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delicatebluebirdruins · 10 months

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the Devil is in the Details

in inventory: email From: Mia Winters Sent: July 18, 2017 11:04PM Tuesday To: Ethan Winters Dulvey, Louisiana. Baker farm. Come get me.

simple to the point almost as if the sender was worried to much might alert Ethan to some thing. I know the common thoughts is Mia did actually send this but my main thought is when? as she is in the cell has been since late 2015 and the doors are locked

Jacks diary: rec room. for timelines sake these are Oct 2014

October 2 Reports say a storm's coming. I had a lot of trouble cleaning up after the last one a few years back. I guess it's time to reinforce the windows and shore up the roof. Maybe I'll get Lucas to help.

October 9 The water has finally receded. The house is alright, but the old house was badly damaged. Lucas is making a fuss about a huge ship that's washed up in the bayou. If that's true, I better report it to the parish. I'll go check it out tomorrow.

Travis memo: drawer in safe room

Dear Courtney,Those bastards are looking for me, but maybe this gives you a chance to escape.To escape, you have to find the reliefs shaped like dog heads. I saw one of the heads in the dissection room underground. Get it. It's the key out of here. Something's wrong with me. It must have been that shit they made me eat. If I'm gonna die, I'd at least like to go out fighting.I'm gonna get a hold of that shotgun I saw in the rec room and make them regret what they did to me. You need to get out of here. I love you, Courtney. Love, Travis

a guy doing his best to help his love get away (this is the guy who Jack mentions in the memo we also find in the rec room who caused the stronger shotgun to be broken)

how to unlock the door in the morgue

Lucas,I caught the guy who keeps trying to escape. I've locked him up in the leftmost incinerator so he can't get away again. Take him out when he's ready.You know how to open the door, don't you? Just remember: 3 a's and a handprint. Do what you want with his girl.

this is Travis this is what happens to him. My main problem is what happened to Courtney? the least thing is her turning into Molded but it takes a time

Mrs Baker: locked room attached to the rec room

How have you been feeling recently? It's been a long time since you came in for your last check-up. I'm writing to tell you that I've finished examining your X-rays. Those dark areas in your cranium are fungus-like structures that seem to be related to mold. The hallucinations and noises you said you've been hearing may be related to these growths. If your symptoms are due to a fungal parasite, it must be removed before it's too late. I don't mean to scare you, but I am seriously concerned for your health.Please come to the hospital as soon as you read this letter. As your doctor, I strongly recommend you undergo further tests.Crawford Lang,Dulvey General Hospital

But I find that fungus like structures bit interesting I can't remember who thought about it playing RE4R and what Ramon was doing but this is for them.

Zoe's notes: trailer

My body's feeling weirder and weirder. Soon I'll become like mom and dad. It's all her fault. Should I run? No, I can't. I'm dead if she finds out. That woman she was with, Mia, She knows something. If I had the serum I could cure myself. I have to find out more.

I wonder when this was written. I think its around the time Mia got locked up (because having a talk with someone violent can be a bit difficult) and I wonder if this was the cataylist for them trying to help people (I doubt it was Zoe doing it on her own. She still had to learn how to combine the d series arm and head to get the basic serum)

Margurites warning Old House bird door

Zoe, You tried to sneak up to the second floor again, didn't you?! Did you think I wouldn't notice?!?! Even after what happened to Eveline, you just keep talking about some strange medicine. And what are you planning to do with my altar? You better keep those sticky fingers off of it! Nobody touches my sacred altar! You think your father and I are idiots?! You spoiled pathetic child….I wish youd NevEr been born. UnforGIVably pathetic yet always lookingDOWN on uS aNd trying to Leave our HOME! After EVERYthing WE'VE done for YOU… PatheticPATHETICpathetic pathetic…If you EVER even touch my altar I'll slice off your chest and serve it up as potroast…

first the idea of Zoe trying to reach through to her parents but Evies control was too much for them

second these were written at two different times. the first half being Margurite being more like herself and the other half that just sounds angry? It seems more like Evie would say that to be honest

Margurites Diary

October 11 My ears have been ringing all day and I haven't been able to sleep since the child showed up. It's like Zoe says: There's something strange about the child, and the woman she brought with her.

-Evie has been at the Baker house for a little under a day (she arrived on the Oct 10th) so Margurites sleep schedule must be very regular for her to notice it being messed up.

-Its a interesting choice of words talking about how strange Evie and Mia are and who brought what (maybe Margurite was dreaming the ship wreck and how it got destroyed)

October 15 I'm seeing things, hearing things, can't stop feeling nauseious. I went to see the doctor in town and he gave me an X-ray. What's happening to me?

October 23 The child gave me a present.

October- I put the present in the secret room right at the back of the second floor, where nobody will find it. That arm is a sign of the child's trust. That arm will lead us to happiness1 And anyone who corrupts that happiness... I won't allow them to live.

1ahem cult cult cult cult. all jokes aside considering what we know of Miranda and the word choice in daughters

corruption meaning: to make someone or something become dishonest or immoral

Jim's letter: Wrecked ship bunk room 1st Deck (where the fuse is)

Dear Janet, Hey, how's it going? I guess half a year or so will have passed by the time you get this letter. Life is so boring here. Day after day, just the same old sea. Although there is one thing that's different.This time we have some passengers sailing with us, which hardly ever happens.It's a couple with a young girl. I think they're distant relatives of the captain. Imagine, traveling on a tanker instead of a passenger ship. They must be hard up! I tried talking to the little girl earlier and her dad shot me this nasty look. What's he so worried about? Now that I think of it, the captian said he didn't even have any relatives… Maybe I'm overthinking this. I miss you. Love, Jim

a little hint of time to how long the Annabelle was expected to be at sea (mentioned in my Mia and Alan post)

poor Jim I wonder how he died. I wonder how Janet is doing as she like every other person waiting for news on the crew was feeling. I wonder if anyone else was suspicious about Mia, Alan and Evie.

Giovannis Will Bunk room 1st deck

It's too late for us, but at least I can let the world know what happened here. I was on night shift yesterday, so I was taking a nap in the bunk room around noon. I was half asleep and I heard a kid, a little girl, laughing. Or was that all in my head? I woke up at 19:30: there was some sort of ruckus in the passageway. Drew, one of the engineers, came in and said there was something going on down below, maybe a riot. He looked pale in the face. He told me he was going down to check it out, but he never came back. It must have been around 19:50 when I heard the scream. I went to the laundry room to check and saw Clark being eaten by some sort of black-ish monster. The monster turned and started coming towards me, huge, shark-like teeth snapping in its jaw. I just screamed like a little girl and ran for it. Now I'm huddled up in the bunk room, shaking as I write this. There's a whole host of those creatures lurking in the passageways now. I can still hear screams now and then, but there's no way I'm going out there now. And that's it: I've written everything I know. Giovanni Finetti

depending on how you play the wrecked ship you can find before you play the tape. Giovanni was infected at some point because he heard Evie laughing

Orders 2nd floor safe room

Special Operations Division Director Alan Droney and Caretaker Mia Winters: Recent reports suggest that if Eveline remains at her current location, she is at a high risk of being stolen by opposing organizations. Your orders, therefore, are to transfer Eveline to our Central American branch for safe keeping until further notice. During transfer, be sure to adhere to the following protocols: Act as parental guardians for Eveline at all times to avoid suspicion. Manage Eveline's vitals via the Genome Codex provided. If the mission is compromised beyond reconciliation, dispose of Eveline

not to keep harping on the things but Alan is Mia's boss and Mia was low on the food chain not only is this an example of dehumanising Evie its also kinda dehumaninsing Mia because from indeed the description of a caretaker is: A Caretaker, or Janitor or a Site Manager, takes care of the security and maintenance of community buildings. Their duties include cleaning, performing simple repairs and maintenance tasks and performing security checks for the buildings in their care.

we don't know who the threat was (partially BSAA but the others? who knows)

avoid suspicion my ass I say this because there were better ways to deal with this sending someone who actually knew kids. Not acting weird when seen by other people on the ship Alan.

another moment of dehuminisation of Evie and they skip straight to "beyond reconciliation" which again makes me doubt they wanted Evie to get to where she was going

Email log salt mines

Sent: Friday, January 16, 2015 12:42 AM Thanks to you guys it's been about a week since my head's been clear and back to normal. And she STILL thinks she's got me! You guys really need to work on fixing that. Not only does she look like a little kid, but she's about as stupid as one, too. Mom and dad are still totally under though. I was wondering. Is the whole "family" obsession something you guys programmed into her? It's kinda fucked up.

so the Bakers were gradually taken over begining from 10th Oct 2014 so this is three? months later. How were the Connections searching for them or did he find a way to contact them from using the boxes containing the d series arm and head?

