer to that cliff into a sea of pleasure that only he could give you. What finally made you break was the groans that he was making, which were hot and heavy and like heaven to your ears that you knew you would be playing on repeat before you went to sleep tonight. 

His hand slipped between your legs, pressing up against your swollen clit and that was it. You were sent into a state of pure, fucked out bliss as you came around him, your moans being muffled by the shirt he was wearing, your mouth pressed against it to try and stifle all your noises in the moment. With a few more demanding thrusts, Coriolanus was spilling himself inside of you, a groan of contentment falling from his lips as his head dropped to your shoulder. Your legs were still wrapped around him, shaking from the change of pace, relishing in the moment that the two of you were sharing together. You barely had any time to refocus yourself before he was pulling out, a few remnants of his cum dripping out of you that you saved by pushing your underwear back into place. 

“Lunch better still be in the cafeteria,” He spoke, zipping up his pants and latching his belt. “If it’s not, you’re buying dinner tonight.” 

You cocked your head to the side. “Dinner?” Usually you two would never go out together. But before he answered, Coriolanus had already left the room. 

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (XIX)

The blood of the Covenant

Part one // Masterpost // continued from here

It's a day late but listen I just discovered jujutsu kaisen and wowza - I have never related more to a character than Satoru Gojo and the forced self-awareness I now have to endure bc all the other characters are just constantly criticising him - for good reasons ofc but like, I don't need the personal attack? Anyways! ENJOY

~*~*~*~*~*~

The moment Kit’s eyes lazily fluttered open he wanted to shut them again. There was no haziness to the morning, no brief reprieve of waking where there are no thoughts and you exist in a limbo state: halfway between dreaming and consciousness.

No. Not even the incredibly comfortable bed could provide a respite from his mind.

Kit didn’t get any of that.

The first thing that greeted him when he opened his eyes was Ambrose telling him that there was a telekinetic Villain in the city. And the only telekinetic hero Kit knew of was Mentor. There was Sawyer with his shadows too, but that Villain wasn’t Sawyer. Kit knew the coldness of his shadows.

Not to mention the strange thing happening with his own powers around Ambrose. It seemed like all fucking roads just lead back to Ambrose.

Kit had to get out of bed. He had to go downstairs and face Ambrose. He had to watch the news and see the scale of Ment— Villain’s— destruction. He had to call Superhero and try to ignore the feeling in his gut that told him this Villain — whoever he was — was actually Supervillain making an appearance for the first time.

His stomach turned as his mind linked Supervillain and Mentor together, but he couldn’t stop the thought from forming. He couldn’t seem to stop anything lately.

Kit clenched his teeth as he pushed himself up and out of bed. His socked feet touched soft carpet like a cloud and tension seemed to leave his body at the feeling. Ambrose may be a rich, entitled prick, but if Kit could wake up to these carpets every morning maybe he would be too.

He stretched, his limbs cracking as he woke them up. The exhaustion from yesterday’s overused powers had dissipated overnight, leaving Kit a bit more refreshed than usual. Actually, no. Not refreshed. He felt great! Normal. Aside from a mild headache but there was no bone deep tiredness in his limbs.

It felt strange, but in a good way. He clicked his fingers and a small blue bolt formed between them. Before he could be relieved, the bolt sparked violently, red tongues of lightning forked out of the blue until Kit dropped the charge.

Shit.

Kit walked out of the room, and opened a few doors before he found a bathroom. Ignoring the luxury of the room, Kit froze in the doorway. A mirror hung above the sink and reflected Kit’s bright red eyes back at him.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Kit muttered, half-running to the mirror and pulling his eyelids down. “Stop it. Stop it. Snap out of it!”

Kit slapped himself in the face and checked again but nothing. He turned the tap on, maybe he just needed to splash some water in his face. Yeah. That was it.

The water was cool over his fingertips and refreshing as it splashed his face, but when he looked up again all he saw was red. Kit slammed his hand down on the edge of the sink, glaring at his own face in the mirror.

This was all Ambrose’s fault! Before him Kit’s powers were under control! Always under control, but now… this thing with his eyes it made him sick. His electricity was supposed to be blue not red.

“Fuck!” Kit cried, smashing his fist against the edge of the sink again. “Stupid!” Punch. “Fucking.” Punch. “GAAH!” Punch. Punch. Punch.

Ambrose paused with his mug halfway to his lips in the kitchen, hearing a slight commotion upstairs. Mallory must be awake. Then slow, heavy footsteps not even an elephant would make down the stairs.

Kit got to the end of the staircase and looked right and left. The two halls looked identical, both grand and leading different directions. Kit just wanted a coffee… he trudged to the left, trusting his instincts.

From his right, he heard Ambrose: “in here, Mallory.”

Kit was about to throw a tantrum like a toddler, but instead he walked past the staircase and town the hall to the right. On his left he saw a kitchen from some ostentatious show house, like something you’d see on TV, but he ignored it and focused on the Villain sitting at the kitchen island.

His black eyes glinting with amusement as Kit stormed in, going straight for the kettle. Or well, he would’ve gone straight for the kettle had his knees not hit the floor with an echoing thud.

Kit hissed. “What the fuck?”

Ambrose frowned where he sat and stood, walking around the counter to see the hero on his knees in just his boxer shorts and t-shirt, staring up at Ambrose with wide red eyes glowing.

“Morning.” Ambrose said, then a smile came to his lips which bubbled into a laugh at the hero’s confusion. “Oh, I completely forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Kit snapped, trying to move his legs back and stand but he couldn’t. His knees were glued to the floor as if all gravity had amassed in his kneecaps that now seemed to weigh ten tonnes.

“God it seems so faraway now,” Ambrose murmured, being the cryptic fuck that he was.

Small streaks of electricity cackled from Kit’s eyes. “Forgot what?” He asked through clenched teeth. “In case you didn’t know, Rosey, I’m not exactly a morning person, so if you could undo whatever the fuck you’ve done, I’d appreciate it.”

“But you look so good on your knees,” Ambrose told him, reaching a hand out and ruffling Kit’s hair until Kit slapped his hand away. “Like a good puppy.”

“Oh fuck off, dickhead! Let me up.”

Ambrose’s black eyes danced with amusement. “Only if you ask nicely.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “Oh fuck off. I’m just going to fucking crawl I guess.”

“Ki—it,” Ambrose sing-songed, his voice moving like flute notes through his ears. He recognised the coldness of Ambrose’s powers pulling at his mind, the threat of what he could do.

Kit huffed out a breath. Crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t look at Ambrose as he mumbled: “can I get up?”

“What was that?” Ambrose asked, putting his hand to his ear like a pre-school teacher. “I couldn’t hear you over the coffee brewing.”

Red eyes snapped to black. “Can I get up? Please?!”

“Of course you can get up Kit.”

This time when Kit moved his legs, his knees didn’t keep him rooted to the spot.

“Dick,” he muttered under his breath, forcing himself not to shoulder check the villain as he passed him on the way to the kettle. “Can you undo whatever that is?”

Ambrose hummed. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. It was a measure to teach you manners.”

Fuck off, Kit thought venomously. I just want a coffee. Kit didn’t answer as he zeroed in on the kettle, and plugged it in.

“Oh, I already made a pot of coffee,” Ambrose said. Kit glanced over his shoulder at Ambrose, stare hard. Ambrose gestured to the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen and Kit was about to throw a fit. He wanted to throw the kettle at the man’s head, but he knew he just needed a coffee and then he’d be fine. So he restrained himself and walked to the coffee pot.

The smell of the coffee went straight to his heart. “Is this… drip coffee?” He asked as he poured the black liquid into the cup that was set out for him.

Ambrose scoffed behind him. “I know you’re used to living in squalor, Mallory, but I don’t keep instant coffee in the house.”

“Wow. I’m not complaining,” Kit said, turning to the island and going to sit beside Ambrose. “I mean, I don’t live in squalor, but drip coffee would be nice every morning.”

Ambrose’s black eyes went to Kit’s face as he sat into the stool. Kit was too busy looking at his bare legs to notice. “I forgot my trousers,” he grumbled, feeling the tips of his ears going pink.

Ambrose waved the comment away. “I’m sure you had more pressing issues this morning?”

Kit raised his pained gaze to Ambrose. Black eyes searched Kit’s red ones with a mildly contained annoyance. “I was hoping there wouldn’t be any lingering effects of yesterday.”

“Lingering effects?” Kit repeated incredulously. “Lingering effects?! Oh I’m sorry if my overworked powers are inconveniencing you in any way, Ambrose. I’m so sorry—”

Ambrose waved him away. “Okay, you’re being dramatic.”

While Kit continued speaking over him, sarcasm dripping from every syllable: “so very, devastatingly, sorry that my powers are all out of whack because a fucking sadistic piece of shit just loves to push me until I can’t go further.”

“Apology accepted.”

Kit scoffed, shaking his head and took another gulp of his coffee. Fuck it tasted so good, it almost made him calm down. Almost.

“But the fact of the matter is we have more pressing issues.”

A sardonic smile slid its way onto Kit’s lips, resting his chin in the palm of his hand and gesturing between them. “What is this “we” you speak of?” He asked, red eyes alight with amusement.

“Mentor, Kit. I’m talking about Mentor.”

Kit’s face dropped as he straightened. “What is this we you speak of?” He repeated tightly.

“Mallory—”

“No,” Kit spat venomously, running a hand through his hair. “No, I am not talking about Mentor with the person who destroyed his mind for fun. No. We’re not doing this.”

“Kit— it’s important, we need—”

“STOP SAYING WE!” Kit roared, slamming his hands down on the table. Red sparks erupting around him as his anger grew. He wanted to smile at the look of fear that flashed across Ambrose’s face as the electricity spit and spewed around him, like a thousand hungry tongues hissing at the air around them.

“There is no we, Ambrose.” Kit continued, his voice echoing slightly with static as if he were speaking through an old radio. “There has never been a we. The only thing that joins you and me is Mentor, and that’s a very thin line because you didn’t know about our connection until what? This week?! You have no fucking right to speak to me about—”

“Mentor is my father.”

The silence would have been deafening if Kit’s electricity didn’t stutter and stop with a pathetic jolts like an old man’s fart. Kit’s mind screeched to a stop with a record scratch, before running ten miles a second because what the fuck did Ambrose just fucking say?!

Kit just stared as Ambrose clenched his hands into fists and loosened them again, repeating the gesture as if he were reaching for something he couldn’t quite touch. It felt as if Kit’s eyelids were torn with how wide they stared at the villain in front of him because this was some fucking sick joke, right?!

“It’s not a joke,” Ambrose said quietly, a wry smile on his face when Kit’s immediate thought was: get out of my head. “It’s not a joke, Kit. I wish it were.”

“You’re—” Kit began, but didn’t have enough breath in his lungs to finish the sentence, his eyes prickling with tears that he refused to let fall. “You… you’re lying. There’s no… you don’t even—”

Kit wasn’t making sense. They were all half formed thoughts spilling from lips as he wondered whether he should kill Ambrose where he stood now, or later.

