#everything he owns is from Portugal

[leclsrc]

do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

genre: summer love!!!, slight age gap, porn w plot basically...

word count: 10.5k  

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by several people! few notes... carlos is aged up a tad, the age gap is 21/33 so not too bad (i aged him up bc the age gap was 7 yrs and i was like. Huh. thats tame). if ur not into that (tho everything is consensual and reader is legal) its ok! anyway im sorry this came so late i had like 6 anons asking ab carlos and lana haha. also big thanks to dani whose work got me thru 4 writing ruts

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, dry humping, oral sex (m and f receiving), deepthroating, semi public sex ish?, praise central, size kink, like a flash of spit kink sorry..., overuse of the term good girl

Half past noon and after a particularly snappy call from his manager, Carlos bites the bullet on summer plans and decides to accept what is arguably the least glamorous offer on his roster. By no means a dazzling standout, the offer to stay at a family friend’s house in Comporta seems to be the most comfortable option—besides, he doesn’t feel himself to be in the glitzy mood for cities like Los Angeles or Monaco.

Lando, beside him, is thus the first to get wind of the news that “grumpy old man” Carlos will not be accompanying him to the ultimate, tequila-flavored “summer extravaganza” in Morocco.

“You’re boring,” Lando moans, pacing the room. Outside, London’s skyline moves passively. Carlos hangs up his phone call with his assistant, receives a picture of his flight details, and looks up amusedly.

“Portugal is not boring.”

“Morocco. DJs, drinks, girls.” Lando raises one hand. “Comporta. Family friends, apple cider, sand in your eyes.” He raises another hand a few inches lower. “See the difference?”

“I appreciate the difference.” Truth is, Carlos has needed this kind of quiet, calm time off for a while now. The season gets heavy and intense and tiring, and sometimes just staying by the beach with a beer is the best kind of reprieve.

“You’re getting old,” Lando says with a sour grimace. “Old.”

“That is,” Carlos says, searching for the word, “defamation.”

Lando shrugs, moves off the subject as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Are you meeting family there?”

“No.” Both of his parents are out of the country for the next few weeks; Carlos was invited by his dad’s friend, though the bond they share is more friendly than just the standard uncle-nephew type of relationship, and they often refer to each other as just friends. “Just friends. Gallery owner and a company owner, I think.”

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

In response, Carlos nods. “And their daughter, who’s visiting from university in the States.” The details are fuzzy in his head, but the gist is about right.

“Sounds boring,” his friend snorts. “Come on, mate. You, me, Daniel. One last chance to watch Peggy Gou’s set and take shots and have fuuun.” He says the last part with the suave that would only rival a preteen’s.

Carlos, for a second, lets his resolve waver. Maybe it would be better watching loud DJ sets, dancing, getting all flushed with alcohol. But he blinks and shakes his head anyway. He hopes his decision is the right one, that summer in the beach house ends up being worth it. It’s a few weeks by the beach, anyway—what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Any recollection of your childhood almost instantly connects to the beach house in Comporta, big and wide and right by the coast. You spent fall, winter, and spring in a constant bumbling state of excitement to spend summer there. Your parents owned it, and often offered family friends to take up residence there when summers in the city got unbearable; for the most part, though, it was the three of you and, on rare years, a guest.

Your summers there have since smudged into the same few memories, of your mum and dad’s faces, of swimming and the learning curve of sailing, of bonfires by the beach on cold nights. And they have since become just that: memories. Summers grew sparse with time, and eventually the idea of meeting distant family friends became more embarrassing than exciting; by the time your parents moved you out of Europe for college, you’d lost almost all memory of the house.

So when your parents ask if you want to fly back to Comporta and spend a few “quiet” weeks there, you figure there’s no harm in seeing what the house is like and what summer can offer you beyond the weekly club outings. Instead of the usual quiet and overall lack-of-bustle that comes with summers, however, you open the front door to three housekeepers dusting every surface in your immediate eyesight.

“Are we hosting a wedding?” You ask when you find your parents tending to two sweaty glasses of champagne. You gesture faintly to the cleanfest inside. “What is going on?”

“We have a guest,” your mother says as she gets up to hug you tight. “Staying for the summer.”

“You said this summer would be quiet,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing underneath your sunglasses.

Your mum pinches your elbow. “I wasn’t lying,” she defends, raising her eyebrows. “Carlos’ son is coming.” She pats your arm. “You know? The race driver! He’s close with your father.” And, leaving no space for you to voice your dissent, she slips back into the house through the screen door, your father kissing your cheek then following suit. Your mouth parts, thoughts beginning to rush with implications of what your mother has just told you.

Carlos—if you’re correct—is Carlos Sainz, Sr., a good friend of your dad’s, and his son is Carlos Sainz, Jr., another good friend of your dad’s, because if there’s one thing rich Europeans do well, it’s the repetition of names. You’ve never met his son, only heard of him and seen a few pictures, but being so far detached from life here, you can’t even shape his face.

All you recall is the fact that he should now be thirty or older, which makes him rather older than you—and therefore effectively incapable of providing any break from any possible summer boredom. For fuck’s sake, he’s close to your dad. You’re at the top of the stairs when you hear the commotion by the front door, peeking at the foyer to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s solo, you observe; upon a glance into the front parking, you notice he’s driven here in a Ferrari, one a bit too modern for your taste but beautiful nevertheless. He carries only two pieces of luggage, and the sun blinds you for a moment before he’s finally at the doorframe, smiling politely, talking to your dad in casual Spanish.

He is, for lack of better word, insanely handsome. He wears a polo that shows off much of his arms, that flex as he puts down his luggage to shake hands with your parents; you follow the movement of his hands to watch one comb through his thick hair, then down to his smile, back up to his brown eyes, deep and so, so pretty.

Maybe this summer deserves a little less begrudge, you decide as you retreat back into your room, still brewing with residual annoyance.

Your parents send him off after a drink and a brief conversation, catch-up, tour of the downstairs area. Carlos knows his room is supposed to be upstairs, but the problem arises in the fact that there are two upstairs rooms and he doesn’t know which one he’s supposed to be staying in. Setting his luggage down for a minute, he knocks on the first door; permissive silence greets him for half a minute, so he turns the knob and prepares to enter.

To his surprise, he finds somebody already inside, a figure by the mirror on the other end of the room. What catches his eye is not the tiny skirt, but the half-tied bikini top currently being wound around two fingers at the centre of your back. You’re basically clothed, but Carlos can’t decide if he’s thankful or not—he doesn’t have time to when you catch him in the mirror and turn around quick, mouth agape.

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

“I did—I knocked, but you—there was no answer,” he explains profusely. “I’m Carlos. Sorry, apologies. Truly.”

You introduce yourself. You’re his friend’s daughter, this and that, and you’re visiting from the States to spend summer here. He apologizes again when you finish. 

“Well, seeing as though this is my room,” you shoot back, “that must be yours.” You gesture vaguely to the one down the hall. Amused and a little embarrassed, he mouths apologies as he closes the door.

Carlos exits, departs and doesn’t have time to take in the room before he’s facedown on the bed. Any sleepiness he’d collected from the trip over, from the day drinks, from the headache that’d been blooming at the temples of his head, has dissipated. His mind’s been imprinted with one image only, and it’s down the hall in a tiny skirt.

—

Lunch brings lemonade and pasta, two staples for every summer meal. You, however, find yourself hopelessly distracted by the presence of your guest, and despite your best efforts, the churn in your stomach disables you from fully enjoying the carbonara on the table. The conversation between Carlos and your dad ends up taking your attention instead. “So you’re racing again in a few weeks?”

“Sí,” Carlos nods in-between forkfuls. Then, to add, “Busy, busy times.”

“Well. It’s the worst of our days,” your mum says, a quote she picked up from—of all places—a BBC sitcom she watched to tears last winter. “You are a talented driver, Carlos. Very cultured. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Comporta.”

“I have not been around much,” he says; his gaze flutters over to his glass, which is devoid of water or lemonade. “Any recommendations?”

“A lot, cabrón. Our daughter will be happy to take you around,” your father says on your behalf. He turns to you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, allowing a terse smile. “There’s some places around here that aren’t so boring. But that’s being generous.” Carlos laughs at your joke, raucous and goofy, and you would definitely be lying if you told yourself it didn’t get you blushing a little bit, eyes casting themselves to your still-full plate.

“While you’re here, Carlos,” your dad continues, “I have an old car in the garage that could use some looking at. Are you—would you know how to—?”

Carlos nods, accepting the favor—then the conversation naturally slides into one of cars and racing. Carlos chronicles his journey in Formula One, his Toro Rosso days back then when he was younger, his McLaren period, and now, his time representing Ferrari. He talks of pet peeves on the grid, annoyances but also praises for the sport.

“I’d appreciate the downtime, actually,” he explains, “that I’d get from working on a car instead of in one.” He laughs, eyes briefly meeting yours. He looks away, then looks again. He can’t help himself. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if you can tell the way his looks are anything but casual. “Can you pour me a glass?” He adds.

“Yeah,” you mutter, sitting straight to pour lemonade into his waiting glass. You meet his eyes and almost pour it over the pasta. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, a series of adult conversation you can’t seem to engage yourself in fully, and whether that’s because of personal preference or Carlos’ presence, you don’t make an effort to try.

“…ney. Honey.” Your mum’s voice distracts you from your thoughts; when you look up, half the table is clear and Carlos and your dad have ventured inside to deposit plates at the sink. 

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

“Your father and I are heading out for the evening. Carlos will be working on the car. That okay, or you want to come along?”

“Um…” You pretend the latter is even an option before shaking your head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” She strokes your hair. “He could use the company.”

You follow her walking figure inside, where you station your eyes on Carlos. He’s sipping a lemonade. His eyes meet yours for a second and your face is outrageously flushed when you realize you’ve been caught staring, just like his had been earlier when he walked into your room.

—

You’re hellbent on solving a Sudoku puzzle when the dinner bell rings, and you have to finish it on the stairs. Your dad’s always been a stickler for arriving to dinner on time—every meal, but a gargantuan emphasis on the last—and you’ve been victim to scoldings about being five to six minutes late, an instance you don't wish to repeat.

9, you scribble, bare feet moving with speed through the living room, indoor dining room, then to the patio door. 4 comes next, your footsteps following the smell of grilled meat. 8, you write as you turn into the outdoor dining area. You’re halfway through 2 when you stop, look up, and find Carlos preparing dinner.

“Oh—” You pause. “You rang the dinner bell? Are my parents not…?”

“They are at a dinner,” says Carlos, eyes meeting yours briefly. It reminds you of earlier and you clear your throat, looking away. “So I hope my cooking is good enough.”

“It smells great,” you offer, seating yourself down and pouring a glass of wine. He sets the plate down—just-cut steak, a smear of potatoes. “Christ, you cook better than Dad.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he laughs, sitting across you. “Listen, I want to apologize for accidentally walking into your room earlier.”

Your face warms. “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“It was wrong of me. Let’s start over. I’m Carlos.” He reaches over to shake your hand, still standing. You take it, eyes flitting over his hand, spotting no glinting ring on his finger. With a saccharine smile, you assure him it was an honest mistake, so he segues into a different topic, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So, do you have an itinerary for me tomorrow?”

You hum, passing the wine over to him. “A bookstore, an ice cream parlor, and a bike ride. Anything else is seriously not worth it. You’ll have the next few weeks to explore town. If the house gets that boring.”

“I haven’t been bored so far,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Oh?”

“You know, with the car fixing.” He points vaguely to where the garage is. “But it’s only been a day.”

“Car fixing is boring,” you state matter-of-factly. “You’ll have fun tomorrow.” You cut into the steak and bite into the forkful you stab at, eyes fluttering.

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

“I love it,” you mumble. “You’re so good at this, Carlos.”

Carlos retires to his room that night, and finds that today has held a collective motif of losing his shit. He’s anything but sleepy. Restless, wild-eyed, combing hand after hand through his hair. God, if he’d known you were this pretty—this hard to resist, on his first night here, no less—he would’ve been watching some DJ spin out a set with Lando right now.

Instead, he finds he can’t stop himself from thinking about you, the way your eyes had fluttered when he tried saying something on the edge of flirty. Your hair. Your hands, your fingers, lithe around the stem of your wine glass.

I love it, you’d said, you’re so good at this, Carlos. You knew exactly what you were doing, skittish tone putting him on edge. Despite himself, he can’t help but squeeze himself through his pants when he sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing heavy to purge himself of thoughts so low and dirty.