Sent: Friday, November 4, 2015 2:10 AM That bitch Mia is still somewhere in between Evie-La-La Land and reality. She gets pretty violent, so I locked her up in a cell. I thought maybe Eveline would get mad since Mia's her favorite and all, but she doesn't seem to care. She actually goes and visits her sometimes. She thinks Mia's her mommy. Like I said, your "bioweapon" is fucked up.

so a little longer between Jan and November. I wonder what act of violence was the catalyst for Mia being locked up for 2/3 years. I wonder what Evie was thinking "doesn't seem to care" because of her upbringing I would say it just seemed normal to her? I wonder if it was during these visits they learn of Ethan's existence?

Sent: Friday, September 1, 2016 1:10 AM Eveline's family obsession is getting out of hand. She's making everyone kidnap more and more assholes off the street to add to her freak show of a family. Maybe she's getting tired of Mia not coming around, but it's a pain in the ass for me because I gotta clean up the mess whenever someone new comes along. By the way, Evie's looking sick or something. Her skin is getting all wrinkly and she's getting grey hairs. Is that supposed to happen? It's almost like she's getting old all of a sudden.

Mia still holding strong against Evie's desires despite being in the cell. I wonder what was going through Evie's head when she wanted more people to join the family

Infection Report

This report details the symptoms that appear when the bacterium* that grows inside the E-Series infects a human. Be sure to read this document throughly before dealing with E-Series weaponized assets. Hereafter referred to as "mold". Initial Infection. The mold ingests nutrients from the subject's body to propagate itself, and slowly takes over cells within the body. As a side effect of this, the infected subject gains remarkable regenerative abilities. During experiments, we removed arms and legs from test subjects and found that they were able to coapt the amputated limbs in a matter of minutes. Mid-stage Infection: Once the mold reaches the brain, the subject's thoughts become "in tune" with those of the E-Series asset. If this state continues, the host will lose all sense of ego. Complete Infection: After every cell in the body has been taken over by the mold, the subject begins to lose their human form. Physical mutations differ from case to case, but all result in him or her acquiring incredible physical strength. Containing a subject at this stage would be extremely difficult.

Zombie Ant Fungus (information from Britannica) Once the fungal mass inside an infected ant reaches a critical size (usually about 16–24 days following infection), the ant is induced to leave its nest at different times than its regular foraging habits, and it fails to walk along established ant trails. Infected ants are generally unresponsive to external stimuli, including other ants... Carpenter ants in areas with zombie-ant fungus have evolved a number of adaptations to limit their exposure to the parasite. Carpenter ants in infested areas tend to be more arboreal than those without the fungus threat, suggesting that they avoid the forest floor to limit exposure to the spores. They also practice social grooming and can remove spores from each other’s bodies before infection can occur. The ants have also been observed to carry infected members of the colony away from the nest and from their usual ant trails on the forest floor to reduce the spread of spores to high traffic areas, and they are known to actively avoid the graveyards of infected dead.

nothing more needs to be said does it?

Report One (much of this is redacted) salt mine still you can read the full thing here. but i'm focusing on the bits that stood out to me.

This project was instigated in 2000 as one of several concepts for the company's NEXBAS (next-generation experimental battlefield superiority) initiative, working with technical assistance from H.C.F., to develop a bioweapon for neutralizing combatants en masse with minimal direct contact. NEXBAS was later folded, and all its assets diverted to this project. What makes this project markedly different from conventional weapons is its ability to turn enemy combatants into allies; converting hostile elements into willing servants... The resultant organisms were referred to as "candidate specimens" and graded based on usability, from the impratical and faulty Series A through D, to the perfected E-Series. A common appearance was selected for the bioweapons; that of a roughly ten-year-old girl, to ensure ease of blending in with urban/refugee populations... Eveline's control is exerted in a series of discrete stages, the first of which is hallucination. Almost immediately after infection, the subject begins to see images of Eveline (though she is not in fact there) and hear her voice (which is inaudible to anyone else). Auditions with infected subjects throughout the stages of infection reveal that at first, the phantom Eveline appears to be a normal young girl, sometimes desiring companionship or assistance. As time progresses, she begins making more and more extreme demands, including self-mutilation and attacks on other people. The psychological shock this induces helps to break down the mind's natural barriers to Eveline's brainwashing effect, and by the time mental control is achieved, the mutamycete infection has progressed throughout the body's cells...

1 H.C.F. is Wesker he was in charge of it for a time and it and he was behind the events of code veronica

2 this was Evie's sales pitch. Essentially Evie being dropped into a combat zone she would be able to stop the fighting (the regenerative factor was just a bonus)

3 from the way this is worded the other mutamycete experiments had different looks, but for the way they were going to use them a 10 year old child is best.

4 what happened to Ethan is he heard her first and heard her after getting the arm

5 we see all this happen with Jack when he stabbed himself and attacks Margurite and Zoe

Report 2

... The researchers have been calling these super-organisms the "Molded"; made of mold, and also molded as in "shaped". The name has a certain elegance to it. For the treatment of accidental infections, performing □□□□□ on samples of Eveline's body tissue produces a unique fungicidal serum. 1 Administering the serum to an infected subject will cause the mycelia to calcify, but if the subject's cells are already largely invaded, the serum will be fatal. 2 Since the treatment window is so small, the serum's primary use is therefore disposal of infected subjected, rather than a cure. In exploring the serum's potential, we found that subjecting it to □□□□□ would enhance its effects to extreme potency, becoming a compound we now call E-Necrotoxin, which □□□□□□□□□□□□□ in even tiny amounts. 3 What's been interesting to observe in Eveline's behavior is her obsession with the concept of family. In experiments, we found multiple occasions that infected subjects were compelled to act as her "mother" or "father", treating her as if she were really their daughter.Why did she settle upon family as the theme for her mental control? This is just speculation, but it could be that she instinctively understands that a family unit is better suited to blending into social groups than a lone girl. On the other hand…well, a sentimental sort might suggest she's making up for a perceived lack of "love" in her quarantined upbringing. A parent's love.

1 see this in the boathouse

2 say it with me the serum that Zoe was putting a lot of hope on is basic and wouldn't have worked either way (I didn't think of this at the time but this is why Alan didn't suggest getting the serum prepared for him when he was still alive)

3 I would say its both due to her own wants and what she can infer from around. And this also part of why Village is a little stupid at parts because of the picture we see with Miranda and Evie wearing what she was when getting on the boat so either Miranda didn't have much direct contact with the clone of her daughter or she did and for the sake of brevity the author of the report didn't mention her. I say its the latter. Miranda and the Connections at large are the worst either way.

#this took so long #resident evil #resident evil 7 #deciding if I was going to do files or move onto cutscenes from not a hero and end of zoe #I skipped the newspapers and missing names because that's something for later on #random thought the broken handgun we find in the trailer is the one we use in the Mia fight in the guest house #re talk #i hope you all can read the different colours #thank god the zombie ant fungus can't really harm humans #but who knows about the future #if someone wanted they could make the tvirus with the crispr method the main starting point is rabies and ebola #RE9 Mia and Rose (Evie and Ethan in the background) please k thanks #thoughts might change later who knows #i don't know what happened to the title

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mayorwhisper · 1 year

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This is going great so far 😂

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captainmvf · 1 year

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Trying to decide on Future AU designs for the patrol team………..