“You don’t even share the same last name,” Kit settled on, his mind reeling. Ambrose met his eyes finally and Kit wished he hadn’t. He didn’t want to see the vulnerable humanity lingering in Ambrose’s black gaze, the hard tilt to his brows. The confession seemed to strip Ambrose of everything that him, well… Ambrose, and left a man, no a boy, not much older than Kit sitting before him. “You don’t even look alike! You’re not— you can’t be—”

Ambrose sucked in a breath through his nose, burying his face in his palms and rubbing his eyes. “I can show you my birth certificate if you’d like.”

Kit sprung to his feet because he didn’t know what else to do. His body was wired — no alive — with a restless energy that he couldn’t quell or control and the only way he could do something about it was somehow related to jumping off the stool.

“You— you! There’s— you can’t be Mentor’s son! Mentor didn’t— doesn’t have a family!”

Ambrose scoffed, running his hands down his face until they settled around his cup in front of him, his gaze distant. “He would say that.”

“You’re lying.”

Ambrose turned his head to face Kit, though he didn’t really look at him. More like through him. A wry smile pulled at the edges of his eyes.

“Believe it or not, Kit. The fact remains the same.” Ambrose took a sip of his coffee or tea or whatever, while Kit just stood uselessly staring at Ambrose and trying to logic a way to this being some joke, or ruse. “I wish it wasn’t true either.”

“You— you—” Kit stuttered, his hands balling into fists at his sides. Ambrose widened his eyes slightly, raising a placating hand towards Kit.

“Hey, Kit. Calm down.”

Don’t tell me to calm down, Kit wanted to say but he couldn’t get the words out. He couldn’t stop shaking, his entire body felt as if he just drank a vat full of caffeine and it wanted to go, go, go. It was as if someone had just jump-started every nerve in his body, every muscle contracting, every blood cell oxygenated and his body felt far too small as everything seemed to constrict inside of him and there wasn’t enough space and his veins felt ready to burst and—

“HEY! KIT!” Ambrose screamed from far, far below Kit. He wondered distantly what was happening, why Ambrose felt so far away. Why Kit felt like he couldn’t breathe and yet never felt more alive at the same time. “FUCK!”

KIT PLEASE! STOP! Ambrose cried in his mind, but there was no power behind his words. It wasn’t a command, which Kit recognised was strange. Ambrose wasn’t one for allowing free will and all.

Still, there was something wrong. Something very wrong with this picture and Kit couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Every time he tried to narrow it down, the thought ran like water through his fingers and he couldn’t really feel his own body anymore.

Kit crashed down to reality when his head cracked off the tile and he groaned. Ambrose was on the floor beside him, far enough away that the sparks didn’t reach him that were still spluttering from Kit’s body, but why was he on the floor?

“Kit? You with me?” Ambrose asked, black eyes wide with… that couldn’t be concern, not in Ambrose’s eyes. Kit must be hallucinating. Maybe this was all just a dream, a terrible bad dream and he would wake up and everything would be fine.

Instead, Kit groaned in pain, trying to push himself up. His muscles wouldn’t listen though and just shook uselessly beside him, not supporting his weight.

“Kit, talk to me, please.”

“Shut… up… dick.”

“You just thrashed my kitchen, Kit, I think I’m allowed to speak to you.”

Kit blinked, rolling onto his back. “I— what?”

Ambrose didn’t have to answer for Kit to see the scorch marks in the ceiling of his perfect kitchen, or the cracks in the shapes of lichtenberg figures in the walls. Kit winced, glancing at Ambrose who looked to be lost in concentration.

“Ambrose… I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know.”

“No,” Kit protested, raising his hands in front of his face. They sparked and hissed like Kit was in overdrive, hooked up to his own nuclear reactor, a steady stream of small bolts charging the air around his palms. “I’m not doing this.”

Ambrose nodded, tapping his temple with his index finger. “I know,” he said again, and got to his feet. “The best thing I can think to do is the power dampeners.”

Kit sat up with an effort, pressing his back against a counter in Ambrose’s ridiculously massive kitchen. “Did they work?”

“No, knocking you out, worked. Though I doubt you want to do that every time this happens.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Well, then. Power dampeners it is.” Ambrose said with a breath. “Does the circuit still close if you wear the two of them on one hand?”

Kit shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t tried it. Usually when you’re catching criminals you want their hands bound too.”

“Hmm, I assume it would work the same. Only one way to find out, right?”

Kit nodded, pushing himself to his feet. Only then did he see the real extent of the damage he did. The stools were scattered around the room, appliances ripped out of sockets. Half of the kettle was melded to the door of the microwave, the microwave itself looked like a crushed aluminium can.

Kit glanced down at his fingers, at the red lightning. Did he really do all this without realising?

His mind went back to his Academy days, when he had first arrived and was only learning how emotions tied to his abilities. It was Superhero who sat down with him and taught him that in order to master his gift, he had to cut off the link between his emotions and his abilities, or he wouldn’t get anywhere as a hero.

This red lightning, it seemed, burrowed all the way down to Kit’s emotions — his negative emotions — anger, rage, hatred, confusion. How could he stop something he could barely recognise the warning signs of?

“Don’t think too much about it, Mallory. Let’s just do one thing at a time. The power dampeners.”

Kit nodded. “Right. The power dampeners.” He repeated, glancing down at his bare legs. “And trousers.”

Ambrose smiled. “Yeah. Might be a good idea.”

Kit walked back out of the kitchen, when by the door Ambrose stopped him again. “Kit, if you want fresh clothes, feel free.”

Kit stopped in the door, glancing over his shoulder at Ambrose who looked mildly embarrassed at the offer. It was a strange thing to see on him. He didn’t quite meet Kit’s eye, his hand wound tight around the back of a chair, while the other brought the mug to his lips.

Kit could tease the villain about it. Usually he would, but he felt gross and shit, so he just nodded. “Cheers.”

Ambrose raised his head, meeting Kit’s eyes and nodded slightly. Then Kit took off down the hall and up the ridiculous stairs and into the first room he found last night. He wanted a shower, he decided when he picked his jacket off the ground, taking the power dampeners from his pocket and tossing them on the bed.

Something to relax his muscles and clear his head. That would be heavenly right about now. Kit grabbed his jeans and threw them on the bed too. He bunched a fistful of his shirt and brought it to his nose, and winced at the smell. Yep, okay. He needed a shower.

He turned in the room, taking it in for the first time. It was huge, as was everything in this stupid house. He walked to the wardrobe that was tucked into the corner of the room, opening the doors. He expected suits and tailored trousers, but was pleasantly surprised when he saw a couple of old hoodies hung up. One of them an old Harvard sweatshirt that had the initials O. Ambrose embroidered into the chest.

It felt like important information, but Kit didn’t really care. His mind racing with the fact that Ambrose was somehow related to Mentor. His son? Why wouldn’t he tell Kit that he had a son? Why weren’t there any pictures or mentions of him ever?

It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

Kit sighed, closing the doors to the wardrobe and opening the long door beside it. Inside were shelves of t-shirts and sweatpants and jocks and socks.

Kit took what he needed and walked to the bathroom, searching for towels before he locked the door.

“Mallory,” Ambrose said from outside.

Kit walked over to the door to see Ambrose outside, two towels in his hand. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Kit grabbed them and closed the door, locking it and turning on the shower. He ignored the flash of red he saw in the mirror. He stripped and stepped into the shower, and almost gasped at the pressure of the water drumming down on his shoulders and head.

It was so good. Better than a hotel’s pressure good, better than Kit’s shitty apartment shower anyways. He let out a long, soft sigh of relief as he felt the rushing hot water unwind the knots and pressure in his muscles. He could die under the water and he would die happy.

He washed the memories of the last day away. God was it only a day? The stress from work and Superhero’s babying treatment of him after his illness, mixing with the pains of being with Ambrose for any amount of time.

Kit rubbed his neck and collarbone where Ambrose had choked him yesterday, still feeling a phantom tie wrapped around his throat like a weighted shadow. His gaze trailed down to his arms where the cuts Ambrose had forced him to make were glaring up at him. They had scabbed over at this point, almost healing. The scabs turned yellowish-green under the water, then a purple red beneath it.

All this pain, all this… abuse Ambrose had subjected him too. Was this the price for meeting Mentor? He knew it was too good to be true when Mentor chose him, out of everyone in his year, to personally apprentice under.

The man who little by little, wore down his walled defences while building his strength and magic and confidence. Who made sure he ate everyday, who taught him the value of nutrition and how to make a proper cup of tea…

Kit slammed his fist against the tiles of the shower, hot tears mixing with the water on his face. Ambrose was a monster. He couldn’t be related to Mentor. Mentor… Mentor was a saint. He saved the entire city!

He trusted Kit!

Why wouldn’t he tell him that he had a son? Why keep it secret?! Especially someone as powerful as Ambrose, you’d think he would scream it from the rooftops.

But… but… Mentor was alone when he chose Kit. No trace of a family anywhere in his house, no other heroes mentioned it. He was alone, like Kit, and they made a family together. With each other.

Kit knew it was true, that it was real. It was the only thing he had ever been sure of in his life, so why! Kit banged his fist against the tiles again. Why was there an ache in his chest as if his heart was poisoned?! Why was there a voice in the back of his head that sadly told him that Ambrose wasn’t lying?!

Why!

Why!

Why!

Why!

Why?!

Maybe Mentor was the villain from last night. Maybe Kit never really knew him at all. Maybe Mentor only trusted him with a very small part of his life.

Either way Ambrose had the answers. Kit needed to face them, no matter how painful they would no doubt be, to hear him out.

He scoffed, sniffing. “Listen to yourself,” he muttered to the tiles, his voice uncharacteristically empty. “Hearing Ambrose out? What’s wrong with you?”

Kit sniffed, wiping the snot from his face. “Pathetic.”

He glanced to the shelf in the shower and grabbed the shower gel, staring at the bottle. It wasn’t a 3in1. Kit raised his eyes again to see other bottles in the shower. Kit stared. His brain buffering as his hand reached out to grab another bottle.

Shampoo.

Fancy looking shampoo.

Ambrose just wasted his money on fucking everything didn’t he? Was his toilet paper sheet gold?

Kit shrugged, putting the shower gel back and squeezed out some shampoo onto his hand. It smelled good. It smelled fancy.

Kit quickly showered and dried himself, wrapping the towel around his waist as he walked out to his room. Kit changed into a new t-shirt he borrowed from Ambrose and pulled on his jeans and jacket and runners.

The power dampeners he fastened around his right wrist, feeling his powers immediately diminish. When he locked the second one around the same wrist he snapped his fingers on his left hand. Nothing.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

One problem down.

He pocketed the key and left the room. Ambrose was standing in his kitchen, also dressed, his hair wet from a shower. Ambrose wore a loose sweatshirt that looked soft and black cargo pants that tucked into his boots.

Kit held up his hand triumphantly as he fell to his knees. “The power dampeners worked.”

Ambrose raised his head from an iPad, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. “And you have pants.”

“Mission successful!” Kit beamed, not caring that he was still compelled to kneel in front of Ambrose like some servant to a king.

“Good.” Ambrose said with a nod, sliding the iPad across the counter top. “You can stand, Kit. I have some bad news.”

Kit groaned, pulling himself to his feet. “What now?”

The frustration died in his throat when he saw the headlines: Water Hero kidnapped by new Supervillain, Superhero reports.