You’re so pretty. You’d be so easy to wreck, make his, goad little moans out of you, get your lips around him, puffy and pink and pretty. He wedges his eyes shut tight and hopes these thoughts will dissipate as the week passes.

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

The tour is delayed because your dad insists he go fishing with Carlos three days in a row, but eventually (likely due to your mum’s insistence) it pushes through. You greet him with a smile, waiting by the door, wearing a sundress. Sundresses will definitely be his demise.

You’re a good tour guide, though, Carlos figures when you’re finished pointing at every turn and sign and dictating what goes where and where the passage to the coast is, when you’ve even quizzed him about where you are and where the house is supposed to be.

After he points in the correct direction, you nod approvingly. “That’s how my dad made sure I wouldn’t get lost,” you explain when he laughs at your choice of tour guidance. 

“And you were what—twelve?” He asks, walking beside you. It’s fairly empty in town, a few tourists mulling about carrying shopping bags and plastic cups of juice.

“Try fourteen,” you argue. 

“Well, quizzing a, uh—a fourteen-year-old is really not the same as quizzing a grown adult.”

“Ha. Call me when you can’t find your way home tonight,” you diss sarcastically, making a turn toward the bookstore down the street. “Okay, here we are. Don’t get too excited. They’re just books.”

For a relatively empty town, the bookstore always has new batches of titles, displayed proudly for natives and tourists alike front and centre. But you’re already going to the right side of the store, busying yourself with looking at the signs. 

“The classics shelf is always my favorite,” you say, already walking ahead of him. Your dress bobs softly with your legs as you pace, short and sweet and white. You turn and his eyes slide back up instantly, and he hopes he was quick enough. “Do you have any authors you like?”

“I am not a big reader. You?”

“Huge,” you say, smiling a little. “Okay, we can browse. Are you into any genre…?”

Carlos proceeds to tell you his track record in the literary field includes: reading half the Harry Potter series, a car manual, and a few other titles in Spanish he cannot recall the name or plot of. But, he adds, he’s always wanted to read, found the activity so quiet and still and perfect, so he allows you to lead him through the titles stacked on each table and condensed on each shelf. He points at, sometimes, or picks up covers he finds appealing.

“How about—?” He reaches for a pink cover that reads It Ends With Us, but your hand loops around his wrist before he can pick it up and you’re pulling him into another aisle.

“…Not that.” You continue perusing the books around you, your hand still wrapped around his. With your free finger, you point at the top shelf, and tiptoe against the bookcase to try and get it. You come close, but not close enough.

Carlos, behind you, is successful, not even needing to tiptoe to reach for the red hardbound you’d been pointing at. It also means he’s pressed up against you, heavy and big, and the sensation dizzies you. When he finally pulls it off, you turn to him and find respite in the proximity—you two are so close, every exhale out of your lips causes a puff of air to blow against his hair.

He steps backward. You smile and gesture toward the book he’s holding. “That’s a good one.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” He reads out the author’s name in one fluid sentence, his Spanish accent becoming naturally more obvious.

“Okay, colonizer.” He knits his brows. “Trust me,” you insist. “One Hundred Years of Solitude—so good. It was one of the first books I read front to back twice in a row.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he teases sarcastically as you move along the aisle, fingertips brushing against the indents of the books. You turn to narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out. Unfortunately for Carlos, the effect this inflicts upon him is not oh she mocked me, but oh how would it look if—

He needs ice cream. Or to just get out of this aisle.

—

You punctuate the day with two cones of it, melting way too fast in the heat of summer. He’s already half-finished with his vanilla, and you’re taking your time with the lemon sorbet you’d gotten for yourself. Apparently, this is the only other highlight the town has to offer, and judging by the fact that most of the other stores are expensive clothes, souvenir shops, and a Bible bookstore—yeah.

Carlos is also more than sated with the three books in the paper bag he’s holding. Scratch that—six books, you bought a haul for yourself—but it’s not a particularly heavy load, so he’s fine. His phone has been buzzing with Lando’s update requests that he’s been deliberately ignoring.

“They make the best ice cream,” you rave, smiling. You lick over the melt on your lips. “Right?”

He might actually drop his cone now. “It is delicious.”

“Well…” You look around, your hair flying with every turn of your head. Lick over lips again. Again, and again. He has to look away.

“…Do you wanna stop by anywhere else?” You turn to him and ask, licking over the tip of your ice cream cone.

It’s hard for Carlos to pretend he’s looking around your surroundings, at the signs and storefronts, and not at your sticky lips, your pink tongue just peeking out to lap at the quickly melting gelato around your hand. His eyes flit downward, to where the hem of your tiny white dress has flown up in the coastal wind, exposing more of your thighs.

“Carlos?” You repeat, voice sweet and waiting.

He snaps his eyes back up and wills his voice to remain passive. “We can head back.”

So you do, meaning your tour ends around noon, and your parents greet you both with lunch and the round of inevitable questions. Did Comporta live up to your expectations? What books did you get? Was our daughter a good tour guide? The latter, Carlos answers with a smile—very good. You allowed your face to flush, blamed it on the sangria.

Now, though, it’s the brink in-between chilly and hot, sticky traces of the summer afternoon still lingering in the air, mixing with the cool of dusk when you decide to exit your room and fix yourself a glass of something, preferably sweet and alcoholic. An empty driveway save for a Ferrari means your parents are gone, leaving you and—if you’re lucky, which you hope you are—

“Carlos,” you call out from the window you’ve just tugged open with the expertise of somebody who’s lived here for twenty-one summers. “Thirsty?”

He looks up from where he is, outside, continuing his operation on your dad’s car. The hood’s been cranked open, and his long hair is damp with sweat, flying gently in the face of the sunset breeze. He smiles when he sees your figure peeking out.

“For what?”

“Whatever you want,” you respond, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. His white shirt’s stained with oil and dirt, tainting it beige and grey, the tight fit even tighter from his sweat. You can make out the outline of his abs just underneath. 

He squints. “Beer?”

You make an exaggerated eugh face to tease him, but duck back inside to bring your homemade aperol and an open, frosty beer outside. When he sees you, he walks closer, smiles and takes a swig of the drink you offer. He makes a noise of satisfaction and you have to make a real effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy, eyes averting from his lips to gaze instead at his solid shoulders, his build, big and tall.

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

“Tastes like shit.” You raise your aperol. “The sweeter, the better. How’s Dad’s car?” You blink, sidestepping him to try and gauge his progress.

“Casi termino.” You look at him, raising your eyebrows, and he translates. “Almost done. It wasn’t that destroyed, if at all.”

“You think he’ll let you drive it when you’re done?” You ask playfully, swiping your condensation-wet finger over the side of the car. You turn, smiling expectantly; Carlos laughs a bit, shrugs.

“It is just a favor. But if he does, I’ll make sure you get to come along.” He says. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, sipping on your aperol. You part from your straw, lips stained, and smile up at him. “I do.”

His gaze is stuck on your lips. You lick over them, and he looks away with a slow blink. You watch as he ruffles his hair, rounds the car and crosses his arms to view it from the back.

God, he’s handsome. You think of the long-winded nights you’ve been spending trailing your fingers over your legs or texting inspired paragraphs to friends back in university about him. Their responses are almost always Send pic now and a cacophony of heart eye emojis when you manage to snag a stolen shot of him doing just about anything.

His gaze is scrutinizing, every little detail of the car, and eventually he closes the hood again. “Should be good by tomorrow.”

“Where’d you learn to fix cars?” You ask sweetly, nearing him. The wind bites at your legs, your flowy skirt bouncing sporadically and held down by your free hand. When your eyes flit to his, waiting for his response, you find them snapping upward. He’d been distracted.

“I work with cars, so it comes natural.” You lean on the hood of the car and he comes to stand in front of you, his eyes pointed downward at you. “That’s not a very good habit,” he adds.

“Drinking?” You pout, raising your half-empty glass. You blink up at him, the corner of your smiling lip caught in your teeth.

“Biting your lip.” His gaze is intense. “You do it a lot, I noticed.”

You smile, leaning backward a little. His resolve is breaking. “Can I borrow one of the books you got earlier?”

“The three ones you bought not enough?” He raises a brow, downing beer again. Some of it dribbles out of the corner of his lip. You’ve never been one to like the taste, but you’d lick it off him if you could.

“I just wanna browse it,” you push. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

—

He sees you the next day after lunch, which you’d skipped because you “weren’t hungry.” You’re wearing a dress, hair clipped into a bun when you excuse yourself to pick up an earring in front of him. He almost thinks it’s a fib until he sees it, the pink gem on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, voice mellow, and then you’re bending over to pick it up. You’re wearing pretty lace panties underneath.

Carlos clears his throat and excuses himself, adjusting his shorts as he goes upstairs.

—

He gives you Norweigan Wood after dinner, like he promised earlier in the week. Two raps on your door, and when you open it, he’s already handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice clipped.

“Our tour isn’t over yet,” you tease, tossing the book onto your bed and descending the steps back downstairs. Confused and interested, he follows you, to the back area of the house, past the swinging screen door, down the steps, and onto the sand.

“Tour?” He repeats, for clarification. The only things to tour are sand and twigs.

“Yeah, Carlos. This is the real tour,” you joke, walking backwards. Every step sends your foot sinking into the cold sand, slowing your pace until Carlos catches up, matching your steps once he does. “Comporta—real and unfiltered.” You both laugh at your hyperbolic, MTV-worthy statement, and he waits for more, entertains you further.

“What is so real about this?” Carlos laughs, allowing himself to humor your little schtick.

“Well, mister. This isn’t bookstores and ice cream parlors.” You point to a nearby spot in the sand, just by a rogue stick. “This is where I smoke without getting caught. Near enough that I can run back in seconds, but faraway enough that my parents can’t immediately see what I’m doing. Granted, I don’t need to be sneaking around much, but if you ever want to do something in secret—”

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

“So you smoke,” he says when he sits himself on the sand, observing the now-dark skyline of the area. You continue pacing around a little, and when you raise your arms up to stretch, he catches a glimpse of your abdomen, the waistband of pink lace underneath the low rise of your denim shorts.

“Occasionally. Don’t play Holy Mary,” you warn, standing in front of him and stretching your hand out to reveal a box of Marlboro Reds. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” he responds, taking a stick and inserting it in between his lips. “Got a light?”

“No,” you tease, taking one for yourself and sliding your lighter out from your pocket in one quick motion. The flame illuminates your face, casts a light on your thin white tee and on the bikini top you have on underneath. You puff out a small cloud of smoke, and Carlos reaches up to take the lighter.

“I said no,” you giggle, your lips knotting into a pout. You hold the lighter just out of his reach, red and bold against the bleak evening. 

“Give it.” He sits up higher, reaches harder; he almost gets it, but you step backward and raise your arm out of reach. Again your shirt rises with the movement. The view he gets, this time, of your hips, the lace that hugs the area there, is much more close.  The laugh you emit sends a cloud of smoke out.

“No, no,” you continue, laughing, a sweet sound.

Carlos gets up, tries again to lunge for the lighter. At this point he doesn’t even care about the cigarette in between his lips, just wants to entertain you. He tries again but you’re quick with it, ducking every lunge just in time.

“Come on,” he goads, laughing himself. You pace backward, smoking, until your ankles hit the shallow shore water, water that goes deeper and deeper until you’re knee-level, still smiling at him mischievously. 

“Fine,” you relent, shrugging. You throw your hands up in surrender, in the process taking the stick out of your mouth to blow smoke out. “Do you want it? C’mere, then.” You beckon him closer, wave the lighter tantalizingly so he steps closer, closer, until you’re holding the flame to the cigarette between his lips.

He’s so tall, he has to bend a little to let you light it, his eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the pale moon and the orange of the flame.

It all goes to plan. Once you light it, you place two hands square on his shoulders, whirl him so he’s behind you and thus even deeper in the water, and with all your might, push him into the sea. 

“Brat—” he manages to gasp out as he goes, the word leaving his lips in the first and last puff of smoke he lets out. He surfaces, every dip and ridge of his abs and chest accentuated, his linen polo near invisible with how saturated it is with water. His long hair, too, sticks to his forehead; he combs it backward, reveals his amused-irritated eyes, the dead cigarette spouting seawater and ash.

He spits it out. You stare and pinch the soggy stick in between two fingers, stuffing the trash into his chest pocket. “That’s bad for the environment.”

“I am freezing,” he says in response, but you’re just stifling a laugh.