#mvf talks #cowboys future au #I know all five and the bb trio would be in contact and close family at that point #plenty of guest rooms at the cowboy mansion/house for everyone to sleep over #Max calls them all his aunts and uncles…………..#but uhhhhhhhhhhh I want Rupert to have a motorcycle #and he can take Dino out on long rides #Dina and Todd kind of set up permanent residence at the fossil park #I think Pauleen would also travel a lot and enjoys seeing the world #all eight of them keep spare keys to the cowboy house too-

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fernandina88 · 3 months

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earthtooz · 2 months

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cw: arranged marriage, fluff, neglect at the beginning, ratio falling hard, pining, ratio being jealous of aventurine, unedited bc i wrote this with my heart not my brain

my brain has been thinking about an arranged marriage fic with dr. ratio...

he isn't kind to you at first, less than happy to share a life with a mere acquaintance. he's heard about you before in passing, noting your achievements with a grain of salt because nothing about you particularly mattered to him, irrelevant against the mass of scrolls and books he needs to read.

you don't really disturb his normal routine too much. you move in to his estate with a fair share of your belongings, but none of them crowd his house too much. you have your own room, pristine guest room unearthed by your artistic touch.

aside from dinners, you don't get to see each other too much. he starts his mornings early, getting up at the crack of dawn to exercise and start his day with a hearty meal. you wake up later, partaking in a slow morning, and if you glanced out the window, you might be able to see your husband running laps around the expanse of his gardens.

you admire his dedication and routine, it's fascinating to live beside a genius. everyday, the chest table that sits in the living room changes, the black and white pieces never remaining where you last recalled. the size of his blackboard is impressive, and yet too small to fit all of the formulas his brain remembers, hands effortlessly dancing along the surface to scratch number after number.

a frequent order of his estate is chalk. a new pile is delivered every three days, and he goes through them without fail every time.

during dinner, he tries to spare some conversation with you. you don't tell him too much about your day, not wanting to bore him with your menial chores. he's only half-listening either way, so you'll feign understanding about his work when he explains what he's up to.

ratio is not an attentive husband, but he doesn't mistreat you, either. he allows you to spend his assets without too much care, doesn't police your everyday tasks, and also doesn't bat an eye at other men or women. his pursuit of intelligence is important, and your wellbeing would not come in between that.

your monotonous, distant routine changes one autumn dusk. you're perched in the front yard with an easel set up before you, the sky in front of you now a blend of pink-purple hues. he returns home earlier than you expected, carriage stopping at the front of his estate, and he witnesses you in your tranquil state.

the paint strokes on the canvas before you are skilled, and show years of dedication to the craft. you're so invested in the piece before you, that you don't even hear him approaching until he calls your name.

"the night turns colder with each minute. shouldn't you come inside before you fall ill?" the scholar greets, and you're snapped out of your creative reverie, looking over at him.

"oh, i had not realised. let me clean up here, first." you take your canvas off the easel, but to your surprise, your spouse kneels down to organise your oil paints back into their box.

"make haste, then," he urges.

during dinner, he can't help but be curious over your hobby, the stubborn splotches of paint clinging to your hands visible to him. that night, you engage in uninterrupted conversation, and discover that he's an artist himself- a sculptor. it calms him, and all the statues reside in a removed room, adjacent to his study.

despite your years of matrimony, you had never once dared enter his study, but the design is so fittingly him. it is organised (well, as organised a genius can be), with shelves and shelves filled with books, discarded scrolls lay around the room, but even then, his taste for greco-roman aesthetics are seen. roman dorics act like stands for little plants, and his many certificates are displayed, along with other achievements.

(his study is overwhelmingly filled with them. though you knew of the merit of the man you were arranged to be married to, you had never known just how expansive the list is. perhaps, that only made him more intimidating to you, standing beside a genius does not feel so light to say anymore.)

he shows you his sculptures, and though many of them are... self portraits... the likeness is disgustingly accurate. it was as if he had casted himself in plaster and displayed it proudly. you wonder how long he must have stared in the mirror to perfect their appearance.

but, there are also various other formidable statues. some of people you recognise. you compliment his skill and don't get to see the blush that spreads along his cheeks.

it seems that you've chipped a way into his heart, because between brushstrokes and chiselled marble, he falls in love with you.

ratio knows he didn't start off being the best husband, but he tries to now, and begins by being present. asks you to dine together where possible, listens when you're talking about your day, and the two of you can be seen venturing downtown together; an unbelievable sight for those who believed that ratio was romantically inept.

perhaps, an even more unbelievable sight, was the soft smile on his face that glanced at you very adoringly, and how you remained unaware of his affections.

and, maybe a jealous veritas ratio is just as unbelievable.

he is practically glaring daggers at the side of a certain blond's head. ratio has never been fond of the scheming businessman, aventurine, and is even less so of the fact that you seem so close to him, more than you are with your own husband. you're speaking with him like how one would with old friends, a peaceful visit to the markets turned sour by his presence.

when you finally, finally, finally, bid farewell to aventurine, who gave ratio a look that signified he was up to no good, your husband held your hand in his gloved one with an unforgiving grip. his mood is dampened for the remainder of the day, and is only made better when you enquire about his sudden glumness, visiting his office to see if he was alright.

you leave him with a kiss on the crown of his head, and a whisper of 'goodnight', before retreating to your chambers, and the only thought that circulates in his head for the rest of the night is you, and how he's going to sweep you off your feet.

#*ੈ✩‧₊˚ earf's ideas that i'll never write #earthtooz: honkai star rail #dr ratio x reader #veritas ratio x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #ratio x reader #dr ratio fluff #dr. ratio x reader

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thecharacterchronicler · 2 months

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There Will Come A Ruler (1) || Coriolanus Snow x Reader (+18)

Outline: You agreed to a marriage of convenience with Coriolanus Snow to please your parents and be an asset in his campaign to become the new president of Panem. On your first wedding anniversary, the man who you barely spend time with and hardly know, tells you that he wants you to give him a heir.

Word count: 3’938

Warnings: pregnancy (TTC), marriage of convenience, explicit smut (+18)

(( Part 2 - Snow Lands On Top )) - ((Part 3 - Insatiable ))

You sat at your vanity, adjusting the necklace of pearls around your neck. The reflection in the mirror showed such an elegant woman, with the poise and grace expected of a future First Lady. You had even managed to master the art of making your fake smiles appear real, leading on everyone to believe that you were living a dream, even though things were nothing like what you’d let on in front of the people of Panem.

You repowdered your face, and brushed your hair to make sure you looked flawless before taking a deep breath and leaving the intimacy of your bedroom, the one only you slept in, to go downstairs and join your husband for dinner.

Tonight was one of the few nights he wasn’t working late or had a business dinner or event to attend. Those nights dining in your manor, just the two of you without any guests always felt strange since they were so unusual. You had a cook and a waiter, employees hired to serve you and care for everything so that the only thing expected from you was to show up, dressed and polished for the occasion. Not that Coriolanus would have noticed if you had showed up for this dinner in your pajamas and messy hair, he’d usually be too busy reading the newspaper or writing his next speech to even look at you during the meal. Then, you’d retire back to your bedroom and he would stay working late in his office until he too, would go back to his room, at the far opposite of yours in the opulent manor you resided in.

It had been a year of this routine, ignoring each other unless there were some peering eyes to scrutinize you or some important people to impress. You couldn’t say you were unhappy because what was there to complain about ? You lived in a gorgeous house, you had the privileges associated with being a powerful man’s wife and you were free to spend your days and money as you pleased, the only rule being to never, ever, do anything that could reflect badly on your politician of a husband. Days were sweet and easy. A lot more than what you had imagined when you were told that your parents had agreed for you to marry a complete stranger, just because it was an honor and a wonderful opportunity to be chosen as the fiancée of one of the most important people in Panem. The fact that you had never talked to Coriolanus Snow once before didn’t matter, the papers were signed and three days later, you found yourself walking down the aisle to a blond man, dressed in white as you were, to vow each other love and support until death brought you apart in front of a crowd of cameras, reporters and nosy onlookers.

You made your way to the dining room. With its large windows, it offered one of the best views on the garden and greenhouse, which were always well taken care of, not a single strand of grass out of line or a single rose withering without being cut off of its branch. The furnitures were simple, yet luxurious and the long table was perfect for you to sit at opposite ends from your husband. It was much easier for you to ignore each other, separated by two rows of empty seats and various dishes and platters scattered across the table.

The cook always made five courses meals , with refined food and expensive wine , and although it was only the two of you, tonight was no exception. The hors d’œuvres and entrees had been served already, red wine filling the crystal glasses on each end of the glass table. However, one thing wasn’t right…

“Mrs Snow.” Your husband greeted you, with the same politically warm smile you had mastered to do too by taking example on him.

You stopped on your way to your seat, unsure of what to expect. Despite the few meals you had shared in privacy, he had never been waiting for you standing by the window, with a glass in hand and a gorgeous rose in the other . Nor had he been so perfectly dressed and groomed for such an occasion. Usually, you could tell he had spent a long day working or attending events, his clothes always classy but his light hair frequently tousled and light purple lines under his eyes. This time though, it looked like he had dressed and prepared himself just for you, wearing his best suit and his blond locks perfectly combed back.