“What?” Kit asked with a breath, looking at Ambrose. “What is this?”

Ambrose stood with his arms across his chest, a hand on his mouth as he shrugged with one shoulder. “That villain last night—”

“But why would he take her?” He said “he” instead of Mentor because his brain didn’t equate the two. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

“I don’t know.”

“There has to be a reason?” Kit demanded, scrolling through the article.

“I already checked,” Ambrose said with a shake of his head. He waited patiently until Kit fact checked that there was no mention of why the villain took her. Kit turned his sad eyes to Ambrose again, putting the iPad on the counter. “I think we need to go see Mentor.”

Kit deflated at the suggestion. He knew that this was coming. That eventually they’d have to go and see Mentor and check to see if he really is — if he could be…

Fuck.

Kit didn’t want to think about it.

He steeled his expression and his resolve. “Fine. You can explain everything on the way.”

Ambrose nodded stiffly, not fond of sharing his past with the Hero, but maybe, it was time to share everything, especially if that new supervillain is Mentor.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer r @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @mononeigbour @tippytappytyping @stefaniesblogs @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios @whatwhump

[novaursa]

hii!

can you make a where dragons dare oneshot focused on reader and alicent? the other one had nothing of her and the story was originally about them so we need the ship back <3 it could be about the kids being around the driftmark episode ages and reader take alicent for a dragon ride and they have some cute date/picnic bc alicent is too stressed about something (could be the aftermath of the driftmark drama) and reader notices her harming herself at her fingers again and decided to do something. they go to a pretty place with flowers, a small river etc etc thank you in advance

-🌬️

Where Dragons Dare (Lost Chapter With Alicent)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: In the aftermath of events at Driftmark, you take your wife away from it and comfort her.

- Paring: male!reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: This is another expansion of the story Where Dragons Dare. You can find all parts of the story on my first list that is pinned to the top. This part will be on the second list.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: Lost Chapters

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The wind rushes past your ears as Dallax’s massive, dark wings slice through the sky, each powerful stroke carrying you and Alicent far from the oppressive atmosphere of Driftmark. Beneath you, the landscape stretches out—a patchwork of green fields and rocky coastlines dotted with clusters of wildflowers. The sea shimmers in the distance, the sunlight glittering off its surface like shards of glass.

You guide Dallax down toward a small clearing by the edge of a river, where wildflowers grow in abundance, their vibrant colors standing out against the lush greenery. The clearing is secluded, far from the eyes and ears of the court, and the only sounds are the soft rustle of the wind in the trees and the distant roar of the sea. It’s peaceful here, a sharp contrast to the chaos that has consumed your family in recent days.

As Dallax lands with a graceful thud, his scales shimmer under the afternoon sun, the deep black glinting like polished obsidian, his glowing green eyes watching as you dismount first. You turn to help Alicent, offering her a hand as she slides from the saddle. You feel the slight tremor in her grip, the remnants of her old fear of flying, though she has grown accustomed to it over the years. Her green dress, embroidered with gold threads, billows around her as she steadies herself on the soft grass, her eyes flitting nervously to Dallax before settling on the river that flows nearby.

“A small reprieve,” you murmur, your voice low, trying to ease the tension you see in her. “A place away from all that’s happened.”

Alicent’s smile is faint, her lips barely curling, but the strain in her expression is unmistakable. Her thoughts are elsewhere, caught in the tangled web of recent events. You can see it in the way her fingers twitch at her side, picking at the skin around her nail—a nervous habit she has developed in the wake of the stress that has overtaken her life since childhood. 

Your chest tightens at the sight. The weight of everything—the bitterness, the pain, the powerless feeling that gnaws at your heart since Viserys refused to punish Rhaenyra’s son—presses down on you. Aemond’s eye is gone, your son maimed, yet there has been no justice for it. The bitterness threatens to consume you, but you push it down. Not now. Not here.

You kneel beside her, gently placing your hand over her own, stilling her fingers. “Alicent,” you say softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re hurting yourself.”

She looks down at your hand, her brow furrowing as if only now realizing what she had been doing. Slowly, her fingers relax under your touch. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, but you can see the turmoil in her eyes—the exhaustion, the fear, the grief for Aemond, for your family.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she admits, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rushing river. “Everything is falling apart, and I…I feel so helpless.”

You shift closer to her, your hand remaining on hers, a grounding presence amidst the storm that swirls around you both. “You’re not helpless,” you reply, your voice firm yet gentle. “We are not helpless, Alicent. Aemond did nothing wrong. He claimed Vhagar as was his right. No one can take that from him, or from us.”

She exhales sharply, her gaze lifting to meet yours, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But he’s lost an eye because of it. And Viserys…he refuses to act. He refuses to defend our children, his grandchildren.”

Your jaw tightens at the mention of your father. His inaction stings more than you care to admit, but you can’t show that to her now. Instead, you lean closer, resting your forehead against hers, your voice low and steady. “Aemond is strong. He will rise above this. We will rise above this, together. And when the time comes, justice will be done.”

She closes her eyes at your words, as though drawing strength from them, from you. The tension in her body begins to ease, her breathing slowing as the weight of your presence offers her a moment of peace, however fleeting.

After a long silence, she pulls back slightly, her hand still in yours. “I hate feeling this way,” she confesses, her voice softer now, more vulnerable. “Like everything is out of my control. Like I’m losing everything.”

You cup her face with your free hand, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You haven’t lost me,” you say firmly, your gaze locking with hers. “We may not have control over what others do, but we have each other. And that is something they can never take from us.”

Her eyes search yours, as if looking for some reassurance, some promise that things will get better. And though you can’t promise her that the days ahead will be easier, you can promise her this—your unwavering support, your love.

“I needed to hear that,” she whispers, her voice cracking slightly. She leans into your touch, resting her cheek against your palm.

You smile softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Then you’ll hear it as many times as you need.”

For a moment, the weight of the world falls away, and it’s just the two of you in this quiet clearing, the sound of the river and the distant sea a comforting hum in the background. You sit with her on the blanket you had brought, sharing a simple meal, your fingers occasionally brushing hers as you pass her bread or fruit. It’s a small thing, this picnic, but it’s enough to remind you both of what truly matters.

You watch her as the afternoon sun casts a golden glow across her face, softening the lines of worry that have creased her brow for so long. She looks at peace, if only for a moment, and you find yourself wishing you could keep her in this moment forever—away from the court, away from the bitterness and the bloodshed.

But for now, this is enough. This moment, here with her, is enough.

[isak-dot-gov]

can you do emily engstler with a autistic reader??

In Tune With You

Pairing: Emily Engstler x Autistic!reader

Word count: 1669

My masterlist :)

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You were sitting in the cosy corner of your favourite coffee shop, a place you often retreated to when the world felt a bit too overwhelming. The comforting hum of the espresso machine, the soft chatter of customers, and the warm lighting all created an environment that felt just right. You had your headphones on, playing your go-to playlist—music that helped ground you when your senses were on overdrive.

Today was one of those days. The usual background noises seemed louder, the lights a bit too bright, and the crowds more suffocating than usual. You had been feeling this way more often lately, especially with the increasing demands of work and social obligations. But this coffee shop, your sanctuary, offered a reprieve from the chaos.

You took a deep breath, focusing on the rhythmic beats in your ears and trying to steady yourself. Your latte sat in front of you, untouched, as you zoned out, attempting to tune out the world and find some semblance of peace. You knew you would need to leave eventually, but for now, you let yourself sink into the music and the calm atmosphere of the shop.

Meanwhile, Emily Engstler, your girlfriend, was finishing up her practice at the gym. She’d been thinking about you all day, sensing through your texts that you were having one of those tough days. Emily understood you better than anyone—she’d seen the way the world could be too much for you, how your senses sometimes became overloaded with stimuli. She had learned to read your mood and your needs, picking up on the little signs that others might miss.

After her last set, Emily grabbed her bag and quickly made her way to the locker room, eager to get to you. She knew where you’d be; you always went to the same coffee shop when you needed a break. It was your safe place, a haven where you could escape the noise and chaos of the world. Emily loved that about you—how you found comfort in familiar routines and spaces.

As she walked to the coffee shop, she thought about all the ways she could make your day better. Emily knew that sometimes, all you needed was someone to sit with you in silence, someone who understood without needing to ask questions. And she was more than happy to be that person for you.

When Emily finally arrived at the coffee shop, she paused outside the door, peering in through the window to spot you. Her heart swelled with affection as she saw you sitting there, headphones on, eyes closed, completely lost in your own world. She could tell from the slight tension in your shoulders and the way you clutched your coffee cup that you were still feeling overwhelmed.

Emily took a deep breath, steadying herself. She wanted to approach you in the right way, to ensure she didn’t add to your stress. So, she quietly pushed the door open, the bell above it chiming softly as she entered. She made her way over to you, her footsteps light and careful, not wanting to startle you.

As she reached your table, she gently touched your shoulder, her expression soft and reassuring. She waited patiently as you turned your head, your eyes widening in pleasant surprise at the sight of Emily. You quickly pulled off your headphones, a smile spreading across your face.

“Emily! What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice filled with genuine happiness.

“I wanted to see you,” she replied with a gentle smile. “I figured you might be here, so I thought I’d drop by.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. Emily had a way of making everything feel okay, even on your hardest days. She always understood, never judged, and gave you the space you needed without making you feel like you were a burden.

“I’m glad you came,” you said softly, reaching out to take her hand. “It’s been a bit of a rough day.”

Emily squeezed your hand gently, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of it. “I’m here now, okay? We can just sit here, or we can go for a walk. Whatever you need.”

You thought for a moment, considering her offer. The coffee shop was comforting, but being with Emily was even more so. “How about we stay here for a bit? I like it here with you.”

Emily nodded, sliding into the seat across from you. She watched as you put your headphones back on, knowing you needed them to help keep the sensory input at bay. She didn’t mind. She understood that sometimes words weren’t necessary, that just being together was enough.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the faint music from your headphones and the soft buzz of the coffee shop. Every so often, Emily would glance over at you, her heart swelling with affection. She loved you for who you were, every part of you, including the parts that made you different from everyone else.

After a while, you took off your headphones, placing them around your neck. “Thank you for being here, Emily,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It means a lot to me.”

Emily reached across the table, taking your hand in hers again. “You never have to thank me for that, Y/N. I’m here because I want to be. Because I care about you, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the love and understanding that Emily always showed you. “I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion.

Emily shook her head, her expression soft and full of love. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve it, Y/N. I love you for who you are, just as you are. And I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you squeezed her hand tightly. “I love you too, Emily. More than anything.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, just enjoying each other’s company. You knew that no matter how overwhelming the world could be, as long as you had Emily by your side, you could face anything. With her, you felt understood, accepted, and most importantly, loved.

As the minutes passed, Emily noticed you visibly relaxing. Your shoulders weren’t as tense, and the worry lines on your forehead had smoothed out. It was a small victory, but one that filled her with pride. She loved seeing you at ease, knowing that her presence could help you feel more grounded.

“Hey,” Emily said softly, breaking the silence. “How about we get out of here for a bit? There’s a park nearby with a quiet walking trail. It might be nice to get some fresh air.”

You considered her suggestion, nodding slowly. “Yeah, that sounds good. I think I could use a change of scenery.”