He narrows his eyes, and with unsurprising ease given his build, picks you up and carries you over his shoulder. You barely have time to protest, almost dropping your own cigarette into the water, kicking and pounding on his back to please put me down. You can feel the water getting deep, deeper, and when he finally dunks you in, it’s only a second of dryness before you’re submerged in the chilly water.

Your cigarette dies, and you manage to collect it, because you’re not in the interest of leaving your stick floating; you wedge it into your pocket.

“You’re such”—you gasp for air—“a dick!”

You’re smiling, though, flailing your legs to stay afloat. Carlos can’t help but stare, entranced with the way your eyelashes stick together, damp, the droplets of water on your cheeks, your two hands wringing saltwater out of your hair, and when you swim upward, the way your white tee leaves nothing to his imagination.

You can tell. He can tell you can tell—because the next thing you do, with some faux exaggerated sigh of annoyance, is say, “Can’t swim, too heavy,” and you’re taking off your shirt so all he sees is the red of your bikini top underneath. The white tee bobs softly with each passing wave, and you’re smiling up at him. Checkmate, you’re saying. I’ve got you. A skittish, playful smile on your lips.

“I can help you swim,” he offers—retaliates, more like, his height offering him great advantage. He finds your bare ankle underwater, guides it to wrap around his waist. Naturally, your other leg follows until you’re flush against him, held up by him so you don’t need to wag your legs around just to stay above water.

Your hands go on his still-clothed shoulders first, then eventually around them, fingers linking at the nape of his neck. Your smile is wicked. You’re so sinfully pretty. He wades deeper, holds you all the while, two big hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing over your sides so you can shiver.

“‘M so wet,” you say, voice shaky with chill and laughter. His grip tightens and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and pretend you didn’t just say that.

He dips you underneath the surface to surprise you, and your shriek is cut off by the water—he pulls you up quick, laughing, but underestimates his strength because as he tugs, you barrel right onto him, forehead bumping his.

Your eyes are closed, and you momentarily detach from him to wipe salt out of them. “Ass.”

“Brat,” he responds.

You open your eyes to find he’s close, so close you could just lean forward an inch—an inch—and you’d be meeting his lips. You wonder how they feel, how he kisses. He’s confident everywhere else, would he kiss you like that, too? You lean closer, a wrecked gasp escaping you.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and it’s supposed to be teasing, but your breathy voice is genuine, honest. A thumb swipes over his eyelashes, causing him to blink, then the bridge of his nose. He leans upward, tries to catch your lips, but pauses, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

“This is wrong,” he says in a quiet breath, making no move at all you stop either of you from kissing right now.

You want—need—to kiss him, but you can play the long game if he wishes to. Your eyes flit back up to his, dark brown and reflecting the moon.

“Then let’s head back,” you suggest, even if both of you want anything but.

Long game. He guides you back to shore, picks your tee up, uses it as a sieve for any loose ash and cigarette bits in your path back to shore, even finds your red lighter that’s now dispensing water. He apologizes for not having anything to dry you with, and drops you off at your room with a puddle in both of your wakes.

“Thank you again,” he says, his voice a whisper through your ajar door. He observes your room with what little vantage point he has. The posters on the wall, the art, postcards. The laptop on the bed, open. The phone charging on the nightstand. The thong hanging out of the hamper.

“No problem,” you say back, voice saccharine. Your hand wraps around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

Even if you’re doused in seawater, he can still smell the traces of your perfume, the summery sweet of it, when you close the door. He stays for a second, blinks, relishes in the hint of floral.

—

You spend three days walking on eggshells around each other, testing the limits of interaction.

Your night at the beach was risky, dangerous, thrilling—but it was fun, sending you both into antsy, restless trains of thought. Carlos self-medicates with coffee, beer in the afternoon, working on your dad’s car, and the first two hundred pages of the Marquez book you insisted he pick up. He spots you sometimes, lounging on the beach with his book in your grip, the waistline of your bikini bottoms leaving a tanline he can’t stop staring at when you walk back into the house.

But he can’t act on it—he was the one who labeled it wrong, the one who suppressed himself, held the urge back. He told you it was wrong. And it is wrong. He’s older, he should be wiser; he’s close with your dad; and a cacophony of other rational reasons he shouldn’t be playing into this skittish summer crush.

“Dad said the boat’s free,” a voice says, and he looks up from his book to find you standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a skirt, loose and riding low on your hips. Your lips stretch into a sweet smile. “Wanna come?”

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

So he goes. He’s thirty-five. That’s a grown age. If anything, he’s capable of making sure he stays responsible. He dog-ears his page and picks up his beer to follow you to where the boat is docked. He’d been on your dad’s yacht earlier in his trip here, to go fishing, but it’s quieter today, bobbing softly atop the water. You lie yourself down on the sunny side of the boat, sunglasses over your eyes.

“Stay anywhere you like,” you say charmingly. It’s silent for a while, Carlos seating himself on one of the lounge seats in the shaded area, and then you’re moving around on your towel.

You peer over your lenses, blinking and sitting up, and this is when he knows he can’t do it.

“Carlos,” you call out. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?” You get up again, rifling in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen, dragging a hand through your hair to comb it out. It falls in loose waves, swishing when you turn to hand him the bottle. He pretends he’d been distracted on page 210 when he accepts it, watching as you sit in front of the seat, your back turned to him, your little figure in-between his spread legs. 

A minute passes with no hand at your back. “Go ahead, move even slower,” you joke, and the tension breaks a little; he humors you, laughs and apologizes.

“It’s because hour hair is in the way,” he says, touching it gently, combing it to the side.

“Wait—” You dig through your bag again and pull out a blunt pink ribbon, slipping it into his hand. “Can you braid it for me?”

“Braid?” He doesn’t know jack shit about braiding hair. “I don’t know how.”

“At that age of yours and you don’t know anything about how to please a girl,” you whistle lowly. “Adult virgin?” 

But you guide him through it despite your teasing, teaching him to divide your hair in threes, weaving one strand over the other until “it looks half decent.” He fucks up a few times and your hair looks odd at some point, but in the end, it’s—well, it’s a braid.

“How is it?” You ask, and he can hear your smile.

He does the job well enough for a first-timer, he thinks, finishing it with the ribbon, which he ties loosely lest you’re unhappy with the finished product. It becomes easier to move your hair out of the way, and once your back is saturated with sunscreen, you unfold your legs and get up, turning around and smiling down at his sitting figure.. Loose tendrils of hair frame your face, the braid resting at your back softly, already loosening.

“Your hair can be braided, too,” you comment quietly, knotting a rogue few strands in your fingers. It hasn’t been this tense since that night at the beach, but that ended before the tension rose further—this, now, keeps going. You step closer and he leans back, smiling. “Can I?”

He blinks, nostrils flaring, then nods, his grip on your hips gentle when you sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his. You smile coquettishly, feeling how hard he is underneath you, the denim of his jeans rough against the skin of your bare thighs. Your skirt’s riding up on them with every little shift you make, just to rile him up.

Carlos drinks in the sight of you, sunkissed and on his lap, legs sprawled out, pretty little face framed, bottom lip in your teeth. You’re inviting him closer, your gaze meeting his with sleepy, demure eyes—do something. You look so fucking precious, so pretty. It makes him want to give you everything right now.

You reach forward, make an attempt to try and weave his hair together—but he grinds upward, your breath hitching and a whimper punched out of your mouth.

Your hands are shaking now, barely able to piece his hair together with how good his clothed cock feels pressed against you, where you need it most. 

“Carlos,” you gasp, and all he can really think is—where’d all your fight go? You were so used to being a brat and a half, now you’re whimpering, on the edge of begging.

“Be quiet,” Carlos grunts, digging his fingers into your hips. His other hand lifts your skirt, bunching the fabric around your hips for a better view of your cunt rubbing against the bulge in his pants. The damp fabric of your panties is swallowed between your lips with every grind you make forward and he has to stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight. “Good girl.”

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, sturdy and broad; you can feel him squeeze your waist with both hands, then pull you down against him, just once, so your weight presses down on the hard shape of his cock. It makes him shudder and you whine out loud. You resist the urge to grind over it; you’re already so wet you’re making a mess on his jeans.

His praise, mumbled deep and slow in your ear, gets you feeling all warm, almost ditzy. Your hips roll on their own, chasing the delicious drag of rough denim against your clit, slick soaks into and through your panties, making the material cling to the shape your folds. Carlos’ hands are rough when they wander and grope, hiking this godforsaken skirt up so he can press a thumb against the centre of your folds.

“Been so good for you, Carlos,” you whine, circling your hips against him. He can’t stop staring at your pretty, fucked-out eyes, your bitten lips. He shoves two fingers in-between them, imagines how they looked just a few days ago slick with ice cream—now your tongue is laving over his hand. The braid you'd just taught him is quickly unraveling with every nod of your head. “‘M gonna—can I—” The pleas leave you quick, your voice choked.

Euphoric, your mind lifts, foggy and saturated with pleasure, the braid almost completely undone now. His praise is so addictive, gets you worked up and needy. Come on, he says. Make a mess. His accent, his deep voice, the way it rumbles right through you—his voice drops, his touch a little heavier as he presses harder.

You gonna cum for me? His thumb rubs faster until you’re gasping, shuddering, little ahs leaving your lips. He’s got the upper hand now, but you can hear the strain, the suppression in his voice as he rubs over the soaked fabric; you feel his cock growing under you, getting harder. 

P—please—I want to—please let me, you say breathlessly, and you’ve never needed it to the point of begging before, but Carlos is different. He keeps going, doesn’t give you permission, rubbing faster, your heart hammering in your chest.

Feel good?

Y—yeah, you whimper, trying your best not to fall apart here, on your dad’s boat, where anybody could walk on—or maybe see you from afar, humping your dad’s friend in broad daylight. He loves watching you like this; you’ve somehow become even prettier, face flushed and voice shaky.

Come on, he goads. Be a good girl. Cum for me.

It’s the only instruction that matters to you right now, your body seizing with it and cute little moans escaping you as you finish. You catch your breath against his chest, craving warmth even if it’s hot—maybe you’re craving him, his touch, Carlos, just Carlos. You maneuver yourself so legs, exhausted from shaking, are on one side of his body—he holds you close, humming.

He rubs a steady hand across your lower back, gentle and firm and you want him so much more now. “Are you okay?” He asks. “Talk to me.”

“Perfect,” you pant against his polo, fingers playing with the stitching, tugging the collar down so you can mouth at his skin. His hand plays with what’s left of the braid, winds the pink ribbon around his fingers. “Let’s go for a swim.”

—

“And we drove the jet ski around, too,” you say gleefully, your damp hair bobbing with every move of your head. Your face is sunkissed, a little sore from being in the sun for most of the afternoon. Carlos laughs along from where he is at the grill—he’s cooking for dinner, on a quest to make burgers because he’s known for making the best ones back in Madrid, apparently. Your dad, of course, insists on joining, and the two have been asking and answering questions while you and your mum sip rosé at the table.

“Did you have fun?” Your mum asks, her head turning to address Carlos.

“Yeah, tons,” he replies with a smile, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. You know what he means. It’s been only two days since the afternoon on the boat, and since then you’ve mostly swam and ridden around on the jet ski with Carlos—nothing more.

“See, sweetie,” she adds, placing a hand over yours. “I told you this summer would be fun with him around!”

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, nodding and parting from your glass, “I can really count on him for some excitement.” The statement catches his attention and he almost trails off, eyes returning to yours, before he continues speaking in Spanish to your dad about something or other.

The burgers’ reputation precedes them, and is warranted, you learn later when you’re biting into it for the first time. The remainder of dinner passes by in lively conversation, the sun setting low underneath the Comporta horizon, wine taking the place of rosé. Carlos mentions the racing world again, about how he’ll be back into the thick of it sooner than later, and you pulse with something akin to sadness.

Your parents, apparently so grateful for the blessing that is Carlos’ burgers, offer to clean up and before long, they retreat to their downstairs bedroom. Upstairs, you marinate in your thoughts, blinking up at your ceiling, twining your pink ribbon around your fingers as your hair dries splayed over your bedding. You let your arm down, in the process bumping your elbow against a hard surface.

Upon investigation, you find it’s a copy of Norweigan Wood. 

Carlos is at his desk, taking a timezone-separated call about simulation and season prep, when two soft knocks go at his door and it creaks open. He turns the chair away from the desk to see who it is. An ankle steps in first, then more leg, and then you—in a lovely, pretty pink lace dress, your face illuminated by the moonlight outside. One hand clutches a copy of his book; the other, the ribbon he’d used on your hair earlier.