“Mister Snow.” You replied, observing him with a sucpicious expression.

“Happy anniversary.” He said, taking the few steps that still separated him from you to hand you the white rose he held. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, something definitely wasn’t right as he never had such caring gestures towards you if they weren’t witnessed by others. But you took the rose, politely thanking him. And surveyed the room carefully in search of a camera or an important guest you might have missed… But you didn’t find anything to justify his odd behavior. “I asked the chef to make your favorite dish for the occasion.”

You knew Coriolanus had no idea what it was, but the fact that he had been so thoughtful to ask should have been enough.

He pulled your chair for you, like the perfect gentleman he was but never bothered to be if it didn’t benefit his image, and you sat at the table, taking in the carefully presented trays of all the things you liked to eat in front of you.

The waiter entered to serve both of you, because since you became Mrs Snow, you apparently weren’t required to do the most basic things, such as filling your own plate with food yourself anymore.

Coriolanus raised his glass of wine to you, proposing to toast to the first of many years together before drinking a long sip out of his beverage. You knew you didn’t have a choice but to do the same, as etiquette dictated it, but his sudden acknowledgment of your existence was enough to make you want to throw your glass at his face and demand he told you what he was up to. But of course, you knew better than to cause a scene, even in privacy.

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to know sixty percent of the voters are favoring me for presidency.” He stated, with a proud smile you couldnt quite tell if real or forced. “Gaul says that with a few more efforts, I should be able to gain the majority, and then I’ll unquestionably win the elections.”

“That’s wonderful.” You replied, truly hoping Coriolanus will be elected to rule over Panem. It was the only thing he wanted and cared about, you didn’t want to imagine the depth of his misery if he didn’t make it. You also might have not known your husband intimately at all but, since you often had to accompany him for official duties, you had learned a thing or two about the way he’d address important business. “Is there anything I can do to help ?”

You saw him smile at your question. A genuine smile, letting you know you were asking exactly what he was hoping you would.

“Well, according to the surveys, I seem to have convinced most of the older electors . However, one part of the population seems to still have doubts about my program.” He explained, while the waiter refilled his glass of wine. “Apparently, families don’t believe I have their best interest at heart.”

“A few more events centered around children and education and I’m sure they’ll be acquired to your cause.” You said, understanding that he probably meant to ask you to accompany him more often to those, as a proof that he cared enough.

“Surely, but Gaul also suggested we start a family of our own to appear more relatable.”

You swallowed your wine with difficulty, the bitterness burning down your throat at his words. Your chest tightened, your heart pounding wildly.

“We agreed on having our first child after five years of marriage.” You reminded him, and by the way his pale eyes focused on you, you knew you were about to start an important business negotiation with him.

“Unfortunately, I need the support of these voters now, not in five years.”

“We signed a contract that detailed this topic very clearly.”

“And in that contract, you vowed to support me in my endeavors and give me two heirs at minimum. I don’t think getting started on our family now instead of later will make much of a difference to you.”

“You are asking me to carry and birth a baby but it won’t make much of a difference to me ?!” You snapped, raising your voice louder than you should have.

“What I meant to say is that you’re going to have to do it sooner or later. Might as well be now so you’re done with this part of your duty. It would benefit me greatly, and you too.”

You bit your lip to keep yourself from shouting at him. The way he was so detached about it all made you unreasonably angry. You had agreed to give him children and he was right, you knew that sooner or later you’d have to get it over with but in all honesty, it wasn’t the idea of being pregnant that gave you anxiety but the thought of what you had to do in order to achieve that.

You were good at putting up a show for the public, pretending to be perfectly in love and happy together but in truth, you didn’t even know this man. He was a stranger, living in the same house as you and that was about it. Imagining anything more intimate with him seemed preposterous.

“I’ll need to think about it.” You told him, and he nodded quietly. He was gracious enough to accept that answer for now but you knew he’d have things his way, wether you agreed or not.

●○●○●○●○●○●

You spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in your satin sheets, mulling over Coriolanus’ request. Damn Dr. Gaul and her bright ideas ! It already was her fault if you had been chosen to be Mister Snow’s perfect wife, an honor in the eyes of most but it felt oddly similar to being picked as a tribute and sent into the arena to you. You didn’t have much say in what you wanted then, you knew you didn’t have anymore to say now. You really were faced with only two choices; either agree and conceive a child, either take the risk of being replaced by a more willing - and less opiniated - new wife.

It took you until the next evening to finally accept that you only had one resonable answer to give him. Unfortunately, the hours seemed to pass by way too slowly since Coriolanus wasn’t home for supper that night, leaving you alone in the empty dining room with your thoughts. You had waited for him for a while, enjoying the cosy living room as night fell over the Capitol until you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore and fell asleep on the teal sofa by the chimney.

When you woke up, the flames that had kept you warm were merly embers. You hadn’t noticed the difference in temperature, thanks to one of the house employees who had been thoughtful enough to cover you with a warm wool blanket. You rose up and stretched, deciding to finish your night in the comfort of your bed but when you walked passed your husband’s office, you noticed a light seeping from underneath the door.

After a gentle knock, you tentatively turned the knob to enter the room you had never been in before. Just like his bedroom, his office usually was a place you avoided in order to keep the distances between the two of you when you didn’t have to fake a happy marriage for others.

You weren’t too surprised by the luxurious items that decorated the room, the white couch and the very large desk in the center of the room were very much in Coriolanus’s style; classic and elegant. But what really caught your attention in this unknown territory was the man behind the desk, dishelved, with his tie undone and the first few buttons of his shirt opened. In a year of living together, you had never seen your husband look so… common.

“You’re awake.” He remarked, leaning back in his armchair and rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“And so are you.”

“I usually don’t go to bed before three or four o’clock.”

You glanced at the clock on the mantel of his fireplace, indicating three twenty five. You quickly did the math, realizing how little sleep he got since most days, when you got up and had breakfast at seven in the morning, he always already was off to his other office in town.

“Don’t you think you might be overworking yourself ?” You asked him, finally daring to fully step inside the room and approach his desk.

“It’s better than having nightmares.” He confessed, matter of factly before looking away from you, as if he hadn’t meant to say something so personal to you. “Did you need something ?”

You stopped in front of the white desk, standing with your thighs pressed against the edge. Even sitting, he still looked quite taller than you.

“I’d like a whole new wardrobe designed by Fabricia Whatnot, a pond in the greenhouse with koi fishes and to add some shelves to the library with more up to date books, mostly romance.”

Coriolanus’ intrigued pale blue eyes observed you, the ghost of an amused smile on his lips.

“And what will I get in exchange of all of this ?” He asked, although his smirk showed he already knew the answer.

“A heir.” You replied, with the satisfaction of at least gaining the most you could ask for out of the deal. His smile grew wider, and you wondered if it was a genuine one. It had to be. It seemed so much warmer than his other ones…

“Then you’ll get everything you want, sweetheart.” You smiled at him, genuinely happy with this outcome although the perspective of what was meant to happen next still terrified you.

He stood from his chair, eyes remaining fixed on you as he walked around his desk to join you on the other side. You felt a shiver run up your spine once he was close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his skin onto yours.

With a hand on each of your hips, he lifted you up to sit you down on the edge of his desk. He looked down at you, his face so close to yours and even if it caused your heartbeat to go wild, you knew he wouldn’t kiss you. He never did.

Instead, he finished unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, revealing his unexpectedly muscular chest, a vague testament left of his previous life as a peacekeeper in the districts.

He placed his white shirt on the desk next to you, careful to fold it neatly enough to avoid creasing before focusing his attention back on you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his hands on you again, first against the bare skin of your legs and slowly but unmistakably making their way up to your thighs, bringing your skirt up in their wake. A ragged breath escape your lips when his fingers trailed the elastic of your underwear, exploring the shape of it by following its lines until suddenly, the warmth and roughness of his fingers had slipped under the fabric and pressed directly on your skin.

He reached between your legs rather gently, a finger slipping between your folds and softly tracing a few lines connecting your entrance to your clit He was being considerate enough to take things slow and prepare you for him, which was something you strangely didn’t expect him to do. Well to be fair, in all twelve months you had been Coriolanus Snow’s wife, you hadn’t given much thoughts to what intimacy might be like with him. Of course, you knew it would have to happen eventually, you had signed a contract after all but you usually avoided fantasizing about it.