Emily smiled, standing up and holding out her hand to help you up. “Let’s go, then. We’ll take it slow, okay?”

You took her hand, grateful for her thoughtfulness. As the two of you left the coffee shop, Emily kept you close, her hand resting gently on the small of your back. She guided you toward the park, her pace relaxed and unhurried.

Once you reached the park, the cool breeze and the rustling of leaves provided a soothing backdrop. You walked side by side with Emily, occasionally brushing against each other as you navigated the winding path. The quiet nature of the park was a welcome contrast to the busy coffee shop, and you found yourself taking deep, calming breaths as you walked.

Emily kept an eye on you, watching for any signs of discomfort. She knew that being outdoors could sometimes be just as overwhelming as being in a crowded space, but today seemed to be different. You looked more at ease, your steps lighter and your expression serene.

“Feeling a bit better?” Emily asked, glancing over at you.

You nodded, a small smile on your lips. “Yeah, I think so. Thank you for suggesting this. I really needed it.”

Emily squeezed your hand, her smile widening. “I’m glad it’s helping. You know, you don’t always have to face these things alone. I’m here for you, always.”

You stopped walking, turning to face Emily. “I know. And I’m so grateful for that, Emily. You have no idea how much it means to me to have someone who understands.”

Emily’s eyes softened, and she reached out to cup your cheek with her hand. “I’m just glad I can be here for you. You mean the world to me, Y/N. I’ll always do whatever I can to make sure you’re okay.”

You leaned into her touch, closing your eyes for a moment as you savored the comfort of her presence. “I love you so much, Emily. Thank you for being my rock.”

Emily leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I love you too, Y/N. More than you’ll ever know.”

The two of you continued walking, enjoying the peacefulness of the park and the comfort of each other’s company. You knew that with Emily by your side, you could face any challenge that came your way. She was your anchor in a stormy sea, and you couldn’t imagine your life without her.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the park, you and Emily found a bench to sit on. You leaned against her, resting your head on her shoulder as she wrapped an arm around you. For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt completely at ease, knowing that you were loved and understood by someone who truly cared.

And in that moment, sitting with Emily under the fading light of the day, you knew that everything was going to be okay.

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[mahoushojo-chan]

Astarion x Tav || dress-making

without any strings attached

synopsis: He traces the edges of the loose, unwoven threads of fabric. He folds the muslin cloth and cuts the edges, unravelling worn patches with his knife. He patches the holes with a beautiful ladder stitch, hems the edges with a simple running stitch. He can ruffle the fabric around the arms to make a batwing sleeve for her. He holds up the chemise to the candlelight when he’s finished with it. It’s fit to the bust and adorned with a ruffled edge. It feels like something is missing—he likes to embroider phrases on his clothes, but he can’t figure out what to put.

Or, Astarion makes a nightgown for Tav.

an excerpt of ‘cause my love (is mine, all mine)

word count: 1817

pairing: astarion/tav

other tags: f!reader, hurt/comfort, sickfic, slight angst, non-sexual intimacy, romantic tension, friends to lovers, dress making, not being used to love or loving, help these idiots please

now listening: two - sleeping at last 

ao3: here

concept: sickfic part 2 + dress making

All that occupies his mind is Tav. The dream he had, her blood, her songs, her tireless efforts, her pitiful trembling and perspiration, and the state of her clothes soaked with various unpleasant fluids. The realization of how powerless he is against natural illnesses.

Vampires and their spawn didn’t get sick. He had almost forgotten that was something that most people did. He can’t remember the last time he was sick—what he did, what his parents would do. They all belonged to a time before he was turned, when he was still just an elf. He knows the bare minimum, and Dalyria is ever-present to remind him: she needs food, water, and lots and lots of rest.

Still, he can’t help but think she must be stuffy with all the stagnant air in the keep and her old dusty, road-tattered clothing will help.

If he can’t get her body off of his mind, then he might as well do something with it.

He finds enough material in the wardrobes. There are a number of blankets that go unused due to their poor quality—whether it’s because of stains or tears, but he can’t let them go to waste.

Astarion would like to say that he doesn’t remember this particular skill of his. It feels menial—a task suited for peasants or handmaidens. He never saw himself as someone who fixed things, but sewing was just a small way to keep his luxuries intact. It helps him keep his life sweeter.

How many evenings had stitching, sewing, embroidering, granted him peace and reprieve? How many times had the needle pricked his finger before he could finish a pattern without staining the fabric with red beads? How long had it taken him to make knots that would endure the finest cloth?

He traces the edges of the loose, unwoven threads of fabric. He folds the muslin cloth and cuts the edges, unravelling worn patches with his knife. He patches the holes with a beautiful ladder stitch, hems the edges with a simple running stitch. He can ruffle the fabric around the arms to make a batwing sleeve for her. He holds up the chemise to the candlelight when he’s finished with it. It’s fit to the bust and adorned with a ruffled edge. It feels like something is missing—he likes to embroider phrases on his clothes, but he can’t figure out what to put.

It doesn’t need to be perfect, although he wants it to be. The red seams are a stark contrast against the white fabric and make every mistake obvious. It just needs to be fit for use when she needs it.

He figures he’ll ask Dalyria to bring it to her, since she’s been doing a well enough job as Tav’s bedside nurse when Astarion’s away. He had practically coerced her into sticking beside his companion—but if Dalyria were there, it meant that Leon would not be, which was to Astarion’s relief. It wasn’t his place to intervene, but he knows the temptation after a bite can be excessive, and Tav doesn’t have enough blood to share.

Just as he finishes folding it, he hears the door to the room creak open. He assumes it’s one of his siblings, and they usually let each other come and go without acknowledging the other’s presence.

But the scent hits him quickly. He would recognize it anywhere.

He feels warm arms wrap around his shoulders and a hot breath whispers in his ear, “This is where you were, Star?”

Her voice sends shivers down his spine. His ears are particularly sensitive, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s doing it intentionally as she continues, “Come back.”

“No need for such impatience.” He tuts disapprovingly, but there’s no bite to it. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

As he turns back to face her, he sees her hand reach out to him and he almost flinches. She brushes a lock away from his face, and tucks it behind his ear, her finger brushing his cheek. She seemingly ignores what he’s trying to tell her, and simply looks at Astarion. She bats her lashes up at him. “It was in your face,” she says, matter-of-factly, letting out a little giggle at the end again.

He sobers a little. Is this her plan to get him to forgive her little excursion out of bed? He reaches out to tame Tav’s hair. “All your hair is in your face,” he counters, trying to push it out of her face, until he’s holding her face from both sides. He looks at Tav’s serene, sleepy eyes, her cutely pillow-tousled hair, and, most of all, her soft-looking lips. She looks back at him, and he feels his throat go dry again. Damn.

When he goes to move his hands away, she reaches up and touches his right hand, leaning into his touch until she’s able to hide her face in it, until she’s all but kissing the palm of his hand.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I was saying nonsense.” She says, and Astarion furrows his eyebrows, unsure of what she’s apologizing for. It doesn’t sound like she’s apologizing for being sick—not anymore, at least—but then she adds, “Are you avoiding me?”

He’s a little surprised because he’s been doing his best to hide it. It wasn’t like he was completely abandoning her, of course, but he doesn’t want to get in between whatever she’s looking for. If she’s looking for more than what Astarion can give, he has no choice but to concede, so he explains, “I just don’t want to get in your way. I mean, far be it my place to tell you what to do, right?”

He had been very careful to sound as neutral as possible, so he’s a little surprised to hear her console him. “You’re not in my way. Why would you say that?” She seems to pout, and her eyebrows scrunch up with worry.

Because I suspect you’re going to find someone better and tire of me any day now, and so I have no choice but to mentally prepare himself, is what he wants to say.

Technically, this isn’t fair to Tav, and he knows it. The only thing she had done was allowed Leon to feed on her, so it would be easy to tell himself that this idea is all in his head and he should just get over it. Feeding wasn’t inherently romantic. She might even have done it just because Leon had been starving himself. It’s just that Leon sounded like he was… fond of Tav, and he knows his older brother is affectionate. He’s willing to sacrifice his freedom for the people he loves.

Tav deserves someone who loves her. Someone who is bound to her through thick and thin. There are times where Astarion wishes he was that kind of person; but he doesn’t know if he is. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to be. He doesn’t know a lot about himself, and surely Tav has better things to do than appease his uncertainties.

“I just…” Astarion pauses, unsure of how to word it. He turns towards the nightgown he made for her because it’s easier to look at than meet her gaze. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know how to love.”

Surprisingly, she replies, “I don’t know how to be loved.”

Astarion had expected her to say something sweet and comforting, since she always knew the right words to say. She was always so in-control of her thoughts and feelings. To hear her admission feels like it dooms them both. He realizes that her sickness has made her more honest, and she’s probably revealed something rather important with that statement, but it’s such an absurd situation that he can’t help but throw his head back, letting raucous laughter ring before settling down. “Well, fuck.”

She giggles as well, more in response to his contagious laughter than the situation itself.

He sighs, letting the electricity between them die down.

Finally, he shifts his chair backwards with a resounding creak, tipping back on his seat to balance the back legs precariously. “Before you distract me any more, you need to get back to resting. But before that, get changed.” He scolds, and passes her the nightgown he had made. “I’m not overly enthusiastic with the result, but anything’s better than your abused homely clothes.” He points out.

“A smock? It’s a little small for you, don’t you think?” She asks, and he sighs.

“It’s yours, actually. Something clean, for once.”

She reaches out to take it and unfolds it in her lap. He expects her to put it on and then he can escort her back to bed, but she looks down at it incredulously. She takes extra time to trace her fingers over the fabric, paying extra attention to the stitching.

Then her eyes start welling up with tears.

Astarion panics a little at this.

“It’s surely not that awful—” he starts, but then he properly sees her expression when he leans in to take it back from her.

Her tears drip onto the fabric as she looks down at it, treating it as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. “Y-You made this for me?” She chokes up, though Astarion isn’t sure whether it’s the light cough or the emotion in her voice. She continues, “Th-thank you.”

He figures the cold really must have chipped away at her senses, because he didn’t expect her to react like this. “It’s not that rare for me to do something nice.” He chides, but his hand already reaches to wipe her tears.

“No, no, it’s just—it’s your love.” She tells him, cryptically and poetically as usual, clutching it tightly. He doesn’t understand, so she continues, “It’s the shape of sewn holes, careful stitches and washed cotton, today.”

He still doesn’t know what she means, and it sounds like a bit of nonsense to him. He rolls his eyes, and tells her, “Yes, yes, you can tell me all your maudlin poetry about love once you’re feeling better. Now get changed.”

He turns around so she can do so, and she’s so amazed that she actually follows his request.

When he turns back around, he’s nearly knocked breathless at how well she wears his dress. There’s just something about her beauty, her long, disheveled hair and bare feet, the beautiful white gown fits her perfectly, and it gives an ethereal aesthetic.

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” The words slip out of him before he realizes it, and he sits back to admire her work.

She seems to agree with him, although she doesn’t say so. Her hands keep tracing the hems of her sleeves and the carefully stitched patterns at the end. All she does ask is, “How—How could you think you’re incapable of love?