He’s nursing a bottle of beer, just to help ease the drag of the day, and he watches you approach him, your footsteps quiet against the hardwood of the floor. Wait, he mouths, finishing the call in a hushed tone, and when he hangs up you approach him again.

“I thought you should have this back,” you say, offering him the book. Your eyes rake over him, wearing the same getup he’d worn to dinner—denim jeans, because he’d ducked out to buy food, except he’s ridden himself of his shirt. 

He takes the book, places it on the table, continues staring up at you. “And I thought you should keep this.” The ribbon, pale pink, is now looped around his wrist and tied into a delicate ribbon at the apex of it. You admire your handiwork with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You lean down, face just shy of his. “We shouldn’t,” he manages to eke out, his voice strained.

“But you want to,” you respond softly. “No one’s going to know. Our little secret.”

His eyes are shut, contemplating, and then he’s kissing you—the only thing you’ve wanted, craved, touched yourself to the thought of over the course of the summer. You reciprocate immediately, parting your lips to let him kiss you deeper, a whimper leaving your mouth. He kisses like he knows he’s a good kisser, and he really is. His scent is intoxicating, a drug, sending arousal and desire straight through you.

You part, eyes half-lidded as you stand straight again. You cock your head slowly to the side, and with your head’s movement your hair follows, gathering on one side. It exposes much of your shoulder and collarbones, which lay underneath the thin lace dress you wear to sleep, and which is now subject to Carlos' unwavering stare. He has no shame, eyes raking over you, up and down and back up. One hand curled around a bottle of beer, the other coming up to slowly graze the back of your thigh.

Your breath hitches. “Do you like the dress?” You ask softly, teasingly. It’s nothing special, Carlos, you seem to say; it’s just a nightie.

His hand is rough against the thin skin of your leg, traveling upward. He gives you a nod in response; he does like it, the sheer material, the pink color, the loose way it hugs your body. Roughly, he voices his assent. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Wait,” you say, pouting. Your knee rubs softly against the material of his jeans, and you slowly sink onto your knees, hands placing themselves on your thighs. His grip goes from the back of your thigh to your hair, combing it softly, cradling your face. 

“Let me,” you say, letting your silence imply everything unsaid. He’s going crazy, losing his mind.

“So pretty,” he says, nodding. his voice thin. “Go ahead, baby.”

The petname gets you dizzy. You lean forward, resting your face on the hard bulge in his pants, smiling up at him. You’ve got these big, doe eyes, begging him, and he’s not so sure he even has the upper hand anymore—he would do anything you asked, any request that left those pretty bitten lips. He gathers your hair in two hands, forms a messy, unclean braid, crisscross at the back of your head just so he has something to grip while he fucks your throat.

You make quick, deft work of unbuttoning his jeans, and he watches, leaned back on the chair, legs spread wide with bent knees on either side of your body, caging you in. Carlos’ eyes are half-lidded, a hand at your braid, bringing his beer to his lips, swallowing before he sets it onto the adjacent desk.

His cock is big—thick, intimidating—and you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to fit the whole thing in your mouth without choking. It twitches in your palms the longer you stroke him, precum weeping from the head and slicking up your palms. Gruff expletives, in Spanish and English, slip past his gritted teeth and the sounds travel directly to your core, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together to soothe the ache blossoming there.

You take head of his cock into your mouth, feel it roll over your tongue, heavy and warm. Drool gathers in your mouth and your fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs in anticipation. The hand wound around your braid, pressed against your head, presses heavier slowly, slotting the first few inches of cock into your mouth while avoiding the back of your throat. You relax, letting your lips seal around the length, cheeks hollowing and tongue lulling at the underside. He curses.

You continue bobbing your head, lewd noises leaving your mouth with every move you make; it embarrasses you, but also sends slick gushing out of you.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat; you cough, fingers heavy as they dig into the flesh of his still-denim clas thighs; drool trickles onto his balls. The hand remains there, though, pushing you and keeping you pinned in place as he slowly thrusts upward. You haven’t even gotten him all the way.

You gag and sputter, eyes fully watering the harder Carlos bullies his cock into your throat; you’re dizzy with arousal and submission, maybe one, maybe both, you’re too far gone.

“Easy,” he orders, and you will yourself to breathe nasally, relaxing, burying more of him in you. He loves seeing you like this, hair all pretty—his braid, too—and on your knees, trying your best to please him. “Being so good for me, good girl,” he says, losing resolve. You’re so pretty when you cry, eyes rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks all over your cheekbones.

He ruts shallowly into your throat, every move punctuated by a guttural gag from your end—once, twice, a third time, before finally he releases you. You let out a cough, and a gasp, breathy, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. He doesn’t want to cum yet—not like this. You gaze up at him, big eyes anticipating, and he guides you upward, on the bed.

He kicks his jeans off and readjusts his briefs, watches you scramble to position yourself on the bed, sitting down properly. “Will you fuck me now?” You ask, your sweet voice raspy. He likes knowing he’s the reason why.

You inch yourself backward so you’re fully on his bed, a hand traveling to stop your tiny dress from riding up any further. He steps closer, one knee on the bed, caging you in again, and stops you. His gaze flickers down to your legs, forces your knees apart so he can see in between them. Your pretty cunt’s soaked through your panties. “Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice rough as he steps back off the bed and kneels beside it.

“Carlos,” you breathe, letting him have his way with you. Your mind’s all fuzzy, but it’s okay—he takes care of you. 

Strong arms snake around your thighs and pull you toward him until your cunt is level with his face. His breath, warm, fans against you, muted by the thin fabric of your panties and it does nothing to help the unadulterated, dirty arousal throbbing in your cunt. He bites at the flesh of your inner thigh, then hooks two fingers into your panties and pulls them aside.

The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to Carlos’ head. And all of your embarrassed, whiny whimpers, the way your fingers knot helplessly into his hair as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that drives him absolutely crazy. He licks at your pussy, sticks his tongue in, nudges your clit with his nose, ekes whimpers and debauched moans out of your lips.

He pushes two fingers into you, doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking them in and out, moans spilling out of you involuntarily. It’s lewd, it’s dirty, getting his friend’s daughter all spread out for him like this, but Carlos loves it. More, you sob, more, please, I need—yeah—

His skilled tongue doesn’t let up, continues toying with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks you with his fingers, until your eyes are welling up with overwhelm and the need to release, your hands pulling at his long hair—your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.

Any of the reservations you had are now out the window. Your grip on Carlos’ hair is tight, pushing his head deeper into your pussy and grinding against his mouth mindlessly.

I’m cumming—!

Your voice is so dirty, so lewd, so needy, when you finally finish around him, slick dripping out and your pussy twitching, clenching and unclenching around nothing as you release. Panting, you hoist yourself on your elbows, your braid surprisingly intact, and pout down at him.

“I said fuck me.”

“So you complain,” he responds with a coy smile, his lips shiny with your slick. You want him to fuck you stupid.

He does eventually, gets you all calm and lying down on the bed, knees to your chest. Your feet cross and uncross with anticipation. He lets his cock rest first on your stomach, where it twitches, smearing precum under your belly button.

“That’s where you’ll be,” you say, stroking him. When he finally does begin thrusting into you, he wishes he could save the image of your pretty eyes fluttering closed, puffy lips open in a whimper.

Your legs tremble with the size you’re taking, his hand gentle as it is firm on your hips, forcing you to take him, take him good, take him better. Good girl, he’s saying, good fucking girl. Inch by inch, you struggle to take all of him, his girth thicker than what your cunt is willing to take. You’re positive you’ll feel him in your stomach.

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, watching your pussy swallow him. “So tight.”

He’s drunk on the feeling of you, wet and clenching around him, so tight. He can tell you’re high on it too, on the stretch of him, the way you keep trying to meet every thrust, legs already beginning to tremble with pleasure and deep arousal. He bottoms out, an expletive leaving him in Spanish, and then slowly begins to fuck in and out of you.

He watches your face, the way your brows knit as you take him, take his cock, eyelides fluttering. “So good,” you moan, mouth open. He drops a glob of spit onto your tongue, tells you to swallow—you do, presenting your empty tongue to him. Good girl, prettiest girl—any and all praise leaves him in dizzy, heady breaths.

“Teasing me for so long,” he pants, his dick splitting you in half. “This what you wanted? Hmm?”

But even in your cloudy mind, you find the grit to retaliate, teasingly, a cloy smile on your lips. “You said it was wrong,” you gasp out with every thrust. “Fucking your friend’s daughter.”

“But you love it,” Carlos goads. “Do you?”

You nod, cockdrunk, but it’s not enough. “Use your words, pretty. You can do it.”

“I do, I love it. I need more,” you whine, getting off on his teasing, on the implication that this is all wrong, that neither of you should be doing this. “Needed this so much, Carlos.” You crack your eyes open to watch the bulge in your abdomen, the shape of his girth splitting you open. He slams into you harder and you try to squirm away, but he keeps you pinned in place.

“And if your dad walked in?”

You gush slick all over him. “Carlos,” you plead.

“Saw his daughter taking his friend’s dick?” He says it low into your ear, bending to make sure you hear all of it. “Taking it like a good girl, too.” He pulls out, slaps your ruined hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out—getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Your pretty little face, all sweaty and ruined.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m, Carlos—I’m gonna cum,” you say, nodding. You’ve probably cum twice already, little bursts of pleasure causing your cunt to twitch around him, sensitive. “Can I—?” 

“That’s it,” he praises. “Come on, cum for me. Been so good for me.” You tremble around him as you finish, broken moans fucked out of you with every surge of his hips forward.

He’s close, too, having held off fucking you for the past how many days, and you can tell; his thrusts get shallower, faster, until his hips are stuttering and he’s panting your name out, long hair framing his flushed, pretty face. You reach up to comb a hand through it. “Cum inside me,” you beg, watching him go crazy, his nostrils flaring and eyes blinking quick. 

He pumps his cum into you, thrusting several times as he rides it out, fucking you full of him, of his cum. You relish in the feeling, of being his girl, his good girl. “You’re a mess,” he comments, his face buried into your neck. He pulls out, both of you sighing at the sight and feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, onto the bed.

You unfold your legs, sitting up despite how sore you feel. Your dress is damp with sweat, and slick, and cum. “I feel a mess.” You pout.

“You look pretty.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You ask, voice meek. He nods, holds you tight as you both drift off, like he knows that you won’t be his to call his by the time the summer wanes and Comporta is left empty again.

—

“It’s the post-race interview,” Ali calls. “Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” You hop into the living room, tossing her the bag of popcorn she’d requested you to cook. Fall has officially dawned upon the city, adorning it with orange and red leaves, jazz music and cold nights—and weekends watching races.

Around you, all your university friends watch with intense gazes at the winner of the latest Formula One grand prix—something none of you had been remotely interested in just months prior.

You watch, eyes glittering, at the winner. Tan skin, long hair, jogging over to the journalist. Sainz, what a stellar drive! She sounds awestruck, genuinely taken aback by his dominance on the track today. She asks for a message in Spanish, as always; a few words of inspiration, and then, just as a fun little tidbit—did you have a good luck charm today?

He smiles to himself, like he’s just heard an inside joke and seems to think for a minute. “No, not really.” Then he combs a hand through his hair. There, looped around his wrist, is a pretty, pale pink ribbon.

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

[mellowinfluencermiracle]

Hi loves, if you want more drivers and wags drabbles, don't be shy to request something!

I hope you'll like this one. I will also add a masterlist soon! Please send some requests(can be only driver, drivers and wags or Sainz family), I need some inspiration!

(Wish me luck, I am writing a physics exam tomorrow)

-XoXo

Chaos before her arrival

Chaos. Everywhere at the grid was chaos. People are running left and right. Mercedes mechanics carrying flower bouquets in their garage. McLaren bringing an extra princess like sofa in theirs. Ferrari has three personal chefs at the motorhome.

One might think the royal family is coming to the grand prix. But one wouldn't be so wrong. In fact, Amira Sainz, the paddock princess and littlest sister of Carlos Sainz, was attending her first GP after the winter break.

With staying in Colombia for filming the 3rd season of Narcos, babygirl didn't have a lot of time to attend her big brothers GPs.

On one hand, Carlos was thankful that his baby sister wasn't surrounded by the drivers and their crazy girlfriends.

I mean, can you believe the audacity from Lily and Alex to go shopping with his baby sister because:" Baby, you look so warm, let's get you some shorter clothes to cool you off"(Alex) and "Baby, I saw this really cute handbag for 30k and it reminded me of you. Let's go get it!We can be all matchy-matchy" (Lily)

Or George and Carmen with their "Sweetheart you have to come to London with us. We can have our own tea party the mansion from Downtown Abby and wear our Tommy Hilfiger clothes and...."