You knew Coriolanus probably had an abundance of mistresses to please him whenever he wanted - or needed - them. He was a very good looking man. You knew that already, but seeing him as he was tonight, without much care to his appearance, was yet another proof of how devastatingly handsome he could be.

You liked the way he caressed you, it was the most intimate touch you had ever shared together, and it somehow felt nice to connect with him. But it also was pretty obvious that, even in a situation such as this one, he still was very much in control of himself and of every aspect of what was happening. It was unfair. If he was asking you to let go and was slowly but surely awakening your desire for him with the way his finger still circled your center, he might as well abandon his pretenses and enjoy it too.

Determined to help, you reached out for his pants, unbuttoning them before he could protest and pulling out the hardened length of his cock out of his underwear. It was so rigid and warm in your hand, dark veins running all along his shaft up to his pale tip, which was slightly glistening already. You looked back at him unable to conceal your surprise at how ready he was for you already. You hadn’t done anything to get him in the mood, nor had you removed a single piece of clothing yet but he already seemed to be throbbing with desire with the simple anticipation of what was about to happen.

You ran your thumb over his tip, collecting a drop of his precum with a blush creeping to your cheeks. He stared at you as you did, refusing to let any emotions show on his face but unable to stop himself from shuddering. It helped you feel more confident. With a soft smile for him, you used your other hand to undo the bow around your waist, which held your dress together. It came undone by itself, revealing your chest to him which caused his eyes to darken slightly.

A silent struggle seemed to take place in his mind, hesitating between following his plan as he had imagined it, methodically proceeding in order to procreate or giving in to the violent pulsion of pure lust he felt at the sight of your gorgeous body , taking you like a wild animal rather than pretending to be a gentleman.

You huffed in surprise when you felt his finger slip once more into your wetness before he pushed it inside you, as deeply as it could go. In return, you pumped his cock a few times, enjoying the sight of him trying to resist the pleasure it instantly gave him. He moved his finger in and out of you in synch with your own movements along his shaft before deciding that you were stretched enough to add another one and try to expand you a bit more. You moaned and immediately bite your lip to silence yourself, if he was being careful to not lose control over any of this then you were determined to do the same. But the way he smirked with satisfaction as the sound of your whimper of exctasy when he added a third finger inside you almost caused you to climax already.

You lifted your hips up, trying to move your body and get him to hit even deeper inside you which seemed to amuse him. He liked the way you were slowly starting to lose your mind over the intensity of the pleasure he was giving you.

You gently tugged on his erection still firmly squeezed in your fist, attempting to bring him closer so that he would understand that you were more than ready to take him, as big as he was.

His fingers left you, your walls pulsing with a need for more but instead of his cock pushing past your entrance, it’s his lips savagely crashing against yours that you felt. It was a messy kiss, full of unspoken words and concealed passion finally pouring out. A kiss that was nothing like the chaste, picture perfect, kiss you had shared on your wedding day.

The next moment, his lips were gone and he yanked you to the edge of his desk by a tight grip on your wet panties. They teared under the pressure of his movement and, with the fabric out of his way, all he had left to do was press his hips between your legs spread opened and slam his cock inside you. It was so sudden, your eyes rolled back with the intensity of it all for a moment.

A panted breath escaped his lips, letting you know you felt as good to him as he felt to you. He was trying to stay focused on you, trying to keep his first few thrusts slow and long but as soon as you moaned, the last of his restrain dissolved and he slammed himself back in, shoving his entire length inside you and hitting deep where you so desperately needed to feel him.

With one hand on your hip and the other reaching for your bra, he rocked you in rythym with his blunt thrusts and you definitely gave up on staying silent, letting your loud noises fill his office and probably resonate in the entire manor.

Your body tensed, clenching his cock so hard that you felt it even deeper and it sent you off the edge. Your legs trembled and your vision blurred as a wave of exceptional pleasure took hold of your entire being, making you feel dizzy and satisfied all at once. No matter the strength of the orgasm shaking your body, your husband kept thrusting abruptly in and out of you at the same pace for a bit longer until you felt his warm release filling you up and he collapsed in your arms, panting.

You brought your hands to his soft blond hair, gently playing with his curls as you kept your eyes shut and tried to regain your senses, your legs still shaking and your core still pulsating around him.

A moment went by during which you almost felt close to the stranger you had married, like you finally knew a very intimate part of him but as soon as he had managed to catch his breath, he pulled out of you and regained his flawless, controlled composure.

“Do you think it worked ?” You asked him, still lightly panting.

He put his softening erection back in his pants and reached for his shirt before taking back his place behind his desk.

“I think we should keep trying, just to be sure.” He replied, with a glance at you that clearly betrayed the excitement he felt at the idea of doing it all again with you.

Next in this series:

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus smut #corio snow #coriolanus imagine #coriolanus x y/n #coriolanus snow smut #tbosas #smut #smutty fanfiction #coryo snow #president snow #snow smut #tbosas smut #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x female!reader #spicy content

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carpe-cullen · 1 year

Photo

Porch - Traditional Porch

#a sizable #elegant stone front porch with an addition to the roof remodel garage #estate home #remodel guest house #east shore home #master bath #remodel residence

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zephyrchama · 4 months

Text

Another Obey Me! headcanon.

Any time the House of Lamentation drops below a certain cleanliness threshold - due to either negligence or wacky shenanigans that result in sections of the house being destroyed - Barbatos comes to confiscate the resident human. MC privileges revoked until the place looks new again.

MC gets to reside in one of the castle's guest rooms and help out with mundane tasks, anything from cooking to minor bureaucratic work, while the brothers toil away to clean the house as fast as they can. Sometimes it can take weeks since Barbatos will make absolutely certain they don't cut any corners. Diavolo calls them occasionally to brag about how much fun he has with MC at tea time.

#obey me #obey me!#obey me headcanon #obey me barbatos #obey me hcs #omswd #obey me mc #omswd mc

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leclsrc · 11 months

Text

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.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz one shot #f1 x reader

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ghostbsuter · 8 months

Text

The house of Nightingale & Constantine ( P. 1 )

> next part

.・゜-: ✧ :-

You know, when Batman reassured him (was it tho? His way of using words is a bit... confusing.) of bringing in a third person for their common problem, Phantom, Danny, didn't press nor worry.

He regrets it now, just a little bit.

—

Dick liked Danny.

The small guy has been an absolute delight!

(He isn't grinning when he and Damian duke it out, doesnt watch fondly when Danny and Jason exchange the most weirdest ways of insulting someone or when He and Steph gossip, Cass sitting behind him with her hands in his hair.)

(He can see from the corner of his eye the way Tim hides a grin behind his hand, texting Danny someone rapidly and their Guest laughing at random times, the way even Duke, despite wearing the sunglasses, seems to warm up pretty quickly to their new brother friend.)

(It's doesn't help that he has black hair and blue eyes either.)

Danny has been living with them for some time now, temporarily as it may be, and grew on them all pretty quickly.

Bruce told them when Constantine arrived at the cave, seemingly irritated for unknown reasons, and they all were ushered to the elevator.

There is no noise as they arrive, Danny few feet off the ground and engaged on a hot topic with Steph as they go down the stairs.

The moment Constantine is in sight however, has their resident ghost snapping out of the conversation and zooming in on the man from afar.

It's kind of funny? The way his black hair fluffs up like in a Ghibli Movie, the way his eyes narrow to slits, glowing a faint green.

Many shout in alarm at the sight of agitation (?), Dick sees Constantines own eyes glow a eery gold??

It's like two cats staring down one another, a showdown.

(Someone should record this.)

The two meet down in the middle of the cave, Danny is bristling and John scowling.

"Really Bats? A Nightingale?" The blond man scoffs, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat, hands roaming for cigarettes probably.

"Excuse me? I thought the line of Constantine died out back then, with the way you handle your stuff." The teen hisses back, a hand running through his poofed up hair.

"Hah!" The Hellblazer gives a mocking laugh, cigar already in hand and lit. "'With the way we handle our stuff'? Weren't the Nightingales out of commission not so long ago?"

The glow might have died out, but the tension only rose higher.

Danny turns to Batman, glowering.