[miseries-mistress]

A L𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 H𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 (𝖠 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖥𝖺𝖼𝖾)

Paring: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Synopsis: It wasn’t often that the OP went wrong, not after all the planning and hours spent pouring over logistics and floor plans, but the darkness often holds unforeseen powers that wait in the shadows to strike. As a result, you end up injured, and Ghost doesn’t take it lightly, his concern mutilated into a body of rage. 

Warnings: gender not mentioned, injury, canon-typical violence, blood, gore, reader is injured, insecurity, self-doubt, slight angst

Words: 2633

Notes: my first ghost fic. just tryna get the feel of writing such a complicated man. 

call of duty masterlist

If your eyes weren't so heavy, you might have come to appreciate how light flickers across Ghost's dark irises. They're a pretty dark blue, almost black in the shadows that skimper across them, with flakes of silver breathing life into the soulless window. His long ashen eyelashes are sprinkled with black from his eye makeup, fluttering gently as he blinks. 

His stare, however, is anything but gentle. Instead, they pierce you, digging beneath your skin to unravel every secret bound in life's coil. Yet, despite his unrelenting eyes, emotions hide behind the cracked veneer of his facade and let you peek at the ever-boiling concern in his chest whenever your gaze is diverted to him.

The tension is palpable, like a tightrope walker balancing precariously between the safety of their starting point and the unknown depths below them. Every movement could shift them off balance, and the slightest misstep could mean disaster. You attempt to swallow the taste of apprehension as it lingers in the air, your stomach twisting into knots. 

The cabin groans, its creaky walls offering you no reprieve from the constant whistling of the trees and the slashing of rain against the dingy pain. You didn't dare to move, worried that the slightest twitch was the very thing to crumble away the safety net the stillness had provided you from Ghost. You didn't dare look at him, but you could feel the dark waves riddled with anger roll off him, drowning you in its smoldering intensity. 

After all, it's your fault that you're both here. 

-

Get in, retrieve the package, and get out. That was the brief, in layman's terms, that Laswell had given you not even a day ago. An assignment you had done hundreds of times before. It was all going well, the task force working and adapting to every new command or plan alteration as you and Ghost cleared floor by floor. Synchronization was embedded into every call-out to ensure everything ran smoothly. A perfect plan, too simple to mess up. That's what ran through the floating, gloomy clouds of your thoughts until you failed to notice a soldier engulfed by the buildings shadows, his body fluid with the darkness, his hands grappled on a weapon of death's design. You were preparing to trek the next flight of stairs, your legs heavy with the constant climbing as Ghost radioed Price. A man, the one who proclaimed his life to the cover of despair, took aim at your unaware figure.

You didn't see the bullet fly or its infamous wizz as it tore like a wild animal through the tissue in your thigh, embedding itself in your muscle. Initially, the gut-wrenching agony you were promised never arrived nor impeded your ability to move as you shot him down and continued to move up the floors, hostile after hostile, falling victim to your violence. It wasn't until the area was cleared that the beginnings of hot ice began to flood your veins, spreading down your leg like a paralyzing sickness. You stumbled, bolts of lightning splintering up your entire leg. Only when a deafening droplet of blood met the reflective, white floor, splattering over the tile, did both you and Ghost finally address your injury.

You almost wished you didn't, from how the angry, gory flesh flayed outwards from the intrusion, grappling to your blood-stained pants. Your hand had fumbled to the spot, blood spewing from between your fingers in your attempt to stop the bleeding. Ghost's eyes grew large, his dark pupils engulfing the humanity in his vision. 

The next part was a blurry, nauseating mess of the rest of the force descending into a frenzied, discoordinated chaos of too many bullets and bodies for a stealth OP as you dragged yourself out of the building and to the nearest safe house. Ghost was quick to comm Price on your condition, despite your admittedly weak protests that it was nothing to waste time on. He didn't take your assessment of your condition very well. 

At first, the pain was nothing more than a pang that migrated down your leg, bearable for the time being. It's when you enter the forest, shock and adrenaline having run their course, that you all but collapse in white-hot agony, black spots obscuring your vision. Ghost is at your side before you can blink to drag you the rest of the way to the location. He doesn't give you a chance to resist his effort; his firm grip a reminder that you are in no position to argue.

A steady trail of blood, thick with the poison of age, left behind proof of your borrowed time, of death's notorious hand perched at your door, ready, waiting. She's been a constant shadow in the corners of every room, a fleeting wisp, a reminder of your constant flirting. And as you often toy with her, death knocks now and again, beckoning you on the verge of your demise to turn the door handle. But, no matter how sweetly she calls to bring you salvation from the torture the mortal world offers, the hand that touches the knob only does so with innocent curiosity, never with the firm expectation of your end. So when soft knocks echo in an incessant, dizzying pitch, beckoning you towards the void of black, you had half a mind to let her in.

The safe house Price instructed you to lay low in for the night had blended in with the rustling leaves of the trees that skimmed its roof, the forest around you offering Mother Nature's hospitality. It had been by luck alone that a storm brewed during your trek to the cabin and released its continents over the mud, washing away the tracks of your presence. However, neither you nor Ghost could have anticipated the temperature drop, your joints creaking with every body-rattling shiver that rolled over your back in frigid waves. You were chilled to the point where your skin was numb to the touch.

With your clothes drenched, your vest tried to push you into the slug clinging to your boots so much so that Ghost practically carried your limping form to the front door, your body clinging to the deliriousness of blood loss as he let you clasp the wall for support. Even though it's a safe house, Ghost still checks the cabin, weaving in and out of your narrow sightline while darkness creeps at the edges of your vision. The pain has intensified tenfold, your ragged breathing foreign to even you as a loose hand covers the bullet's entry point. It seems like hours before he beckons you in.

The place was a tiny thing, no more than a single bedroom and bath. The wood floorboards shrieked under each footfall, your blood matching the pitter-patter of the rain as it dripped on the floor. Only seconds later, the blood in your leg turned to lead and crumpled beneath your weight. He caught you at the last second, his sturdy hands gripping your flesh to lower you into a more comfortable position against the splintering wood.

Ghost moved to a cabinet, yanking out the first aid kit and returning to your side in a blur. Within seconds, he had it open and out of its bag, spilling its contents onto the ground and allowing him to search through the various bottles and tools. Before you knew it, he had gathered the items needed and was back at your side, cutting the fabric of your pants away. He functioned with an intensity and purpose that you'd never seen before. His motions were a whirlwind, the vigor of his focus never wavering as he worked to stave off the flow of your life from spilling further from your veins, his calloused hands operating with a gentleness that belied their strength. He had seen enough death to know the importance of time, his hands a haze of action as he fought to save you from the same fate.

You bit back every cry of agony as his fingers dug and weaved into the fiber of your being, your blood becoming his second skin. He wouldn't admit it, but his chest ached at the sight of you hunched over, your chest heaving with labored breaths as you fisted your shirt in an effort to ground yourself. Anyone could tell how much pain you were in even without the whimpers that slipped from your lips, and he moved faster, his hands working meticulously to ease the pain.

-

You were grateful for the thunderous downpour of rain that stomped at any chance of stillness because now, more than ever, you didn't want to fall victim to the eerie quiet that would have surely settled over you if not for the storm. Yet Ghost doesn't seem to mind it, his hands making quick work over your thigh with sharp pokes of the needle pulling your skin back together. His fingers flex over your convulsing leg, keeping you steady while he finishes up. You watch him, pupils flitting over his hands speckled in white raises, occasionally observing the movement of his stare over the injury. 

With the urgency of your injury out of the way, there's the heat of the silent rage emanating from his build as he finishes up, wrapping gauze around it, your lungs burning with the thickness of the anticipation that permeates your senses. You refuse to move to address the silence you are suffocating in. 

It's now, your eyes fighting sleep attempts, that you take notice of him, all of him. Even his eyes which carry a callous fury. 

"That was fuckin stupid, Dove." You briefly recognize the use of your call sign, hungover from the cold bite in his words hurled at you.  

"I know." Your voice lacks its usual conviction, crushed, ground into fucking ashes by the weight of your failure. 

"You were supposed to clear the room," he continued, a low growl punching from the depths of his vocal cords. "How the fuck could you have missed him?"

If exhaustion, blended with regret and doubt, wasn't creeping in the back of your mind like a morning fog, maybe then you would have recognized the cruelty he carried in his speech was brought from a place of concern but expressed in a seeming ice bath of bitter wrath. His words are laced with contempt and scorn, every syllable dripping with acidic pessimism, shredding your heart with the thousands of knives he plunges into your chest. It's as if all he sees in you is your incompetence, your inexperience. Whether accurate or not, the unspoken words he appears to telepathically send to you- to recognize what he is truly trying to convey under his hardened exterior, fall flat. 

Your downturned gaze is the only indication you heard him. 

"Can't bloody believe you could fuck up so badly." 

The rain screeches outside.

"'M sorry." The wobble in your pupils must indicate the weakness that permeates you and drowns you in a sea of doubt. The notch in his throat bobs for a moment as he sighs through a flared nose.

His razor-sharp stare roves over you as if searching for something. His throat is choked with words of vulnerability. His mind battles against his heart, the beating organ demanding to let you in, to wipe the chest-crushing look of guilt and cleanse your blood-stained consciousness of regret. His mind, however, the very thing that kept him alive, kept him from a deeper, more excruciating pain emotions offer him, urges him to pull away before he can fall to his knees in front of your altar of his design; to protect Simon and him from what will be his destined demise.  

He settles on the middle ground and huffs, an indigent sound muffled by the balaclava. "You're better than this." 

You can only swallow the wad of failure and spit in your throat in hopes of erasing the fragility that takes shape in mortar and stone to build up the damaged mask of strength and confidence you once clung to. You nod your head, your tongue too heavy for anything else.

"Don't do that shit again, ya' hear me?" It's a coarse murmur coming from his strained vocal cords, but softer, delicate even. Two fingers tap against the meat of your cheek, tilting your head while your eyes roam over the shell of his pupils. Only then does his hardened shell seem to melt, breaking down brick by brick to reveal a whisper of the man underneath, Simon Riley. 

His finger grazes the outline of a scar next to your lips as his body shifts into an emotion akin to tenderness. A subtle scatter of shadows in the far reaches of his gaze holds an unspoken understanding, despite the walls of silence he has built around himself. It was as if he could see the turmoil raging within you, insecurities and remorse crashing into each other as violently as the storm outside.

"Could have died today," he huffs, low and ruff.

"I know," it's a soft murmur, acknowledging the fragility of your life, of the threat the job poses. He releases a low exhalation in response, his attention shifting to the dark corners of the dinghy cabin, lingering there for a second. Then, he returns his focus to you once more. 

"Need to be more careful, yeah?" The soft pads of his hands meet your face in a gentle touch, a reminder of the blood that flows beneath the flesh, of the pulse in your skin. Your eyes flutter close, the feeling of bliss blossoming beneath his fingertips. It's all the acknowledgement he needs, knowing too well the loss of any real words. They fell a moment later. 

Ghost moves silently next to you, his body your only hope of warmth to combat the frigidness of the night. He's warm, you realize, and a benevolent gooey feeling builds from the pit of your stomach. It's easy- too easy- to fall into the trap of wishful thinking, to hope for a friendship more intimate than the bond you already share with the lines so blurred. Your hope, which very well might be misguided, makes your heart beat impossibly faster at the possibility that he might share an inkling of the intimate attraction you feel. 