Or Pierre and Kika and their "good hearted" invitation to Portugal because, apparently, babygirl is looking too pale. So she has to spend the whole winter break in a villa with only one bedroom (ups) and a private beach with them. Obviously!

But the worst of them all were Charles and Alex. Carlos can't even think about it. The last time his sister came to visit the grid, Charles had the audacity to give her a sparkling pink La Ferrari. And if that wasn't enough, he and Alexandra had to drive her around the city (let's be honest, our girl can't drive. But that's OK, cause she is pretty) with her sitting in Alex lap to "get the full driving experience cherie"

So, as you can see, Carlos wasn't very happy to have his sister attending a GP with these demons around her. His poor angel, nearly getting eaten alive by those monsters (is he dramatic? Yes. Does Carlos care? Absolutely not!)

But Carlos heart, mind and soul hurt the whole time she was in Colombia. What do mean his darling sister isn't by his side or by their family. She's just a baby! What if someone robbed her? Or her car gets stuck? Or worse, she has to go buy things with her OWN money?!

No, Carlos couldn't live with that thought either. So either way, their wasn't really a good solution to his problem.

When he saw all the teams acting crazy, decorating their garages, how his sister likes them and cleaning EVERYTHING, his blood was boiling. His baby, darling sister is staying in HIS team garage, on HIS half. (I'm looking at you, Charles and Alexandra)

However, the last straw for him was when he saw all the wags waiting by the entrance for Amira. They stood at the entrance like hinters waiting for their prey.

Oh Carlos could feel the grey hairs growing

And Amira? During the whole fiasco, babygirl was in the spa getting ready for her exhausting day. Looking pretty the whole time and watching the race IS pretty exhausting. Our poor babygirl🥺

@stinkyjax @khaylin27 @xoscar03

#carlos sainz x sister!reader #charles leclerc x reader #max verstappen x reader #logan sargent x reader #lance stroll x reader #lando norris x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #yuki tsunoda x reader #oscar piastri x reader #polyamory #pierre gasly x reader #alex albon x reader #fernando alonso x reader #daniel riccardo x reader #george russell x reader #f1 wags #alex albon x lily minu he x reader #george russel x carmen mundt x reader #pierre gasly x kika gomez x reader #charles leclerc x alexandra saint mleux x reader #baby!sainz!sister

[cheriladycl01]

My love, is mine all mine - Max Verstappen x Norris! Reader x Charles Leclerc Part 1

Plot: Norris' Twin sister is also a driver in the 2021 line up and is in her rookie era. Not only do the commentators struggle to now talk about the pair in the race, but they also struggle to talk about talent. What happens when two drivers find her eye-catching.

A/N: A lot of back story explaining the 2021 season so far!

Credit to countingstars-17 for the GIF

"So when we talk about the Norris twins, obviously due to Y/N being female it has pushed her career back further than her brothers, where she is debuting into McLaren alongside her brother we will be able to see a real test of talent"

"Yes i think it will be really interesting to see them both in the same team competing against one another while still driving for that same team. They have very similar driving styles and I can imagine them helping one another out when it comes to pole positions and keeping both of them within the top ten for points" Jenso replies to Nico.

This was from an interview at the start of the 2021 season, just before your first race in Bahrain. When Zac Brown reached out to you, you were more than happy to take up the offer. Being able to not only race alongside your brother once again but by being his team mate as well had you so excited for the season.

Bahrain went really well, Lando being in his 3rd year of Formula 1 and within the same team now felt comfortable in his car, and it had the pace this year and he came P4, you had some difficulties where you weren't fully used to the difference in the F1 car, compared too your old F2 but still managed to wrangle 6 points for the team in P7.

Imola came after a larger break where you and Lando got to travel home for a few weeks before and check on everything in the MTC before travelling to Italy. Lando got a podium in P3 and like the interview had said, he kept enough of a time gap to help you defend of the two Ferrari's behind you. You came P4. To say that Charles wasn't happy with this, as you knocked him down a place was an understatement.

Portugal was the week after and you travelled straight there, sightseeing with your brother, Daniel, Carlos and Charles. You would often leave them in bars and clubs and find yourself in cafe's and museums. Portugal wasn't as good as a race as you could have hoped, but even with car issues you still managed to get points in P9, while your brother came P5.

After this race, where you went straight to Spain, you started to get home sick. Only having your brother by your side as your parents and other siblings couldn't come out for the last few races due to their own busy schedules. Spain was an incredible race for you making you feel better for the next week ahead. You came P4 managing to overtake Charles on the last lap, which again heavily annoyed him, and very nearly catching up to the Mercedes in P3 while you left your brother in the dust in P8.

There was another break after this race, you and Lando both went home you saw Max and his girlfriend who you'd missed dearly and your family, then Charles had invited you and Lando to come spend some time on his yacht in Monaco with his younger brother who you knew of from the F2 garage when he'd been invited to come watch.

You had been nervous for the race in Monaco, it was a difficult track and so far, you hadn't been in a position where you hadnt gained the team points. However Monaco was clearly not your race, from the mixture of your nerves and car issues you came P12, while you brother stood on the podium, in P3.

The next week in Azerbaijan went so much better, with Max, and both Mercedes not having pace, you'd managed some effortless overtakes and insanely quick pit stops. You'd had a second pit stop and was on fresher tires that your brother so you were behind him, you were flying and going much quicker than him but your engineer didn't want you to go for the overtake.

You did anyway against their advice, pushing until you were behind Charles Leclerc's Ferrari, you went for a cheap move that you knew was safe but would have him fuming in interviews afterwards until you were up alongside Pierre Gasly, you were P4 and he was P3, driving alongside him you couldn't tell who went over the checked flag until you heard from your radio engineer that this was your first podium win.

You cried... of course you did. But this was the start of a rocky patch for you and Lando, he was fuming at you the minute you got out of your car. You were asked not to go for the overtake but you did anyway. He was yelling in your face angrily, taking away the beaming smile.

Lando hadn't realized you'd got your first podium, he was just angry that you'd bumped him down a place. You looked upset on your podium, a sad smile as you raised you trophy, stood up there with Sergio and Sebastian. They'd both given you a hug trying to cheer you up having seen on the TV what happened with you and Lando.

"Well done on your win Y/N" a voice startled you as you turned to your side seeing Max Verstappen stood there congratulating you.

"Thank you. I'm sorry about the DNF, France will be better next weekend for you I'm sure" you smile, a light blush held on his face.

"I'm also sorry about how your brother reacted. I've been in this sport for 6 years now and as a word of advise sometimes you have to go against what your team ask of you, you gained more points for the team today than you would have if you did stay put behind your brother. So take it as not only as a win for you but a win for McLaren as well" he smiles before pulling you into a comforting hug. His words had really hit you, nobody had said that to you today, but then again Seb and Checo probably didn't here the opposing radios yet as they'd been on the podium with you.

"Thank you, i really needed to here that Max" you smile genuinely.

"Hey, that overtake was so risky!" a voice shouts over, and thundering footsteps stand behind you.

"Huh?" you'd asked looking over your shoulder, Max's gaze following yours.

"Charles, leave her alone!" Max says with pointed eyes at the Ferrari golden boy coming close to you.

"No, she needs to stop doing overtakes like that at the last minute. They are dangerous and have no thought behind them, you even put your own brother at risk today because she can't listen to her own team" he yells his exaggerated hand gestures going everywhere.

"Her overtakes today was phenomenal. She just got her first podium, her brother has already spoiled that don't make it worse by being a prick" Max says, but Charles is fuming and too far gone that the stuff coming out his mouth is there from pure anger.

"She shouldn't have even had that win today! It's not fair, she shouldn't even have that seat!" he exclaims, Max gasps and you look down.

"Charles!" he exclaims, but before you can hear anything else you are out the door running towards the McLaren motorhome. You packed up your stuff saying quick apologies to the engineers who would take anything you left behind. You didn't have a car here so you walked from the track to the hotel, a few people spotted you but thankfully didn't interrupt seeing the tears streaking down your face. They must have seen both Charles and Lando yelling at you today.

You booked a flight to London for that night, you had your bags packed and sent to the airport before you had Seb offer to drive you to the airport.

"Thank you Seb, I really appreciate it" you smile, looking down at your phone. It rung with Lando's icon popping up. You pressed decline and put your phone on do not disturb.

"It's okay. I saw the videos of Lando and Charles with you surfacing. I'm sorry" he admits, rubbing your shoulder, as you turned to look away from him so he couldn't see the tears coming down your face.

In no time you were at the airport, you'd thanked Seb who promised he'd see you in France and asked you to let him know when you were safe and home.

You sat in the airport alone, your covid mask on, but you knew people still recognized you as you went through security and waited for the plane where they would take pictures of you. Some even came up asking for pictures or signing their merch, but where it was so late there wasn't too many that it alarmed you or security.

When you landed in the UK, your dad was right there pulling you into a hug, cussing his son out saying how he should have been there to celebrate the win. You cried to him, telling him about how shit you felt after what Lando and Charles had said.

"Lets go home" he says rubbing your shoulders.

As you both walk into the house, you can overhear you mum and younger sister on the phone to someone.

"No mum, I just want to know if she's home safe" you hear your twin's voice across the phone.

"Look hunny, your dad's gone to the airport but I don't know if he's got her yet. She's upset though Lando" you hear your mum reply.

"I know, and I know its my fault, i didn't realize she got the team more points because she overtook Charles and Pierre. I didn't get to apologize because she left right after the race"

"Because you were?" his mother pushes and he groans.

"Mum"

"No Lando where were you"

"At the club"

"Yes you were at the club, celebrating while your sister was packing her bags in her hotel room crying her eyes out because she gets her first win in F1, and her brother cant even congratulate her and watch her podium with the rest of their team? She'll see you in France but for now she needs some time alone" you mother rants at him.

"Arghhh that boy Flo, can you believe him. When i next see him, i swear to god!" she exclaims and you and your dad finally make yourself known.

"Hey guys!" you try to smile, but it doesn't reach across your face like they are used to. Flo immediately runs up to you pulling you into a hug. You started to cry into her again, before Cisca, your mother and father all join in the hug.

"Come, we'll order your fave tonight as a treat okay?" your mum guides as she sits you down at the table.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhh @georgeparisole @dakotatankbig @youcannotcancelquidditch @zzonsbeek @tallbrownhairsarcastic @mellowarcadefun @ourteenagetragedy @otako5811 @countingstacksandpanicattacks @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @hopexcroc @mirrorball-6 @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula one #formula one fanfiction #charles lechair #charles leclerc #charles lecrelc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #max verstappen x you #max verstappen #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen x reader #lestappen

[gabigabigabby]

cristiano's daughter | j. félix

joão félix x ronaldo!footballer!reader

synopsis: joão steals your celebration as his way of telling you that goal was yours

a/n: plot is set during the euro qualifier game against luxembourg in march where he did that celebration with his arms crossed (ifykyk). joão is barça player bc it's perfect for this plot and y/n is barça femeni player. again, perfect for the plot. ALSO THANK YOU FOR 700++ FOLLOWERS, ik it's bee a while since i was on here but i really do appreciate all the love you give on my works 🥹🥹 so enjoy this one!

content/warnings: fluffy as hell, y/n taking a promise extremely seriously, dialogue in portuguese and spanish, eva and mateo being the cutest twin siblings ever, not proofread, lmk if i missed anything! 💫

🎵 streaming: infrunami - steve lacy

—

"papá nos estamos mirando. devuélvenos el saludo." gio begins talking, but you were in your football la-la-land.

i could've done a bicycle kick yesterday, you thought. it could've been my match.

don't you just love it? being in your own thoughts for the 500th time today. sense the sarcasm? "y/n," gio catches your attention, snapping you out of your head. "joão te busca, cariño." [dad is looking for us, wave back. joão is looking for you, sweetheart.]

your eyes run all over the pitch before landing on the squad, joão the second to last guy in the line-up. he sends you a wave, grinning to himself when he sees you facing him. he'd never know if you were making eye contact or not; he was just happy you were there. you wave back at him, not even bothering to hide your smile from your stepmother.