"Asking for the help of the house of Constantine? Are you crazy? Those nutjobs have no self-preservation!"

John's eye twitches at the remark.

"No self-preservation, my ass. Nightingales do nothing but mess with stuff they shouldn't, talk about self-preservation when you have it yourself, pipsqueak."

And Danny? Danny growls.

"All you do is trick every being to do your bidding! One day all of this will catch up to your house and me? I will watch as it burns."

The blonds cigarette snaps in his grip.

"Burn? Me? Doesn't the house if Nightingales hunt the beings we 'trick'? It seems to me that your lineage is already going down as we speak."

The argument (?) continues and the batclan does nothing but watch as if its a particularly interesting tennis match.

(John looks like he's about 5 seconds away from strangling Danny and the teen about to bite off John's head.)

"What's going on?" Finally, Batman steps in.

"What's going on? What's going on?? You said you'd bring in a third person! Not a constantine!"

The bat shows no signs of anything really, when both teen and man whip around to face him.

"I thought you'd know better than to involve yourself with the house of Nightingales."

"I was here first! No take backs!"

"And yet I know bats longer, don't I, pipsqueak?"

"Foolish trickster!"

"Imprudent necromancer!"

(Apparently, beef between two houses of dark exists and they had the chance to experience it first hand.)

(This is one of the many occurrences.)

#dp x dc crossover #fic prompt #writing prompt #john constantine #danny nightingale #the house of Constanine and the House of Nightingale have infinite beef #constanine can and will punt this literal toddler #steph: fight fihht fight #danny and john have family beef #what if danny meets constantine but i do u one better #its hate at first sight #batman has absolute no idea what happening #hes taking it like a champ tho #its jason btw #the one who records this showdown of two feral cats that are alive (or half) despite the circumstances #dc x dp prompt #dcxdp #dpxdc

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shankss-magnificent-ass · 7 months

Text

Imagine Katakuri getting a crush on you and Big mom arranging a marriage between you two

Big Mom: -takuri... Katakuri!

Katakuri: *snaps out of his day dream* Oh yes, Mama

Big Mom: where were you, you've been distracted during meetings for days.

Katakuri: It's nothing, sorry mama, it won't happen again. I have some paper work to attend to, may I please be excused?

Big Mom: yes.

Daifuku: *soon as Katakuri leaves* I believe he's fallen in love, Mama.

Big Mom: Ehh, with whom?

Perospero: With (y/n), they attended your last tea party with their father, who owns the largest vanilla orchard in the world.

Big Mom: really? Are they single?

Daifuku: I ... I'm not sure, Mama.

Big Mom: I'll look into it then, in the meantime look after your brother, make sure he keeps up with his work.

Perospero and Daifuku: Yes Mama.

Daifuku: *once Big Mom is out of ear shot* Did we just sign Katakuri up to get married.

Persopero: Probably, you know how mama is about securing ingredients for sweets. And unfortunately for our dear brother, vanilla is found in most sweets, from angel food cake to zingers.

Daifuku: but what if (y/n)'s father doesn't agree to join and marry of his only child?

Persopero: If that happens Mama will do a hostile take over, and either marry or give (y/) to Katakuri.

Later at Big Mom's residence

Katakuri: *arrives for a meeting only to find you in the conference room* Oh, what are you doing here?

You: My father has agreed to join your pirate group, and to marry me off into your family.

Katakuri: * sits next to you* ... Do you know who you'll be marrying?

You: not yet, but that's what this meeting is about.

Katakuri: *knows his mother only invites the child she wants to marry off to these meetings but doesn't want to scare you* no mater who you marry, I'll make sure you're taken care of and have everything your heart desires.

You: *gives him a weak smile* Thank you, Kata, you wouldn't believe relieved I am to hear that.

Katakuri: *extends his hand for you to hold* Mama, should be here soon.

You: *takes his hand and squeezes it with trembling hands*

Katakuri: You're shaking.

You: I've... just never not been under my father's protection, and I'm scared.... but I do feel better with you here with me.

Katakuri: *rubs the back of your hand with his thumb* Really? Even though we've only met a handful of times in the part?

Big Mom: *kicks open the door* (y/n)! I'm so glad you could come... Oh, I see you've already met your betrothed.

Katakuri: Me!?

Big Mom: *glared* You like them, don't you?

Katakuri: *blushes* mama! Please let's not embarrass me in front of our guest.

Big Mom: mmmr, very well, since you two are already getting acquainted I'll leave you to it. ... Oh, by the way the wedding is in five days. *Leaves*

Katakuri: Five days until we're married... *flops back into his chair and is lost in thought, coming to grips with the fact that he is to be married.*

You: ... I'm sorry about this I don't know what my father was thinking offering me up like this.

Katakuri: He didn't offer you up, Mama offered me up first. Mainly to gain your father's orchard, but that is beside the point. If there is anything I can do, please let me know. You probably won't be moved into my house until after the wedding, but I can have my sisters look after you.

You: You mean you won't be staying with me?

Katakuri: *takes your hands into his and presses them to his lips through his scarf* No, but only because I need to work double time, so you can have me all to yourself during our honeymoon.

You: ⁄⁠(⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠☉⁄⁠-⁠⁄⁠☉⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠)⁠⁄

Katakuri: *realizes how that sounded* Not that we have to do anything during our honeymoon that you don't want.... I'm going to go start on my work, I'll have Brûlée come and get you settled into your rooms, in the meantime please wait here.

You: Okay, and for the record, I look forward to... to having you all to myself during our honeymoon, if you catch my drift.

Katakuri: ⁠ ⁄⁠(⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠•⁄⁠ロ⁠⁄⁠•⁄⁠ ⁠'⁄⁠)⁠⁄

List of Up-and-coming works

Support me on Kofi and Patreon

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #one piece scenario #katakuri x reader #charlotte katakuri #charlotte katakuri x reader #big mom #linlin #big mom pirates #charlotte daifuku #charlotte perospero #from the depths of the dragon's hoard #tma original #10/2/23 #no beta we die like men

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httpdwaekki · 1 month

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phobia | b.c.

summary: you have arachnophobia but luckily you had an aussie to help you with it.

wc: 1.1k

warnings: mentions of spiders! i tried not to get too specific but they are still mentioned heavily.

a/n: my first request ah! @anjian03 ty so much for the request, i hope i did this justice :) i honestly might write a felix version in the in the future so definitely let me know if that's something you'd want :) anyway! i hope you guys enjoy and as always, drink water, eat something, and take ur meds. <3

my library

(pictures are not mine! credit to owners!)

you never liked bugs, never have, never will. spiders in particular, terrify you. no matter how small, what color, you will always hate them. naturally, you fell in love with an australian, which was both a blessing and a curse.

now chan is well aware of your dislike of bugs, even more so of your phobia of spiders. so when he invited you to go back home with him, you were hesitant. of course you wanted to meet his family and berry but all you could think about is the 8 legged arachnids that reside in his home country.

chan could see the immediate panic that took over your features. you were well aware of how irrational your fear was, and you definitely didn’t want it to get in the way of you meeting your boyfriend’s family but you couldn’t help it.

“you’re worried about the spiders right?” you nod, picking at the now chipped nail polish that covered each finger. you were sat across from him on your couch, head hung in embarrassment. he gently grabbed your hand, rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand.

“hey,” he shakes your hand gently, making you to look at him, “i get it, okay? you don’t have to go if it’ll stress you out too much. you don’t have too, okay?” you quickly shake your head.

“no no, i wanna come.” you reassure him. “are you sure?” he asks, searching your eyes for uncertainty. “yes, i wanna meet berry and your family and see where you grew up.” you nod smiling, squeezing his hand.

“okay, i’ll be there the whole time okay?” he reassures you. you lean forward, placing a loving kiss to his plush lips, before wrapping your arms around his neck. “i know channie,” placing a soft kiss on his neck. “thank you.”

a few months later, chan finally has a break and you find yourself in the warm city of sydney, australia. you had been there for a few days, and it wasn’t as bad as you had imagined. you hadn’t even thought about the arachnids since meeting his family.

simply focusing on chan enjoying the limited time he had home with his family. it was nice to see him so relaxed, and carefree, not worrying about deadlines or comebacks, just enjoying life.

and that’s exactly what he looked like now, playing with berry as you helped his mom clean up from the delicious dinner she had cooked. she was finishing washing the last of the dishes as you dried them. you both went back and forth, telling your own stories about chan, laughing and smiling at the precious boy in the next room.

after the dishes, she starts tying the bag in the trash can. you stop her, “oh, mrs.bang, i can grab that.” she quickly shakes her head. “no sweetheart, you’re a guest, i’ve got it.” you shake your head right back.