Your limbs are weighed down by sleeps caress, the pain in your leg now subdued to a constant throb. It's easy to forget about the events that transpired today when sleep beckons you so dearly it feels impossible not to give in. 

"Sleep." It's a simple, short command, yet it carries the promise of his protection. It's supposed to ease you and make you feel safe, knowing he will protect you from the dangers of the night, and it works. Your head falls to his shoulder, and Ghost, seemingly anticipating the contact, lets you. You don't have the mental fortitude to dwell on the implications of his actions. Only accept them for what they are. The rain, his warmth, and the promise of safety all ease you into the oblivion where dreams and nightmares dwell, and instead of them spitting you out like most nights you seek rest, they never reach you, not with Simon next to you.

[lxndonorris]

comfort - Pierre Gasly

Y/N x Pierre Gasly Theme: Fluff Pierre comforts you after a long/bad day at work x word count: 930 taglist: @game-set-canet open for requests :)

After a long, exhausting day at work filled with overtime and tiring tasks that seemed never-ending, you trudge your way home, feeling the weight of fatigue clinging to your every step. The anticipation of relaxation keeps you going as you approach the door, hoping for some reprieve from the stress that has consumed your day.

As you enter your apartment, a soft glow of candlelight envelops the space, casting a warm and comforting ambiance. The air is infused with the delightful aroma of your favorite scented candles, creating an instant sense of calm. The strains of soothing music waft through the air, making you pause and take in the beautifully orchestrated surprise that awaited you.

"Pierre?" Your voice barely fills the hallway when your boyfriend steps out of the living room to meet you.

"You're back." He stands there, in a crisp white shirt that clings to his athletic physique and slimfit jeans, with a smile that promises solace. His hair and beard meticulously groomed, he radiates a quiet confidence that immediately puts you at ease.

In that moment, you feel the day's weariness begin to dissipate.

"Did you do all this?" You look around, taking all of your surroundings in as he approaches you, a slight swagger in his steps.

"Yeah," Pierre blushes, "I hope it's okay." He embraces you with a tender hug, and you notice he is wearing your favorite cologne as well.

"It's perfect." You stroke the small of his back as he starts to purr contently.

His lips meet yours in a soft kiss, a reassurance that everything will be alright.

"I know work's tough, so I wanted to help you relax." A shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and his voice is a little rougher than usual.

As his fingers gently stroke your back now, you can't help but marvel at the depth of understanding and the effort he has put into turning your dreary day into something magical.

"Thank you so much." This time, you lean in and kiss him, enjoying his lips on yours and the way his beard tickles. Simultaneously, you run a hand down his firm chest, steadying yourself against him.

"You haven't seen the best part." With a guiding hand, he leads you to the bathroom, a haven he has prepared with equal care.

The room glows with the soft light of more candles, their flickering flames dancing in harmony with the peaceful music. The bathtub, filled with warm water and adorned with fragrant bubbles, beckons you to immerse yourself in its soothing embrace.

"This is beautiful." Your voice is barely a whisper, overwhelmed by all of this, but when he hugs you from behind, his hands meeting in front of your stomach, you give in to him, taking a deep breath.

"Let me help you." He growls deeply, and together, you undress, one piece at a time.

Eagerly, you slip into the warm water, feeling the tension in your muscles begin to melt away. The gentle hum of relaxation fills the air as you close your eyes, grateful for the sanctuary Pierre has created for you.

Sensing the need for a moment of shared tranquility, you turn your head and look at him with gratitude. "Do you want to join me?" You ask, and he smiles right away.

"I'd love that." Pierre smirks, and without hesitation, he begins to undress, and you can't help but admire the effortless grace with which he moves.

As more and more of his clothes fall to the floor, the anticipation inside your belly grows. A tingling sensation spreads through your chest, and when he steps into the tub, the water ripples with newfound warmth, and a contented smile plays on his lips.

Pierre finds a space right behind you and pulls you a little closer. His hands, skilled and comforting, begin to massage your shoulders, relieving the residual stress that had accumulated throughout the day.

His strong yet gentle hands begin to explore the contours of your shoulders and neck, his fingers expertly finding the knots that have accumulated from the day's stress.

"How does that feel?" Pierre breathes down your neck; his voice is so smooth and deep, sending shivers down your spine.

"Very good." You press your lips together, enjoying this so much.

With each deliberate movement, his touch releases tension you don't even realize you are holding onto. The warmth of the water enhanced the soothing effect, and you can't help but let out a contented sigh as he skillfully works his way across your shoulders.

"This feels good." You let out a deep sigh, embracing him, feeling the connection between you deepen in the calming waters.

His fingers, adept at navigating the intricacies of muscle and tension, move in rhythmic patterns, creating a symphony of relief.

"You deserve this, Y/N." Pierre smiles warmly, and as he continues the massage, his attention to detail becomes evident.

He pays close attention to your responses, adjusting the pressure and focusing on areas that hold the most tension.

The soft lull of the music, the flicker of candlelight, and the warmth of the bath create a cocoon of serenity that envelops you both. The world outside the sanctuary seems to fade away, leaving only the gentle caress of the water and the comforting presence of Pierre.

In that shared moment of vulnerability and intimacy, the weight of the day lifts completely. As his hands continue their soothing motion, you find yourself grateful for the simple yet profound gesture of love that transformed a challenging day into a serene night.

[finniestoncrane]

Okay so, this is my first time requesting something (social anxiety is a bitch😭) Also, my birthday was yesterday! (05-11) and I was wondering if I can have a little fun with Nick (my obsession since I was 6) please? Birthday smut maybe?🌚 If not totally understandable and I hope you have a wonderful week🤍

L4D2!Nick x GN!Reader, word count: 650 happy late birthday!! any excuse to write some nick smut, and i think since he's someone who would value any reason to spoil himself, he would extend that to someone who meant something to him too... 💙 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: fluff, risky sex, public sex (although is it public if it's just... zombies?), no lube (if he'd known he would have gone looking)

"It's not the best circumstances, but I don't think it'll get much better than this."

Nick sat beside you on the roof of the shitty motel. Supplies found, cleared out the infected, and now there was time to rest before you headed to the room you had barricaded up for a safe night's rest.

"At least it's nice out..."

The sunset was beautiful, warm, soft, and you couldn't help but marvel at how peaceful everything was. It seemed perfect for what you hoped was about to happen. Weeks of passive flirting, teasing, tension building between you both, it had all amounted to not very much. But you'd been counting the days, and today was your birthday. Surely, you hoped, all of the hints you dropped might mean Nick would give you something to celebrate the day.

"... so... here you go."

Nick passed you a small box, and you tried to hide the confusion, and the mounting disappointment, on your face.

"What? You don't like it? You haven't even opened it."

"Sorry, sorry, it's just... I didn't expect this. I didn't expect a gift."

"What were you expecting?"

The silence between you was deafening. Nick was a smart guy though, an accomplished guy. He knew that face. Knew that slight pout of the lips, the way your body leaned into him.

He took the gift from your hands and tossed it to the side, his hand skating up your thigh as he turned his body to you.

"Is this what you wanted?"

Biting your lip, you nodded. It was desperate, needy, but it was what you wanted. And he was quick to give it to you, turning his body and mounting you with ease, a knee sliding between your thighs, spreading them as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants.

Nick pulled his cock out, stroking it, watching it get harder as he waited for you to pull your pants down and off, tossing them to the side, smiling wide with excitement.

"Wow, this really is what you wanted."

His eyes fell to your fingers, placed either side of your entrance, spreading yourself open for him. As he lined up the tip of his cock with your hole, he pressed his forehead to yours, his body as close as he could as he began to ride you.

Your fingers found their way to his hips, pulling them down harder, dragging their way back up to his shoulders and clinging tight to him as his cock disappeared entirely within you, sliding out to give you a moment of reprieve before he stretched you, filled you, once more.

Nick's panting was louder than your moans, the effort he was putting into pounding you taking his breath away from him, making you quiver as he slid in and out, sweat beading on his forehead, strands of dark, black hair falling into his face.

"Are you... are you close? Because I am, and it's your birthday so-"

You could feel him tensing up, a coiled spring ready to release, and you were close yourself, so you freed up your hands and provided yourself with the external stimuli you needed to get closer, to ride the waves of orgasm alongside him.

Nick was still first though, falling aprt completely with a wail and a shudder, flooding you with his seed with wreckless abandon. The feeling of him, warm and wet and sticky, twitching, pulsing as he shuddered through the last of his own climax, brought you to your own.

He stayed inside of you until you had stopped shivering, until your body came to a complete rest, and then he rolled back over and lay down on the roof beside you once more.

"The present... It was a candy bar. I had to wrap it pretty quick. And the box is... hastily made out of some cardboard I found on the ground. Wanna split the candy?"

Smiling, you reached to the side for the box, tossing it over to him.

[divine-misfortune]

Phantom watched. 

He watched because he was told to watch, and so he did. He stared as the air ghoul's thin fingers slowly closed into a tight fist. Graceful in the motion as each digit curled into their palm. The same delicate nature Zephyr spared the ivory keys of the church organ. 

Muscles drawn taut beneath the skin, a slight tremor kicking up as Phantom's mouth fell open helplessly. Like a game of tug of war, they withheld from him despite his body's attempt to gasp for air.

Embers began to sear at the floor of his lungs, a growing burn in his chest only matched by the heat coiled deep in his gut. They could extinguish the more problematic of the two just by releasing the tension in their hand but judging by the coy curl of their lips, they weren't interested in such things. Zephyr gladly held relief just out of arm's reach. 

Not that Phantom was trying all that hard, or even focusing on the act of trying to breathe. His focus was on the frantic and sloppy twist of his own fist up and down his cock, eyes never straying from Zephyr and the control they exhibited over him. Control they took away from him so easily. He would've groaned at the thought if he could, only managing a faint raspy sound that made Zephyr chuckle. Their laugh did more for him than any breath of air could have, it felt so dismissive. Belittling. Like just watching him suffocate was some sort of game. 

His cock kicked in his hand. Pre dribbled over knuckles and onto the floor between his knees, only adding to the small puddle he'd created. He knew they'd grimace at the mess later but couldn't help making it. It was small compared to what he could feel building as his vision dared to go hazy despite his attempts to keep it focused. There might as well have been something molten filling his lungs with how they screamed for reprieve, and it made his balls start to go tight. If he had the thoughts to spare, maybe he'd have wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth and tried to maintain a level of dignity but he was far too close to care. 

Pressure, low in his belly, built as he tried to fuck up into the slick grip of his own hand. He must have been a sight; nearly blue in the face, eyes just about crossed, chasing a climax he'd been denied several times already. He could feel it this time though, closer than he'd been before, close enough he could almost taste the white hot pleasure. 

"Aaaaaand," Zephyr's hand fell open and Phantom nearly toppled backwards as the vise around his lungs vanished. Chest finally allowed to expand fully after fighting against imaginative restraints. He sagged much like a marionette cut from its strings. “Hands off.”