"estoy feliz de que estés feliz. y tienes suerte porque es un chico lindo," gio winks before you both share a laugh; something you missed sharing with georgina. because of your tight schedule and the fact that you play football in spain and don't live in riyadh with your parents and siblings, you'd missed out every single important thing that's happened in the ronaldo house. eva and mateo's sixth birthday, alana's first day of school, bella's first steps, junior joining the al-nassr academy. everything. "¿sabes lo que significa? bebés lindos." [i'm happy you're happy. and you're lucky because he's a cute boy. and you know what that means? cute babies.]

"mamá!" you try to stop gio from going any further. because babies? aren't you too young to be thinking about children right now? your career at barcelona had only begun to skyrocket, and joão had only recently began his season stint at the club. children and settling down should be the last thing on both your minds. although every now and then, you can't help but think about it. would you and joão last long enough for children of your own in the future? "i'm only 22." you mutter under your breath, soft enough for gio to completely miss it.

the referee's whistle snaps you out of your own thoughts — a place you'd often find yourself in when you're out of the pitch. you were worried about the fact that joão barely got to feel the ball. especially after he promised you he'd give you a strike tonight.

"no, i promise," his voice lingers around you from hours ago. "i'll make sure i get the ball, and it's yours, querida. eu prometo." [i promise]

well, he promised — and promises stick with you like gorilla glue. even at the ripe old age of 22, you still believe in pinky promises the way georgina still believes in romance movies. that's besides the point.

it was up till the point after your dad was awarded a penalty. he took it, it went in, your dad is a worldwide legend, blah blah blah. you knew it was bound to happen everytime portugal play. the game was inching up to 14 minutes as your legs begin to bounce nervously. what made it worse was that mateo was on your lap when it happened.

"querida, why are your legs shaking?" mateo's neck cranes to look at you. all you could give him was a weak smile.

"nothing, 'zinho. just nervous for papai like all of us, né?" you answer, hoping mateo will take it and leave it alone.

"you're nervous for joão." if there's one thing you could curse about mateo, it's how close he is to you, even though you no longer live with your family. on his day, mateo would feel lonely — even though he's a twin — and ask gio to facetime you. most of the time, he'd catch you at the right time; driving back home from training, going out for lunch with joão on an off day. and sometimes you wouldn't pick up, occupied with training for the upcoming game that week.

mateo would never fail to call you at least twice a month, understanding how tight your schedule is and that he has to leave you alone sometimes, afraid you'd be exhausted after a long day of training. sometimes you'd give him a call too, missing your queridinho on your day.

"não somos todos?" you nervously chuckle, your hands were resting on mateo's lap, its fingers slowly picking at your cuticles. [aren't we all?]

"si, but you're stressed," mateo pouts. "joão told me you made him promise to score tonight. and you know what, y/n? i hope he scores too." he gives you his typical mateo smile; the absolute sweetest thing you could ever see.

not even a mere few seconds later, a cross from bernardo comes in. you try to anticipate which portugal boy it'd reach. you released a breath you didn't realise you were holding when you see the ball making immediate contact with joão's head, as he nicks the ball in past the luxembourg goalkeeper.

the crowd was anticlimactic, though, you'd have to say. there is a totally valid reason for it. is joão offside or not? the referee blows his whistle, giving the goal to portugal as they now lead the game 2-0. you carefully picked mateo up as you stand, the boy's arms in the air as he celebrates the allowed goal from his hermano. you watch as joão turns to the grandstand your family is situated at.

you can only assume he's looking at you at that point, but gio turns to face you and mateo to state the obvious. "el te esta mirando!" gio screams in a whispery manner. you'd only assumed that, but you were wearing the white portugal away kit, allowing joão to identify you clear as day from the pitch compared to the rest of your family who were clad in black winter coats. you agree, the weather is a bit nippy in luxembourg.

joão looks you dead in the eye — or you assume — and crosses his arms. you immediately realise what it meant, smiling to yourself as your dad, bruno and bernardo begin to crowd him and give him words of congratulations on the smooth yet second nature goal of his.

you wait till after the game, where they defeat luxembourg 6-0 to regroup with joão and cristiano. cris, before anything, would engulf gio and bella first, giving joão full leeway to reach for you first. "did you see?!" the taste of excitement is still sweet and prominent on joão's tongue when he speaks.

"i saw! my celebration at barça. thief." you joke, pushing a fist into his bicep playfully.

"amo-te, linda. obrigado por estar aqui." joão smiles, not hesitating to squish your face into his chest. [i love you beautiful, thank you for being here]

"eu vim buscar o papai, mas tudo bem." you shrug jokingly before finding yourself in your papai's arms and listening to him thank you for coming to a portugal game — an away game, no less. [i came for dad, but okay]

#joão félix #joao felix #joão félix x reader #joao felix x reader #joao felix x you #joao felix x y/n #joao felix fluff #football #football x y/n #football x you #football x oc #football x reader

[loveburrowx]

Portugal

Request - Joe goes to Portugal for a vacation and he meets Y/N.

Warnings - Smut (intercourse)

A/N - just wanted to make a fanfic with my country! Enjoy!

Joe, quarterback for the Bengals in the NFL, had been feeling the itch to get away from it all. The constant pressure of performing on the field, the endless stream of fans and media, the never-ending demands on his time. He needed a break, a chance to recharge his batteries and just be himself. So, he decided to do something drastic: he booked a one-way ticket to Portugal.

With his trusty travel guide in hand, Joe set off to explore the cobblestone streets of Lisbon, marveling at the city's stunning architecture and vibrant culture. One afternoon, while wandering aimlessly, he stumbled upon a soccer game being played at the Estádio José Alvalade. The game featured Sporting CP, one of the most successful teams in Portugal, and the energy in the air was palpable.

As he watched the players on the field, a familiar face caught his eye. There, leading the team as captain, was Y/N, a woman with long, flowing hair and legs that seemed to go on forever. The way she moved with grace and power, the way she shouted instructions to her teammates, it was clear that she was the heart and soul of the team. And to Joe, she was absolutely irresistible.

After the game, Joe mustered up the courage to approach Y/N as she was leaving the field. He introduced himself in his broken Portuguese, complimenting her on her skills and her leadership. To his surprise, she smiled warmly and seemed genuinely flattered. They exchanged numbers, and before he knew it, they were texting each other constantly, meeting up for dinner and attending local events together.

The more time they spent together, the more Joe became infatuated with her. Not just her beauty or her skill on the field, but also her charisma and her passion for life. He found himself unable to resist her sexy Portuguese accent when she would correct her teammates or shout encouragement to her friends. And when she gave him her jersey as a gift, he felt a thrill run through him that he hadn't experienced in years.

One evening, as they were enjoying dinner at his newly purchased home in Lisbon, Joe couldn't help but ask Y/N if she'd ever like to cook for him. She hesitated for a moment, but then smiled shyly and agreed. The next day, she arrived at his house carrying a basket of fresh ingredients and a mischievous glint in her eye. As she prepared a traditional Portuguese dish for him, Joe couldn't help but wonder what else she might have in store.

When she finally presented him with the meal, Y/N stepped back and revealed that she was wearing a stunning, all-white dress that showed off her perfect figure, including her toned legs and her perky breasts. The look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She wanted him. And tonight, she was going to make him feel wanted too.

As they sat down at the table, Joe couldn't help but wonder if this was all some kind of dream. Y/N was everything he had ever wanted in a woman, and the way she moved around the kitchen, serving him her delicious dinner, was enough to drive any man wild. They ate in silence at first, lost in their own thoughts, but eventually, they couldn't help but begin to talk. They talked about their lives, their families, their passions. And as they did, Joe felt a deep connection forming between them.

When dinner was finished, Y/N cleared the table and asked if he'd like some dessert. He nodded eagerly, his heart already racing with anticipation. She returned a moment later with a small platter bearing a decadent chocolate torte and two forks. As they sat down on the couch, she placed the platter between them and leaned in close, her breath tickling his ear. "This is my favorite dessert," she whispered. "I hope you like it."

Joe could feel the heat from her body as she sat so close to him, and the sweet aroma of the chocolate made his mouth water. He watched as she picked up her fork, the silverware clinking softly against each other, and took a small bite. Her lips curved into a satisfied smile as she chewed, and he found himself unable to look away.

When she finally offered him a bite, he took it greedily, their fingers brushing against each other as he brought the fork to his mouth. The chocolate melted on his tongue, releasing a rush of rich flavors that left him speechless. They ate in silence for a moment, savoring the sweetness and the intimacy of the moment.

"It's delicious," he finally managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "You really are an amazing cook." She smiled at him again, her eyes sparkling with happiness. "Thank you for enjoying it," she replied softly, her accent sending shivers down his spine.

The air between them felt charged with desire, and Joe knew that he couldn't resist her any longer. He reached out and took her hand in his, their fingers entwining as he leaned in to kiss her. She responded eagerly, her lips parting beneath his, and he felt the familiar heat of her breath as she moaned softly against his mouth. Their tongues danced together, a slow and sensual waltz that left him breathless.

As their kiss deepened, Y/N shifted in his lap, her body pressing against his. He could feel the softness of her breast against his chest, the warmth of her skin radiating through the thin fabric of her dress. His hands moved up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones as he explored the contours of her jawline. She arched her back slightly, grinding her hips against him, and he knew that she wanted more.

He broke the kiss, needing air for a moment as he gazed into her eyes. They were bright with desire, and he could see the passion burning deep within her. "Tell me what you want," he whispered, his voice thick with lust. "Tell me what you need." She smiled at him, her lips curving into a wicked little smile. "I need you," she breathed, her fingers trailing down his chest, "to make love to me."

The words sent a shiver through him, and he leaned in to kiss her again, more roughly this time. His hands moved down her body, unbuttoning her dress and revealing her perfect skin beneath. She moaned as he explored her curves, and he felt her hands fumbling with his belt, unbuckling it and lowering his pants. He stood up, kicking off his shoes, and she climbed up onto her knees, straddling him.

The feel of her warm, wet folds against his erection sent a wave of desire coursing through him. He grasped her hips, pulling her down so that he could feel the full weight of her body on him. She arched her back, her breasts spilling free from her dress, and he reached up to cup one in his hand, rolling the hardened peak between his thumb and forefinger. She cried out, her head thrown back in ecstasy, and he could feel her body trembling beneath him.

He thrust upward, feeling the hot, tight grip of her body as she enveloped him, and the sensation was almost too much to bear. He could feel himself on the edge, ready to release, but he wanted this to last. He slowed his movements, taking his time, savoring the feel of her body moving against his. She looked down at him, her eyes half-closed, and smiled, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Oh, Joe," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the sound of their passionate lovemaking. "You feel so good."

He smiled back at her, feeling a sense of connection that went beyond anything he'd ever experienced before. He wanted this night to last forever, but as the tension built within him, he knew that it was only a matter of time before he lost control. With one final thrust, he felt the release wash over him, his body tensing as he emptied himself into her. She cried out his name, her body tensing around him in a wave of ecstasy, and as they came together in their shared climax, he knew that he had found something truly special.

They lay there for a moment, their chests heaving as they caught their breath. She leaned forward, her head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this content, this at peace.

As their hearts slowed and their bodies cooled, they heard the faint sound of laughter from the living room. The party was still going strong, but for a moment, it seemed as if the world outside didn't exist. It was just the two of them, lost in each other's embrace. She turned her head to look up at him, her eyes filled with love and affection. "Thank you for the most wonderful evening," she whispered.

He smiled down at her, a lopsided grin that spoke of the happiness he felt. "You're welcome," he replied. "But really, I should be thanking you." She laughed softly, her breath tickling his skin. "Why is that?" she asked, her voice teasing. "Because you made me the happiest man alive tonight." His words were simple, but they carried the weight of truth. She leaned in, pressing her lips against his once more, a gentle kiss that sealed their connection for the night.

As the minutes ticked by, they lay there in silence, basking in the afterglow of their passion. Joe couldn't help but wonder where this night would lead them, but for now, he was content to enjoy the moment and the incredible woman who had shared it with him.

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at her. Her skin glowed in the soft light from the fireplace, and her hair spilled across the pillow like a waterfall of black silk. He traced his fingers along the curve of her jaw, feeling the gentle stubble against his skin. "You're beautiful," he whispered, and she blushed, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red.

She reached up, entwining her fingers with his, giving his hand a squeeze. "Thank you," she said softly. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. It's... it's a little overwhelming." He smiled, feeling the warmth of her palm against his. "Don't worry," he reassured her. "I'm not going anywhere. I want to explore this with you, get to know you better."

Her eyes met his, and in them he saw a mix of hope and uncertainty. "You're serious?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You don't just want this one night?" He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her lips. "I've never been more serious about anything in my life," he whispered against her mouth. "I want to see where this goes. I want to see where you go."

She smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that lit up her entire face. "Then I think," she said, taking his hand and leading it lower, "we should go to bed." Together they climbed beneath the covers, their bodies tangled and entwined. As they lay there, she traced the lines of his face with her fingertips, as if committing every detail to memory. "I feel like I've known you for a lifetime," she murmured. "And yet, I also feel like there's so much more to learn."

He pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck. "I feel the same way," he confessed. "But I promise you, tonight was just the beginning. I'm not going anywhere." She sighed contentedly, her body relaxing against his. "Good," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Because I have a feeling this is going to be one hell of a ride." And as they drifted off to sleep, he knew she was right. This was just the beginning, and he couldn't wait to see where the journey would take them.

#joe burrow #joe burrow fan fic #nfl #nfl football #nfl imagine #joe burrow x reader #explore #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow smut #football #like #smut #foryou

[geekgirles]

I'm actually quite proud of Armand right now. Openly admitting to Amalia the reason their relationship was always strained was because he'd always been jealous of her and her relationship with their father is such a great character moment for him.

One thing season 4 is definitely delivering is some much needed depth and exploration of the Sadida Royal family. And I find myself fascinated (not only because Amalia is my favourite character and I have a soft spot for her people).

Personally, Armand is a character I have a lot of trouble having a clear stance on. I don't hate him, and it's true his motives become clear and even understandable once you give them some thought, it's just that Ankama does a wonderful job at making him both outwardly dislikable given his abrasive personality and some of his most questionable actions.

For example, season 3 Armand and season 4 Armand are almost like night and day. Maybe it is indeed that his new role as king has forced him to be more responsible and emotionally mature, but the vibes between L'assamblée and Falling Down are completely different.

In season 3 he just oozed contempt for his sister, and his actions towards her reeked of ulterior motives. The fact that Aurora has been described as manipulative (even her hairstyle is meant to hint at her true nature) and was purposely placed in between the two siblings as a visual nod to how she's keeping them apart doesn't help matters.

Which is another factor to take into account: Aurora's character and the role she plays in the siblings' deteriorating bond.

Even if so far she seems to genuinely love Armand, I really can't bring myself to trust Aurora. Not only because of all the behind-the-scenes facts I already mentioned, but because her actions are just sketchy and clearly veered to the betterment of the Osamodas rather than the Sadida.

First of all, her contempt for Amalia is genuine and she legitimately seems to be planning to send her away to keep her from interfering with her plans. After all, this is literally what she had to say about her sister-in-law:

"Ne vous en faîtes pas mon prince, nous finirons bien par redresser cette mauvaise herbe."

Translation: "Don't worry, my prince, we'll get this weed straightened out in the end."

(I haven't watched the English dub, so my apologies if the translation doesn't match the official version).

There's also the fact that, despite being the new Sadida Queen, her intentions in season 3 clearly laid in the benefit of her own kingdom, the Osamodas. Such is reflected in her choice of suitors for Amalia:

She intended for Amalia to marry Ashdur, her own cousin, thus, strengthening the Osamodas' hold over Sadida politics. In fact, it becomes quite clear Aurora's choice in suitors, only supported by Amalia implying back then her sister-in-law had already tried the same thing with her brothers, was much less about the future of the Sadida Kingdom and more about the Osamodas' sake.

After all, while arranged marriages between royal families isn't anything new, usually the sensible and even most strategic thing to do is for rulers to"spread" their children and marry them into different families around the world. That is exactly what Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabela of Castile did with their own children, they married them off to the royal families of England, Portugal, and Austria.

With that in mind, having both Sheran Sharm children marry Osamodas royalty just seems dumb, doesn't it? It all comes to show Aurora is more concerned over solidifying her power over the Sadida Kingdom than its actual well-being.

Which is why I'm still going to keep my guard up regarding her character until the season ends. After all, we still have 9 more episodes where everything can go up in flames.

But going back to Armand, even though he is in love with his wife, his treatment of Amalia in L'assamblée is leagues better than it was in season 3. Unlike most of his appearances and his interactions with his sister, where he kept treating her like a child who didn't know any better (what she just so happened to accuse him of when presented with Ashtur, as a matter of fact), here not only does he finally open up to his sister about his insecurities and his reasoning for his behaviour towards her, but he offers her support in the wake of their father's passing and even invites her to attend the assembly with him.

He is entrusting her with responsibilities befitting a queen, not a child.

Their relationship is finally healing.

As I said earlier, despite the undeniable depth behind his character, it's difficult to really side with Armand in plenty of occasions. Not only because of his difficult personality and flaws, but because it is so much easier to sympathise with Amalia.

And I'm not talking exclusively about the fact that, as one of the main characters, we've been by her side throughout everything, witnessing her true selfless, responsible, and brave self, but the fact that her position within her own family certainly tugs at our heartstrings.

Amalia is the youngest sibling, the princess. For all the sheltering and privileges that can get her, it also became her gilded cage. And for the most part, not even her family was a safe haven.

Queen Sheran Sharm died when Amalia was probably still a kid, whereas Armand was most likely already a teenager. As King Oakheart revealed back when he explained to Amalia it had been Armand who insisted they let her go, the queen's death shook their entire family, making the king and prince unintentionally turn their backs on Amalia during a time she needed as much affection as possible. And so, her royal duties became stifling, her royal upbringing unbearable. Thus is the reason for her wanderlust.

And then we have Armand's reason for not always being fair to her: jealousy. He resented her for being Oakheart's favourite, despite constantly going off to adventures while he remained in the kingdom by his side. Now, as I said, this was a great character moment for Armand, one that also belies his character development. However, it doesn't change the fact that, while easier to relate and sympathise with him, we still sympathise with Amalia more or have been doing so for far longer because we knew the effect this had had on her.

We all have been someone's scapegoat to their frustrations with a third person, we have all been treated unfairly by someone who, for whatever reason, couldn't solve their own issues with the person they had problems with in the first place and took it out on us. This is the crux of Armand and Amalia's strained relationship: for years, Armand took his frustrations and insecurities out on Amalia instead of having an honest conversation with their father.

That's why it's easier to sympathise with Amalia, because we know that, deep down, for all her flaws, she was never at fault for how their relationship turned out. Because we can understand her frustration and pain when, even with their dying father, Armand still chose to listen to his wife over her and try to marry her off instead of being there for each other when they both needed most. As Amalia called him out for before leaving with Yugo, he still chose politics over family. Everything involving Armand and Aurora is about politics.

But now that they are at least beginning to rebuild their relationship, I sincerely hope things get better for them. Unless their original intentions back in 2017 have changed, I seriously fear Ankama will still use Aurora to complicate things further between these two.

Please, Ankama, I'm literally begging you. They're all the family they each have left, don't let their relationship be ruined forever.

#wakfu #wakfu spoilers #wakfu season 4 #wakfu season 4 spoilers #un nouveau monde #a new world #l'assamblée #the assembly #wakfu analysis #wakfu season 3 #falling down #amalia sheran sharm #armand sheran sharm #king oakheart sheran sharm #aurora #wakfu aurora #ankama #osamodas #sadida

[starshapedb0x]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧˚ · .

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you go on vacation with your good friend Audrey, your other friend Arthur and your bestest of friends, Oscar. There’s things that can’t be left unsaid.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ (read at your own discretion), it’s very little though, fingering (f receiving), innocent kink, mostly fluff really. NOT PROOFREAD (do not hold it against me pls)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Oscar Piastri x best friend!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2k+

𝐀/𝐍: I honestly forced myself to write this one so not at all the best, but enjoy some summer visuals 🪽

You look at your half-packed bag as you fold the last one of the bikinis. You stare up at your best friend, Audrey, she’s lied down on your bed scrolling through her phone. Her bags packed to go, they were resting in front of the door, you’d agreed she’d help you pack so you both could finally go on vacation after a long college semester plus the exams to complete in the end.

Being in Portugal to study was a new experience for you, you’d travelled out of your country before but staying a whole year away from your family and home was different. It was hard, of course, staying away from everything you know for too long is always hard; but you’ve made so many friends, visited so many places, grown so much in this place that it almost feels like home. And overall, college was going well for you. Of course you’d talked about it with all your friends, specifically your one and only Oscar Piastri.

You’d known each other since you were still in nappies, your mothers were best friends and they insisted on often seeing each other regardless of where they were. As a consequence, their kids became friends, staying with each other throughout every difficulty that eventually showed up such as the distance between each other. You’d always had a thing for him, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to tell him, partly because you knew he didn’t like you and partly because it was so hard to keep the friendship with the little time you were together, imagine a relationship.

As so, you convinced Audrey, Oscar and one of his friends to all go to Audrey’s house in Melides, she came from a Portuguese background, her roots were here, therefore she had family and houses, including the cosy beach house located in the south of the country. Five minutes away from the beach and with a considerably sized swimming pool, there was really nowhere else where you’d rather spend summer with your friends.

“Are you done packing? Their plane already landed we gotta hurry.” She asked, leisurely sitting up on your bed, turning off her phone and placing it next to her. “You’ll finally be able to see your beloved Oscar..” She grinned slyly at you.

“Don’t say it like that,” you replied timidly “I need you to help me close this bag.”

——————————————————

And a few hours later, that so familiar smell of summer invaded your whole being. The wind hitting your face as you let your arm slide with it, back. The four of you in that car with all the windows open, You, Audrey, Oscar and Arthur. Having picked them up from the airport, Audrey was driving, being guided by her phone which loudly indicating the directions over the music you and Oscar had chosen, and being guided by Arthur who contradicted the phone and yelled both in English and French. You were sat right next to Audrey, almost fully outside the window, looking at your final destination; Oscar right behind you, eyes focused on the way your hair flowed with the wild wind and on the wide smile you kept painted on your face. Arthur behind Audrey who now told him with all her teeth to shut up.

As the car finally parked, you opened the door and ran outside to pick up your bags and finally settle in.

To be honest, the first day wasn’t that big. You guys had arrived late and all the guys wanted to do was rest after the long flight they had gone through to be here, so everyone just had dinner, something you all quickly whipped up from remainders, and headed to sleep.

The next day, everyone was packed and excited to get to the beach. You could already feel the sand in your feet and the sun hitting your skin, along with the salty water covering your body. It was a quick walk to the beach where you all went chatting.. specially you and Oscar. Both of you stayed behind and caught up with the few things you hadn’t through texting.

“You know, I’m pretty stoked to be here for summer break.” Oscar said promptly. “I missed you.”

“I’m stoked you’re here too! We haven’t seen each other in so long.” You looked at him. Oh god, that face you’ve liked for so long, the past year without him was torture. “I misse—“

You couldn’t finish your sentence, in a millisecond, Oscar had dropped his stuff and picked you up bridal style, running into the sea quickly. You screamed in surprise, your arms flying around his neck tightly. Soon both of you were fully clothed thrown into the sea, playfully hitting and throwing water at each other. Your white flowy dress sticking onto your body, revealing the tiny bikini you had underneath. At the sight, Oscar stopped for a second. There was no way he could keep his eyes off you the rest of the trip.

The day went as usual, everyone tanned a fair amount — except for Oscar who refused to let you put sunscreen on his back. Of course, his back is fully sunburnt, a shocking red painted on it.

“Oscar, please, let me put After-sun on it.” You insisted.

“Fine, okay.” He finally succumbed to your wishes, figuring it’d be the best option.

Both of you went to the bathroom, as Audrey and Arthur made dinner, you could only hope anything good would come out of it..

You held the bottle of After-Sun spreading a generous amount on your hand, warning it up before placing your hands on your best friend’s back.

“OW!” He winced, arching his back, flexing it. You pursed your lips and felt your face getting warmer.. you knew he had to work out more in F1 but. Wow.

“Come on, don’t be a baby.” You smiled and let out a quiet chuckle. Running your hands along his back to spread the product.

“I’m not a baby, you’re just a little rough.” He turned around, holding your wrists and looking down at you. You looked up at him. The way he towered over you, pressing his body closer to yours and leaning his face down. “Be gentler, yeah?”

You nodded, looking down at his dangerously close lips, then back into his eyes. His breathing hitting your face, your foreheads and noses pressing against each other, Oscar looks down at your lips and—

“Hey guys! Dinner is ready. Everything good in here?” Arthur had slammed the door open, and with the noise, both of you jumped away from each other. Your face went bright red while wiping your hands off the After-Sun to a nearby towel. Oscar scratched the back of his neck, looking around, face heating up.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll be right there.” And so you did.