“please? you cooked all day and i think my mother would yell at me if she found out i didn’t do more to help.” you insisted, reaching for the bag. she relents, handing you the bag, “okay, you win, the trash is just around the house, but make sure you put on the light. you never know what nasty buggers are running around out there.” she laughs.

your blood suddenly runs cold, a stark reminder of the things that made you scared to come here in the first place. you knew she was joking, just a light hearted comment but you couldn’t help but freeze.

she looks at you concerned, “are you okay?” you smile, nodding. “yes sorry, i’ll be right back.” you make a quick exit, finding the side door, making sure to flip the light switch first.

once outside of the door you take a moment to breathe. you look out to the australian sunset, trying to relax for a moment. it was still light out, but still dark enough to need the light. after a moment or two you finally move towards the trash cans.

unbeknownst to you, chan had made his way out to follow you. his mom asking him to check on you as you were taking a while, before making her way to her room. this set off silent alarms in chan’s head, as he was well aware of the presence of the specific 8-legged creatures that you loathed surrounding the trash bins.

as he made it to the door, he hears the unmistakable sound of your scream. he quickly yanks the door, yelling your name. you run into him, letting out another yelp. “hey hey, jagiya, it’s just me, it’s chan, you’re okay.” you shove your face into his neck, hands shaking as you wrap your arms around him.

he wraps his arms around you, rubbing your back, glancing behind you where he finds the trash bag on the floor, and the dreaded 8-legged creature on the handle to the trash bin. he places a kiss to the side of your head, “are you okay to wait for me by the door?’ he whispered into your ear. you nod your head, slowly releasing him, making your way back to the door.

he quickly moves to grab the bag, brushing the spider off with the bag before lifting the lid, placing the bag inside. he makes his way back to you, opening the door, ushering you inside. “come on, let’s wash our hands quick, then we can lay down.” you nodded, making your way to the sink.

the shaking slowly subsides as you slowly wash your hands. chan notices the slight shake stil present in your hands. he softly wraps his soap covered hands over yours, stopping your movements. “you okay baby?” he leans over, whispering into your ear. you nod your head, you’re face heating up in embarrassment. “i’m sorry.”

he shakes his head, quickly rinsing your hands before drying them. he places his hands to your warm cheeks, your eyes shiny as they look into his. “you have nothing to apologize for, okay?” you slightly nod your head.

“you got scared, it happens it’s okay.” his thumbs gently rubbing your soft cheeks. “i’m so proud of you, my brave baby.” your cheeks become even warmer. you let out a giggle, dropping your head, shaking it a bit.

“i’m serious bubs, i know you were scared to go out there but you still went.” you smile, placing a kiss on the side of his mouth. “ come on, let’s go lay down.” he grabs your hand, leading you to his childhood room, where you spent the rest of the night, cuddled together, looking at chan’s babies pictures.

you may never get over your phobia but at least you have chan with you to help you.

do not repost

#bang chan #bang chan imagine #bang chan fluff #bang chan x reader #bang chan fic #bang chan oneshot #stray kids #stray kids imagine #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #stray kids fic #tw : spiders #spiders #ash's archive ⟡˖°

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wandasfifthwife · 1 month

Text

(1) a classic get-together | I got a bad idea series

—> masterlist

southern!wandanat x fem!city-girl reader

tw: mention of past animal death (horse), alcohol discussion and consumption (r), r gets drunk, messy family dynamics, R is an emotional drunk lmao (enjoy the embarrassment), introduction chapter (I’m sorry if it’s boring, but this sets up the story haha)

a/n: NOT proofread. I’m so sorry for the choppy writing and if there’s any grammar or spelling errors. I’m publishing this right after I had finished writing it. Please be patience with me, I’ll edit later tonight :)

The fields that stretch in for miles and fresh breeze brings a sense of nostalgia when you step out from the car. Small rocks grind together under your feet as you make your way up towards the door. You greet your grandparents with a smile, shrugging your bag further onto your back to hug them comfortably.

“Oh dear, let me grab that for you.”

Your grandpa reaches behind you to remove the weight from your back. You thank him and turn back to your grandma.

“It’s so good to see you,” she starts, “how’s the job doing?”

“Good, pretty good.”

Your mom comes up behind you, resting a hand on your shoulder, “my sister’s family is coming behind us. Can you help them bring their stuff inside?”

You nod at her request, kicking your shoes off and following them inside. Being in the city you’ve had a few dreams about their home. Now being back in town, it feels unreal.

“You can take the guest room upstairs, I have set some blankets out since our AC doesn’t work very well keeping the chill out.”

You thank her and walk behind your grandfather towards the stairway. Each step elicits a cracking sound from the old wooden stairs. He sets your stuff on the bed and pulls you into another hug.

“It’s so good to see you again, it’s been what, almost five years?”

“That’s too long,” you relax into the hug, “it’s good to see you too.”

“We got a new horse. We’d love for you to take him out sometime to get him used to another rider.”

“Well, I can try later in the week.”

He leaves you alone, giving you time to unload your stuff into the drawers. You’re tucking your duffel under the bed when excited voices from below float into the room. There were five more entering into the room, exchanging hugs with one another.

You wonder down the stairs, a smile on your face as you greet everyone you from across. Keeping true to your promise, you walk out to their car to carry any extra luggage they had during their drive down. Your aunt pulls you into probably the tenth hug you’ve had today, and definitely not the last.

“You’ve grown so much. Last I saw you was when you were a senior in high school.”

“And since then you’ve had another son,” you squeeze her hands to show your elation, “congrats.”

She laughs and waves you off, “thank you. How’s your job been treating you?”

“It’s good,” you almost wheeze from the weight of her suitcase. Trying to drag it up the stairs was impossible, she had to help you lift.

Each hour passed brought more people until almost fifty people were residing in the house. There weren’t enough rooms for everyone. Those who didn’t have a room had booked a hotel room not too far away.

It was a flurry of people back to back. The building wasn’t small, but it wasn’t the best space to host multiple family members.

A surprised noise sounds from you when your grandpa comes up behind you and drags you towards his bedroom.

“I’ve been re-fixing the fence out there after that storm a couple weeks ago, and I found this. I want to give it to you before I forget.”

He places a heavy object into your hands. You turn your wrist, flipping the item to look at it better.

“Is this the international coin I lost as a kid?”

He nods and you look at him crazy, “how?”

“You raved over that. Came and told me you were going to be an archeologist. Now here you are in corporate.”

You roll your eyes dramatically and put it in your back pocket, “life isn’t very fair. I would have done that if I could understand math.”

“That’s alright. I’m not good at math either, I leave that to my wife,” he says with a weird laugh, leading you back into the hallway.

The youngest in the family, a cousin of yours, comes barreling towards the two of you. You’re quick to pick him up and rest him on your hip. Though having three younger siblings was a mess in and of itself, it helped you and other’s when you were able to care for the kids during events like these.

“While the others finish setting everything up, would you be alright with watching him until then?”

“I don’t mind,” your answer brings a smile to his face.

You wondered back into your bedroom, reaching into the old closet to grab a few things before heading back downstairs. He squirmed in your arms, whining about being let go so he could find the horses.

It was a matter of time before him, and the three other little ones, spent their time outside with the animals. They believed it was a 24/7 petting zoo where they could slap their hands on an animal for hours and laugh at every movement they made.

For now since the sun was beginning to set, the entertainment had to be inside. That news was seemingly the worse thing to tell him.

“But why?”

“Because it’s dark, there could be a fox out there. They’re not like the horses, they’ll bite.”

“Horses bite.”

“Yes, but for a different reason. That’s because you’re giving them food.”

He has yet to understand that horses can be devils, but now isn’t the time to scare him of the one thing he enjoys seeing. Your aunt is happy to see you with him, and she tells you such.

“Oh it’s no problem.”

“Thank you still for watching him. Once everything is set I can take him.”

“All good. I’ve done this for most of my life it’s like second nature.”

With a squeeze to your shoulder, she’s left to head back to chatting with your parents.

Your grandfather brings you to sit on the couch, letting your cousin play on the almost uncomfortable rug.