Phantom, able to make a proper sound, let out something between a growl and a sob as he slapped his cum slicked palm against the floor in frustration. He hunched over and let his head hang, hiding behind thick dark hair. He stared pitifully at his dick give a pathetic bounce or two from the sudden lack of stimulation. Brows drawn together, he almost looked at his member apologetically. 

"Fucking-!" he gasped, body heaving with the force of it. "Was so close, why did you stop?!" 

"Because I don't need you passing out naked on my floor? Think you forget there's no way in hell I can carry you to the infirmary." 

"Couple more seconds wouldn't have-" 

"Ah, ah, ah." They clicked their tongue at him like a petulant child. "That doesn't sound very grateful, wisp. What do we say?" 

Even though he could very clearly breathe, Phantom made a little strangled sound as heat prickled over every inch of skin. He wouldn't be surprised if his flush had spread over him entirely. His tail flicked and Zephyr laughed again, Less low and condescending. It was breathy and delicate like a spring breeze. They sat forward after a minute of his sulking and scratched lightly over the crown of his head, he was helpless to give up the annoyed tension winding his muscles tight. 

"You with me, little shadow?" 

"...Mhm." 

"Give me three more deep breaths and sit up, you’re squishing your lungs like that." 

Zephyr continued to pet through his hair gently as he followed their instruction up until he uncurled from himself. Their smile was far more self satisfied than anything, sat elbows on their knees to be eye level with him. It was a position they'd regret if they continued to hold, but they hardly seemed bothered by the idea. Phantom let them lift his face with a single finger under his chin and kissed the little crease between his eyebrows. 

"Thank you," he sighed and closed his eyes, their cool lips pressed to his skin for another long beat. He could feel the little smile that creeped onto their face before they pulled back. 

It felt like their index finger was the one thing keeping him from tipping forward onto the floor. 

"Good boy, taking what I give you..." Zephyr's thumb traced the curve of his bottom lip and he let them part slightly as an offering, one Zephyr did not trust themself to accept. An indulgence for later. Not something they'd factored into their little game. "Are you alright?" 

"S'good." His nod is barely a twitch, but they recognize it enough. 

"Think you can give me another?" 

"Want to give you as many as you want." Phantom peeks out from under his lashes and Zephyr's heart stutters in their chest. The faintest trace of tears glittered in his eyes. "As many as it takes."

"That's my sweet star...Remind me of the rules?" 

"Can't touch unless you've got my breath" his tongue darted out to wet his lips and Zephyr hummed in encouragement. "Hands off when you let go." 

"And how do you tap out?" 

"Grab your tail." 

"That's right! So smart baby." 

Phantom would've shied away if he felt steady enough to lean back from their touch. Hid from their praise. They, however, shifted closer. Unwilling to miss how their words affected him. An awkward position for sure as they reached between his legs, he moaned pathetically loud as they gave him three slow and incredibly generous strokes. Their thumb swiped over his head and they pulled away to return to lounging just as quick. Phantom slumped forward against their calf, head resting against their knee as they licked a drop of pre off the pad of their finger. 

He could smell their arousal, so close like this. Clean like cotton and ocean air, a little too close to Rain's scent. Equally as dizzying. Phantom wanted to sit onto his knees and mouth at their clothed cock, obviously tented in their slacks, but knew better than to act out of turn. Even if he itched to. 

"Soon, pet." Zephyr patted his head softly as if his thoughts were being broadcast on the wall behind him and they might as well have been with the way he so blatantly stared. They'd dare to call it ogling. "Not till we finish. Cmon," they nudged him gently with their knee and he slumped off with a bit of an exaggerated sigh "back in place, I want to see how powerless you look again, just a little bit longer."

[lemonzestywrites]

Ahhhhh Zesty!! Okay okay here we go (I’m sending you LOTS)

🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢

🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

🐮🐮🐮🐮🐮

🌲🌲🌲🌲

haha baz thank you!! always glad to see you in my inbox! i hope you enjoy!

🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢🪢

But that was before all of this. Before their scenes and the phone calls and the fucking pictures (the bastard). Because all it took was the feeling of another hand around his cock, gently cooing him to a gorgeous orgasm, and now Eddie’s absolutely done for. His entire body aching for more and more and he can’t do jackshit about it. It’s been three weeks. Three weeks.  And Eddie is fucking dying. The only thing really keeping his sanity afloat is knowing that he can finally get a little bit of reprieve tonight. And yeah he woke up this morning with a bit of a preemptive morning excitement, but Buck doesn’t need to know that. (Somewhere, though, Eddie is already certain that somehow Buck already knows, a sixth sense of sorts already inclined to the kind of torture he’s putting Eddie through).  But it’s fine- it will be after tonight.

🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫

He feels like Buck probably wouldn’t make him wait here for any longer than 20 minutes. Though even that feels like it’s pushing it, Buck can be a little cruel, yeah, but he’s not sadistic. The idea of him making Eddie sit and kneel, waiting an hour for his arrival, feels pretty out of character. Eddie trusts him, though, and if he really gets uncomfortable, he’ll move or reposition.  But in the meantime, he waits. That sinking, sweet headspace comes back rolling back from the edges to encapture Eddie’s mind once more, a welcomed feeling he eagerly accepts. He relaxes again into his own body, tension slowly loosening from his muscles as he allows his mind to drift once more.

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Something in him purrs hungrily, padding around in circles with an aching, eager desire. There’s a mountain of potential of untapped unknowns waiting just at the edge of his fingertips, and Buck- In a clearer mind, not overtaken by adrenaline and very impulsive choices, Buck might panic, let worry sink its claws into him, and listen to the voice that tells him this is a bad idea. Granted, there’s still a whispering of it there, but something else very much still lies there awaiting. A more powerful need, a more prevalent craving. Eddie lies there, skin flushed and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes half-lidded and pleasure-filled, blown out and still so desperate for more. Fuck, and Buck hasn’t even gotten inside of him yet. That thing so wild and primal inside of him preens at the haphazard thought. Buck’s cock throbs in his shorts, sending a shock down Buck’s spine as it brushes up along the front of Eddie’s own wet and soiled underwear.  Eddie gasps at the sensation, his entire body flinching at the contact.

🐮🐮🐮🐮🐮

Eddie’s ass is now coated in this gorgeous pink color, skin heated beneath Buck’s touch. It’s just not fair someone can be this attractive all the time. But hey, on the bright side, when you have a boyfriend that is as humble as Eddie about his looks, Buck is more than happy to be the one to constantly remind said aforementioned stunning boyfriend just how fucking hot he is. Buck smiles to himself as his hands slip further back up, enjoying the small little sounds that slip past Eddie as Buck gropes the tender flesh of his ass. Thank fucking god they don’t have work tomorrow.

🌲🌲🌲🌲

Eddie looks down at the papers all nicely stacked and signed in his lap, realizing a bit more what the weight of the words printed on them really means now. Something vague in its presence and definition settles across Eddie’s shoulders- an odd mix of uncertainty but also anticipation curling in his veins. “Three months of complete isolation,” Eddie sighs, a half-joking tone present between his words. “Not entirely,” Bobby says, and Eddie shoots his head up curiously, catching the slight smile in Bobby’s voice that did definitely not go unnoticed.

[sunflowerabyss]

Crescent Resurgence

Pairings: Older!Remus Lupin x Reader

Bitten by Remus Lupin after an attempt to comfort him many years ago, you are left to navigate the challenges of lycanthropy alone. The resurgence of Voldemort brings you back together in the Order of the Phoenix, forcing Remus to seek redemption after all those years.

Warning: Angst. Slight comfort?

____________________________________________________

The night hung heavy with the weight of secrets and regrets as the moon cast its silvery glow over Grimmauld Place. For fifteen years, Y/N had lived in the shadows, mastering the art of solitude and survival. The scars, both physical and emotional, bore witness to a life shaped by the bite of a werewolf, and the absence of the one who had inflicted the wound.

The transformation was always a dance with pain, but that fateful night, a month after the tragic events that had torn apart their world, it became a brutal confrontation with the demons that lingered within Remus Lupin. Y/N, in her panther form, had watched over him, determined to be the support he so desperately needed. Yet, the trauma of loss had rendered him careless and hostile. In a moment of unbridled aggression, he bit her, causing her panther form to shift back into a vulnerable human.

Acceptance of death had washed over Y/N as she slipped into unconsciousness that night, only to awaken the next morning in a haze of agony. Survival instincts kicked in, and she learned to navigate the torment of lycanthropy on her own, crafting a modified Wolfsbane potion that not only eased the pain but hastened the healing process.

The rage within her burned like an eternal flame, fueled not only by the pain of the bite but by Remus's inexplicable disappearance. He was a ghost, a memory, and for years, Y/N wrestled with the love that refused to fade and the fury that refused to be silenced.

The Order of the Phoenix, in its desperate search for allies, found Y/N. Moody tracked her down, relentless in his pursuit of warriors. Driven by a desire for revenge for the friends she had lost, Y/N agreed to join the cause. The journey led her back to Grimmauld Place 12, a place steeped in memories both bitter and sweet.

Sirius Black, alive and well, greeted her with open arms. The warmth of his embrace contrasted sharply with the chill that swept through her when she saw him – Remus Lupin. More scars adorned his tired face, his hair graying, and a visible weariness etched into his being. He was a reflection of the years they had spent apart, the years of silence that screamed louder than words.

The meeting began, a gathering of familiar faces and strangers bound by a common enemy. Harry Potter, the spitting image of his parents, entered the room, and Y/N couldn't help but marvel at the echoes of a past that seemed simultaneously distant and achingly close.

As the meeting concluded, Y/N made a swift exit, her heart pounding with a mix of emotions. The night air offered a temporary reprieve, but Remus followed her outside. The tension between them crackled like electricity as words, long unspoken, spilled into the air.

"You left without a word," Y/N accused, her voice steady but laden with years of hurt.

Remus, a shadow of his former self, nodded solemnly. "I couldn't face you. I couldn't face what I had done to you."

The confrontation escalated, a whirlwind of accusations and admissions. Remus, burdened by guilt, conceded to the pain he had caused. Y/N, refusing to be swayed by words alone, stood her ground, her heart torn between love and resentment.

"I will never forgive myself for the pain I've caused you," Remus confessed, his eyes reflecting the depth of his remorse.

A heavy silence hung between them before Y/N, her voice edged with sorrow, admitted, "I loved you. I never wanted to be apart."

The admission hung in the air, a fragile bridge between past wounds and uncertain futures. Remus, understanding the gravity of his sins, asked the question that loomed over them both. "Do you still love me?"

The answer, honest and raw, escaped Y/N's lips: "I don't know."

A nod passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the fractures that time had failed to heal. Remus bid her goodnight, his figure disappearing into the shadows of Grimmauld Place.

_______________________________________________________

Weeks passed since that night and Y/N found herself standing alone in the courtyard of Grimmauld Place, a burdensome storm of emotions raging within her. The confrontation with Remus reverberated through her mind, and the weight of uncertainty pressed heavily on her chest. Sirius emerged from the dimly lit entrance, concern etched on his face as he approached her.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low and empathetic. "I know that seeing Remus again is difficult. He's been through a lot, and so have you."

She looked at Sirius, gratitude flickering in her eyes. "It's just… it's been so long, and I thought I had moved on, but seeing him again brought back everything."

Sirius placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to have it all figured out right now. Give yourself time."

Feeling a mix of gratitude and sadness, Y/N nodded. She retreated to a quiet corner of the courtyard, taking deep breaths to steady her racing heart. The night air was cool, but the turmoil within her was hotter than any flame. It was a blend of love, resentment, and the jagged edges of memories that had never quite faded.

As she stood there lost in thought, Remus emerged from the shadows, his footsteps hesitant. He approached her, his eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions. Y/N steeled herself, preparing for another round of the emotional storm that seemed to follow him.

"I… I know I hurt you," Remus began, his voice filled with regret. "I can't change the past, but I want to make things right. If that means staying away, I'll do it. I just… I can't bear to see you in pain because of me."

Y/N met his gaze, her eyes a mixture of sadness and determination. "Remus, you don't get to decide what's right for me anymore. I've spent years learning to live with the consequences of your actions, and I've become stronger despite it all."

He sighed, a heavy acknowledgment of the truth in her words. "I never meant to leave you alone, to make you bear this burden on your own."

"And yet you did," Y/N replied, her voice firm. "You left without a word, and I had to learn to survive without you."

Remus ran a hand through his graying hair, a gesture of frustration and remorse. "I understand if you can't forgive me. I don't deserve it."

The air was thick with tension as Y/N considered his words. "Forgiveness is a process, Remus. It's not something that happens overnight. I need time to figure out what this means for both of us."

He nodded, a silent acceptance of the reality they faced. "I just want you to know that I never stopped caring about you."

Y/N looked away, a mixture of sadness and longing in her eyes. "Caring is not enough, Remus. I needed you to be there for me, and you weren't."

The conversation lingered, suspended in the night air like the unspoken words between them. Eventually, Y/N turned away, her resolve unwavering. "I need some time alone. Don't follow me."

Remus watched her retreating figure, a heavy heart filled with remorse. The courtyard remained silent, shadows playing on the stone walls, as both Y/N and Remus grappled with the ghosts of their shared past.

Days turned into nights, and Y/N navigated the war-torn world with a heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The Order of the Phoenix, bound by a common purpose, continued their fight against Voldemort's forces.

One day, as she stood by the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, watching the flickering flames dance, Remus approached her. The lines on his face spoke of battles fought, both internal and external.

"Y/N," he said quietly, his gaze searching hers. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said. I understand that I can't change the past, but I want to be there for you now. If you'll let me."

The room fell silent as Y/N considered his words. She saw sincerity in his eyes, a glimmer of the Remus she had once known. The wounds of the past still lingered, but perhaps, in the midst of the war, there was room for healing and reconciliation.

[red-jaebyrd]

Company For The Lonely

Summary: Dick could kick his own ass for not remembering what this particular day did to Jason every year.

Notes: This fic started off as a small ficlet in response to this art prompt "Lonely" by doc-anders. 

I figured today was the perfect day to reblog this old fic of mine.

It was late and all Dick wanted to do right now was sleep. It had been a particularly busy week patrolling at night and even busier days at work. Every muscle in his body was screaming for rest and a reprieve. He was headed to his bedroom when he thought he heard a faint knock on his door.

He paused in the hallway to listen for another knock. Faintly, there was a second round of rapping on his door accompanied by shuffling feet. Dick racked his brain trying to figure out who would be showing up at his apartment this late at night. Looking into the peephole Dick was caught off guard at who he saw standing at his door. It was Jason. He quickly opened the door.

“Jase! You’re in the Blud. You didn’t call.” 

“Yeah, I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d return your Walkman…” Jason mumbled.

“You’re here at 1am to return the Walkman you stole ten years ago…” Dick joked, but his smile faded as he took in the state of Jason standing in front of him. Jason wasn’t looking at him. There were bags under his eye and they were slowly filling with tears. “Jay, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing…it’s just…” Jason choked out. “…I’m just,”

And before Dick knew it, Jason launched himself at Dick wrapping both arms around him in a hug. “Can I stay here for a while?”

Dick quickly snapped out of his stupor and returned the hug. “You know you can.”

It was the hug from Jay that had startled Dick the most. The sudden embrace and request was more jarring than actually seeing Jason standing outside his apartment at one in the morning. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence to have Jason at his place at this hour, though he usually came through the window, dressed in his uniform, and coming from patrol. Not showing up at his door with a backpack and wearing civvies.

He could feel a measure of tension release from Jason as his grip got tighter. Something had deeply shaken his brother and it was starting to scare Dick. Hugs weren’t something Jason easily gave out to anyone. Jason was more likely to gift him the most expensive pair of Nikes rather than give Dick a hug. Dick knew this first hand. 

To say Jay wasn’t big on hugs wasn’t an exaggeration, but he made an exception for Dick. He typically avoided most physical contact but would at rare times seek out Dick for an awkward one armed hug. Dick respected his space, but sometimes it was hard to refrain from putting his arm around his little brother to fulfil his need for physical touch. Jason never shrugged off the arm, though at times Dick could feel a slight tension in his shoulders and took that as his cue to let go.

When Jay had been younger he would seek out hugs from Dick and even Bruce, but once he had come back from The Pit, something in him had changed. The need for touch had vanished and Dick had missed the hugs from his little brother.  Still there were times that if Dick asked for a hug, Jason would oblige.

Tonight was different. Jason held on to Dick like a lifeline. Clasping onto him as if he would fall apart if he let go. Something must be horribly wrong for Jason to be so needing of contact and company.

“Jase…Jay talk to me, please?” Dick implored, rubbing soothing circles on Jason’s back.

Jason shook his head. “It’s…its stupid. I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s not stupid. Tell me.”

Jason broke the embrace not answering the question. His eyes were wet and red rimmed. “Not right now, but I’ll tell you later.”

Dick nodded his head, “Okay.” He stepped aside gesturing Jason into the apartment.

Dick wasn’t so sure Jason would tell him what was wrong, but he didn’t want to press the issue, or come on too strong. Jason was known for holding all his crap inside until he burst. The casualties of his anger were always the criminals he encountered on patrol. While Jason encouraged his brothers to tell him their shit so they could get it out, Jason never burdened them with his troubles. 

“Okay, Little Wing. I’ll get some fresh sheets and you can have the bed.”

“No, Dick I’ll take the couch,” Jason sniffed, using his sleeve to wipe his eyes. “The couch is fine.”

“Decision is made. You’re getting the bed, I’m getting the couch. C’mon.” Dick took Jason’s backpack from his arm and walked to his bedroom. 

Once he got Jason settled with fresh sheets on his bed, he grabbed a blanket and his pillow and made his way to the living room. Something kept niggling at the back of his brain. Something he was forgetting kept itching, forcing him to remember. Dick walked over to the peg board in his kitchen and glanced at the calendar. He looked at the date and blanched…April 27th.

Shit!

It was April 27th. 

The day everything had changed for Jason. 

The day that his brother had been tortured and horrifically taken from him and Bruce. 

A day that Jason shouldn’t have to remember, yet he knew Jason remembered every detail of that day in the warehouse. From the impact of every hit of the crowbar to the smell of the Joker’s breath on his face taunting his death.  

No wonder Jason showed up at his apartment in his current state. It all made sense now. He didn’t want to be alone, not on this day. Dick could kick his own ass for not remembering what this particular day did to Jason every year. He should have known to look out for the date, but instead he allowed himself to get bogged down with work and cases leaving Jason to fend for himself. 

Shit.

Every year around this time he and Jason made plans to get away from the city. They’d take the Range Rover from Bruce’s garage and drive to the country to go camping and just hang out away from the chaos and trauma of that terrible day. 

Each year Jason revealed to Dick a new detail about the day he had died. It had been unnerving for Dick to hear at first, but he knew that Jason had needed the opportunity to purge the ugliness from his mind. Allowing that darkness to fester inside his little brother wasn’t an option, not when Dick could be that secure presence and nonjudgmental ear Jason had needed to heal. 

Dick never knew what exact words of comfort Jason had wanted to hear during all those times he had divulged a new fact about the warehouse. If he were honest with himself, there were no words to tell Jason to have made him feel better. Instead Dick had done what he felt was the right thing to do. He had kept his mouth shut giving Jason his full attention as he listened to Jason talk without interruption. Dick had desperately tried to school his features but never really succeeded as silent tears were shed with every word from Jason’s mouth. Once Jason had also started crying, story time was over and it was Dick’s turn to pick up the broken pieces with a hug. These camping trips had been the only time Jason’s true vulnerability had shown up. 

It had been the first one of these trips that Jason had opened up to him that on this particular day he had hated being alone. Dick had always thought of Jason as a solitary creature and he had been right. However, when it had come to the anniversary of his death, Jason hated being by himself. 

He had been alone when the Joker had beaten him up in that warehouse. 

He had been alone waiting for Bruce to find him. 

He had been alone when the bomb had finally gone off and killed him.

Dick needed to do something now and fast. He patted softly to the bedroom and knocked lightly.

“Jase…I know you’re awake.” 

Dick opened the door and sat on the bed. 

“I…I know what day it is. I’m sorry I didn’t plan our weekend better. We can still sneak over to the Manor and take the Rover to the mountains. Or we can hang out here, watch movies, and order take out. It’s your choice.”

Jason sat up slowly and turned around to face Dick. He looked so tired and lost, but relieved that Dick had finally figured it out. The sadness in his brother’s eyes was still there and it hurt Dick’s heart. He gently placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder. Jason wrapped his arms around him for another hug. 

“I’m so sorry Jay, I screwed up.”

“Not your fault,” Jason said, breaking the embrace. “We’ve all been pretty busy. You look like shit too by the way.” 

“Thanks,” Dick laughed.

Jason shifted the blankets off of him and swung his legs off the bed.  “I’ll go with you to get the Rover. Maybe we can raid the kitchen while we’re there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

There was still one more question Dick had to ask Jason. 

“Did you happen to bring my Walkman?”

“Dude, I lost that thing like 10 years ago. It’s long gone.”

“Just as well,” Dick shrugged. “I lost your iPod.”

Jason laughed and threw a pillow at him.

[parainvestigate]

Sender: @malumxsubest Prompt: "Who doesn't lock the door?!" ( Cos why the hell not and I think it'll be funny for me and not amelia )

Hellboy generally did well at ignoring his own sexual needs. Time was not something he usually had in large quantities, often going from one mission to the other in rather quick succession, the world always dealing with one paranormal situation or the other. Moments where he was able to slow down for a bit was when those desires struck him hard.

Might as well get enjoyment out of the brief reprieve from work, right?

He'd sat on his mattress, back resting up against the cool wall. Yellow eyes rolled back a little as his head lolled back. A quiet groan rumbled through his broad chest as his hand, aided with a slight application of baby oil, granted some relief from the throbbing. Slow strokes, pacing himself.

That's how she found him when she barged into his room without so much as a knock - or maybe she had knocked and he'd been too busy to notice - red cock glistening from the oil, tail looped tightly onto one of the legs of the bed frame.

“Who doesn't lock the door?!”

“Who the fuck doesn't knock,” he grunted back. Shyness was one thing he rarely showed and now wasn't one of those shy moments. Hand still working because he was at a good spot and wanted to keep that tension going. “Well, close the door.”