“We now have a minute to talk. How’s New York?”

“It’s beautiful, definitely smells at times.”

“Ah, just like here. Your mom told me when you got here that you’re thinking of staying up there, is that right?”

“I think so,” you look down, watching your cousin, “I feel more at peace there.”

“You mean scooping up horse manure isn’t for you? Or hauling hay? Or driving an hour to the store to get more feed?”

“No, not anymore.”

He laughs, “and I was going to ask you to help around this week.”

“Oh,” you start to feel bad, “well I don’t mind—“

He jumps up from his seat, the action causing you to jerk back, “alrighty, thank you.”

He allows no do-overs as he wonders towards the front door. His hands come to grab a nearby person and he shoves them towards you.

“I watched you get roped into work.”

“I didn’t get roped in. I was going to help regardless, or else I’d be staying here for free.”

Your younger brother grins, “or maybe it’s because I’ve had to do all of it while you’ve been gone.”

“I know, you’ve told me this every day since I’ve gotten back.”

He shrugs, “it’s the truth.”

He reaches behind himself and reaches into the cooler, handing you a can. You go to move it out of your face, but he persists.

“I know you’re a lightweight, but one drink? Gonna turn down one?”

The door opens and another group you don’t recognize walks in, you’re taking it from his hands while he’s distracted. You crack the top off on the opener beside you.

“It’s not that I don’t want to be here, it’s that I don’t want to be here with so many people,” he tells you, jumping back when the bottle cap flings at him.

“That’s because you’re an introvert.”

“I can talk to people though.”

“Are you stupid? I’m not calling you awkward, I’m saying you don’t like crowds.”

“That’s the same thing.”

He watches you drink it with a wince, “you didn’t have to do all that to prove a point. You’re still a lightweight at the end of the night.”

“No, I did that because ma’s coming toward us.”

He gives you a faux pout as you get dragged off by your grandma. She brings you to the front of the house, past where a few people had gathered in random spots of the living room.

“I wanted to introduce you because I’m not sure if you remember who they are,” she begins, and her words hit a nerve. She acts like you have dementia after a five year break, but still you put your hand out.

“It’s nice to see you again.”

“You as well,” she responds, and it’s then you realize you don’t remember who they are. The room fades slightly as you wrack your already dizzy mind for something.

Your grandma looks at you funny, “have you had something to drink already?”

In the distance you swear you hear your brother laugh. The mood grows more awkward with each minute. You’re grateful for the people around giving a sense of community while you feel like strangers to those in front of you.

“Neighbors, right? I think we met just before I left for college.”

A short conversation later and the memories appear more clearly. The two talking with your grandparents just before they had driven you to the airport. It was short, but you’re thankful you remember as it allowed you to dodge your grandma’s last question.

Your grandma seats them in the sun room and promptly leaves the three of you, saying she needed to make sure her husband wasn’t ruining the labeling of food.

“How was college?”

You look to the one with a braid, the one whose hands were rough when they shook yours, “it was alright. I graduated.”

“Glad you did what you go to college for.”

Her delivery falls flat and it makes your heart race. Your eyes slightly water, the sight making her face squeeze into confusion.

“How much have you drank tonight?”

“One,” you say with a pitiful sniffle.

“Lightweight?”

You nod and they look at you in amusement. Your eyes follow where they’re looking and they land on the half full bottle in your hands, “oh whoops my bad. Actually this is my second.”

You lift the bottle with a proud look and one has the audacity to clap. You smile silly at the affection and ramble into your city life, delving deep into the tea between you and your boss. The two stay seated, hands interwoven as they enjoy the show you’re giving them.

The wall against your bicep is cold. With the way your body was warming, your skin chased after the feeling. You find your face leaning into it before your whole body is on the ground, right by the doorway.

You were sure you were maintaining wonderful conversation with the two new faces, but everything you remember was becoming a blur. It felt like ten seconds, but it happened open the span of ten minutes. The embarrassment had completely disappeared as you laid there unsuspecting, growing incredibly wasted.

One of the women, the one you recognize as short braid, sits beside you. She puts a hand to your forehead but you try to push it off.

“No,” you cry, “you’re mean.”

“Her face is burning,” she relays the information to her wife. The two look at you in amusement as well as concern.

“I’m burning because a beautiful woman is touching me.”

Your sober self is grateful she chose to ignore what you said. Hands lift you off the ground until you’re lying down on a softer surface, and definitely colder. The pressure on your arm leaves and it spirals you downwards.

You can hear them talking in the back, a man’s voice between them. What they’re saying, you can understand but you’re not grasping anything. With your mind focused on how the cold hand left you, nothing else seems to be your focus. It’s the creaking of the door shutting that feels like you’re drowning.

“Don’t leave me,” you look blearily at the door, “please.”

You hear a laugh, but it doesn’t register as anything other than someone mocking you.

“Fine, then leave me here like to always do.”

“Nobody’s leaving you.”

“No it’s okay. You just hate me”

The expression and dramatic nature exuding from you is hilarious. Every small laugh coming from you throws them off when more tears glisten down your cheeks

“Nobody here is upset at you, angel,” wanda’s hand rubs gentle circles against your back. You find yourself leaning into it, the tears stopping as your mind clears. The floor creeks and you’re being sit up.

“I don’t feel super great,” you mumble to them, “I’m sorry for being annoying.”

“Not annoying,” wanda responds and tilts to your head back, “I have some water and I’d like you to drink some, okay?”

After you’re laying back on the bed immediately. The world had begun to feel dizzying, almost nauseating when she held you upright. Without her hand there, you’d surely pass out.

The room is suddenly too quiet. You had tried to see them but the overhead light took a stab at your already overwhelming headache.

“We’re still here. How’re you feeling?”

“Death.”

Wanda laughs softly and Natasha feels your forehead again, “you don’t feel as hot.“

Your mother enters in then, and you attempt to sit up but you wince. A cry spewing from you, “I can’t see anymore, mom.”

She clicks her teeth, “mom told me you drank too much. Should’ve known. Thank you for helping, I can deal with her from here.”

Natasha’s wrists are enclosed in a tight embrace, your hands squeezing the life out of them with as much strength as you had.

“Please don’t leave me with her,” you whine, “she’ll toss me around.”

The clock beside them reads 11:28PM. She looked to it and sighed, deciding it was too late to deal with anything. Wanda stood from the bed, crossing the room to stand by her.

“I love her but she’s as stubborn as a mule.”

“Completely up to you, but we could her stay on our mattress downstairs?”

“That’s fine. I don’t think she’ll allow any of us to help her, I mean look at her.”

You were half lying in Natasha’s lap, tangled with her body. Dried tear marks lined your cheeks, dust from the floor lining your jeans.

It was a journey trying to drag your body down the hallway. A moment collapsed where you tripped over the rug. The best plan of action was Natasha carrying you princess style. Your grandma got a glimpse from where she sat in the living room.

She rushed to your side, “you taking her back to your place?”

“Only if that’s alright with you. She starts to cry almost everytime we begun to leave.”

“Absolutely,” she pats her shoulder with a slight laugh, “she got wasted, I could tell right away. I’ll have to talk to her brother, he’s collapsed on her bed right now. I’m sure he’s initiating something.”

They wish you a goodnight, stepping back and letting them through. You tilt your head back once they’ve stepped outside.

“Feels nice.”

You back far enough that Wanda reaches a hand to cup your head. Natasha adjusts her hold on you while looking to Wanda.

“I’m betting she’s going to get sick. Our guest room is the closest to the bathroom?”

“I won’t get sick of you,” you tuck your head under her neck. The first minute of the breeze was wonderful, but since then and due to your lack of layers, you’re relying on her body heat.

It gets darker the further you walk from the house. Wanda takes out her phone, using the flashlight to help guide their steps.

The pond nearby holds a connection of small critters, their sounds echoing through the trees. The married couple makes small conversation. Every two minutes they’re trying to keep you awake, but it grew difficult.

“Hey, stay awake. We’re almost there, you can see the porch light.”

“I can’t see shit, I’m drunk.”

Natasha laughs at the quip, enjoying the look of annoyance on her wife’s face. Wanda walks up the porch first, the keys jingling in her hand as she searches for the right one. Their home smells like clean fabrics and floral perfume. Your eyes grow heavy, each step and soft sound luring you in deeper. The gentle nudge does nothing to stop you completely falling under this time.

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