After that, you got frustrated. The next days, Oscar did not say a word to you. Well, you didn’t say anything to him either but — on your fourth day of beach together and he had no intention of talking to you about what happened in the bathroom? And this kept you awake at night. You were tossing and turning wondering if you had done something wrong. Should you have kissed him? Maybe he just doesn’t want to be with you. Whatever it was, he had to tell you himself.. even if it was hard to hear, you had to. Living off waiting had always gone wrong for you. You got up from your bed, in your sheer night gown, not bothering to get your slippers on even if the tile floor was cold. You walked out the door and went right into where you knew was the bedroom he was staying in. You looked at it a rethought your decision, but when your brain decided it was better not too, your heart was banging on that door with all the strength it had. In a matter of seconds it was open.

Oscar looked you up and down, and kept his head up to look into your face — your night gown didn’t leave much for the imagination. “Y/N..? Are you okay? Can you not sleep?”

“Why are you avoiding me? Do you not like me? Is it because of what happened in the bathroom? I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to almost kiss you! I mean I wanted to but if you—“ His lips gently pressed against yours and his arm slid around your waist. You let yourself melt into his touch.

“I’m sorry. I’m in love with you.” He simply said, mouth pressing kisses along your cheek and jawline. Your eyes widened and you looked up at him, he looked really lovesick now that you stared at him properly. You kissed him yourself this time.

He pulled you in to himself and closed the door behind you. You were pushed against the door and his hands slid along your half revealed skin, pulling and tugging on the sheer fabric. His mouth in yours in a way you’d never experienced before. If you were honest, you had no idea what to do.. you tried to keep your arms around him while he made your body feel in places it had never felt before.

“Oscar..” You whined. You had no idea what you were begging for, but he knew. And you knew he knew.

“Y/N, Y/N.. wait hold on. I’m.. uh. We’ll talk tomorrow-“ He figured it was a little to early for all of this, he couldn’t just jump in as much as he wanted to.

“What? No. You made me wait so much.” You looked down, his hard-on visible through the pajama pants. “Is it because of this?” You slid your hand over, palming his full clothed dick.

He looked down at you, mouth open as if he was ready to moan at any given moment. And you looked up at him sweetly, like you had no idea what you were doing, innocent little you. “Y/N, don’t start something you can’t finish.”

He was right, you actually had no idea what to do. Your experience was based purely off the one time you watched porn. “I can finish it.” You said promptly, although not very confident of your skills. Oscar grabbed you by your waist, and you let yourself be guided by him. He pushed you onto his bed and looked down at you. You looked clueless and all he wanted to do was finally make you know how good he could be. How amazing he could make you feel. And wipe that innocence right out of you. He slid his own t-shirt off and slid his hands under your night gown.

“You look so pretty in this.. such an angel.” He whispered, his fingers swiftly reached your breasts where he cupped them and then flicked your nipples between his fingers. Your hand flew to your mouth as you looked down to what he was doing. The way his head lowered, and only so then you realized he was getting on his knees. You sat up, and Oscar leaned his head into the inner side of your thigh, sliding his fingers along the milky skin. Your hand flew straight to his wrist.

“Hm? Can’t finish it after all, princess?” He asked, he wasn’t gonna do anything you didn’t want him to but at this point why ask. You let go from his wrist, and his fingers got closer finally reaching where they were needed the most. He slid his fingers through your fold spreading the wetness you’d pooled right when started kissing you. “All this just for me?” Oscar looked up at you, but you look away, hand covering your mouth, eyes struggling to keep still. Shaking with anticipation, why was he making you wait so much. He clearly wanted to take his time.

His movements were slow and he only lightly grazed your entrance with his digits, your mind started wondering to all the things he could do from here, to all the things you wanted him to do from here.

#f1 one shot #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #formula 1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x you #op81 #oscar piastri #formula 1 x reader #formula one #f1 smut #f1 imagine #f1 fic

[obriengf]

hiya! can yous do Mitch & 6 please ?

thanks 🩷

send me a prompt for some oblivious love blurbs ✩ Notes: weirdly obsessed with his shoulders right now

MISCOMMUNICATION

Mitch Rapp was difficult to understand; signals were crossed and mixed to the point where a blur was left behind, emotions swinging left and right as they failed to settle, and looks that were longing one second before harnessing avoidance the next. You didn't know whether he was coming or going and it pulled so much harder at your heart than you ever anticipated it would. You didn't think that falling for such a man would leave you awake at night, constant thoughts running through your mind about the things he said or did - trying to analyse their meanings, trying to find even a slither of hope that there was something worthwhile there. He made butterflies flutter, but he could also make them sink. Coldness stemming from his neutral gaze had the capacity to suddenly warm and light up the space you surrounded yourself in. He would soothe any stresses you had with his undivided attention, or leave you so utterly alone to lick at your wounds in silence. Mitch Rapp was an enigma, which both hurt and healed you. And for some reason, you loved him for it. For all of it.

You were trained to be robotic; every move was calculated to an exact second, every thought confident and assured before being acted upon. Mistakes weren't just frowned upon, they were inexcusable, and a single minuscule hair out of place was enough to brand one as atrociously disreputable in the eyes of the Central Intelligence Agency. But it wasn't until you were behind closed doors and the thrill of your mission was over, that you managed to exhale out the craziness and finally be human again. The past few days had been difficult - Portugal had worn you down, and the fresh scar draped from the edge of your ribs to the crease of your hip had only just started to heal. The skin was still raw as it sported a flushed shade of pink, but the suture that had taken years to properly perfect was holding together nicely. You had difficulty moving about, and usually, it wouldn't bother you as the mission was over, but right now you'd do anything in this moment to escape your hotel room. With squinted eyes, you cringed from the raising pitch of your partner's voice - the tone booming as it chastised you. The 'blame-game' was one that you never won, and even though you tried, you couldn't even cheat your way into the winning circle. You were underneath a spotlight and you hated it, despite only the two of you occupying the temporary living space. Mitch had started, and he hadn't planned on stopping until his point got across. "Are you out of your fucking mind!?" He yelled, the small space you sat within only amplifying the delivery even more. This Mitch was the one that you often saw clouded by cold tones and closed-off personalities. It's the one that made you walk on eggshells and question everything you had said or done priorly that day. It's the one that told you what you should have done, and not praised what you had done right. This Mitch was the one that you had first met when he had been a recruit, and all of that trauma that led him to you was still buried so deep inside his tortured heart and mind. You could never tell if he was being protective of himself, or of you. He is different to the Mitch that you saw a few days ago, however. This one was scared, frozen in place as he watched a knife aim for your stomach but instead drag down your side. His eyes had grown wide with worry as you collapsed in a small puddle of your blood, and his touch was delicate and gentle as it cupped at your cheeks and told you that everything will be okay. This Mitch scooped you into his arms and took you somewhere safe, with his own hands trembling in fear. He embodied warmth and care, and for a second you swore you saw his baby-brown eyes glaze with nervous tears. You were hastily brought back to your hotel room as you heard Mitch groan loudly, his rant continuing as he overlooked how you momentarily spaced out. Your focus flicked up to him as his hands tugged roughly at his growing locks, brows furrowed and voice raspy from the exertion, "You need to be more careful! What the hell was going through your damn head!? Everything was going according to plan and you had to go rogue? Are you fucking serious?! You could've died! " "Then why didn't you just leave me there if I'm such a damn liability then, Mitch?" You were tired. He had let you rest since the mission had been completed, successfully, but in true Mitch Rapp fashion, he still had to tell you what you had done wrong. He grunted at your comment, nostrils flaring as he seemed to briefly consider whether to continue lashing out. You watched as his left hand balled into a fist, veins protruding up the back of his hand and over his wrist, as he channelled his emotions into the tension of his curled hand. The man eventually released the hold after his knuckles grew white, only to point a stern finger in your direction, "I never leave people behind. I especially would never leave you behind, don't you ever say that."

Your head shook as your tongue clicked, perplexed over his conflicting temperaments, "I don't understand what you want from me!" Your own voice rose, surprising Mitch as much as it did you as you both jumped ever so slightly. The room fell quiet for the first time since he barged through your door. The shrill of your voices had died and was instead replaced with heavy breaths and a staring contest between two sets of sad and confused eyes.

Mitch tilted his head in bewilderment, an ask for you to elaborate before you continued with an exasperated sigh, "It's always Good -Cop Bad-Cop with you. One minute, you can be the sweetest man I've ever met who would do anything to make me laugh, or smile. And then, other times y-you're just a whole different person, like all of your walls are suddenly back up and you have a fucking grudge against the world like a goddamn moody teenager!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" He was taken aback, voice leaving breathless as he took a tentative step closer to you. Not that he could pretend - Mitch knew that the hot-cold treatment was cruel, but he couldn't help it. Emotion to Mitch Rapp usually held a capacity for pure anger and revenge, but being with you allowed him to open up to many more possibilities. It terrified him, and he had been in such a slump for so long that he didn't know what to do. But he did need you, he needed his light.

"Just tell me what's going on, Mitch! Because it's so fucking hard to read you sometimes and it makes me want to tear my hair out and scream -"

"I LOVE YOU!" His voice echoed once more, the sentiment ringing through the enclosed space. Whisky-coloured hues glazed as his heart became exposed, laying out raw for you to see. Your expression harnessed shock and the lack of response made his laugh hollow and brittle. Mitch shook his head, focusing now on the scruffed toes of his shoes, "I'm in love with you. I thought you knew - "

"No, I didn't." You managed to say with whispered words, observing how the usually confident man in front of you now sank and closed in on himself. He was shutting down, drained from your fight and from the roller-coaster of the past few days. He already thought he was going to lose you when he felt the fresh warmth of your blood run through his fingers only a mere few days ago, but now, he might've just lost you as a staple in his life for good.

Silence had returned, yet it rang the loudest of anything else within that room that night. You had always expected that you'd fall for Mitch Rapp - how could you not? He had his moments of hilarity, amusing you when things got a bit dim or when mischievousness wove itself into his boredom. He held passion proudly like a medal when his interests were at play, showing just how he can truly immerse himself into hobbies or things that he liked. He was tough, both mentally and physically, and it was admirable to see how he would always stand up after being knocked down. He was also sweet when he wanted to be - even when he was raising his voice, purely exposing his protectiveness. Plus, he definitely wasn't bad to look at either.

What you didn't expect, however, was for him to have fallen for you, too.

"I hadn't even thought of loving anybody after Katrina died." His voice broke the barrier, eyes still peering down. Mitch drew a breath, his exhale shaky as he tried to gather himself, "I mean, I always seem to lose the people I love, and she was the last straw." The man cleared his throat as his hand ran back through his already teased hair, his stress evident, and he suddenly peered up at you, "Until a pain in my ass was elected my partner, and became so incredibly annoying that I began to find it endearing. Before I knew it, I was dreaming of life after all of this agent bullshit, married with kids, the whole white-picket-fence ordeal. And we were so damn happy."

A sweet smile shone his way through quivering lips and matching teary eyes. You held out your hand, desperate to have his hold ground you as Mitch's fingers slid between yours and he squeezed with complete adoration.

He licked his lips, "I'm sorry for yelling. I was just scared that I'd lose you, like I did the others. Because if anything happened to you, sweetheart, I swear - "

"You'd burn down the world?" You interjected a small chuckle from Mitch solidifying your correct choice of words.

"You have no idea just what I'd do for you." His other hand reached out to push back the small strands crowding your forehead, calloused fingertips never feeling so soft against your skin before. "I thought it'd be easier to shut you out, if I'm being honest... If I didn't love you, then it wouldn't hurt. But let's be fucking real, that's just impossible."

Pieces fell into place with perfect precision the moment your arms secured around his neck, your nose pushed into his shoulder, and his grip securing tightly around your waist. This moment was one filled with clarity and understanding, a mutual passion that cleared the air and prompted harmonising beats of hearts against two flushed chests.

"I bet it'd be even more impossible, since I love you, too." Your voice muffled against the worn cotton of his shirt, but Mitch heard you. His shoulders sunk in comfort, arms tightening even more, and the light of his life growing brighter with each and every passing second.

#dylan o'brien x reader #mitch rapp x reader #mitch rapp #mitch rapp fic #mitch rapp imagine #dylan o'brien fic #dylan o'brien imagine #american assassin #oblivilove blurbs

[joaofelix70]

A CRESCENT LOVE, AN EPHEMERAL PASSION | joão félix sequeira.

summary: you and joão spent all the summer together. you even met his friends and brother. could this be the beginning of a crescent love or just an ephemeral passion? his friendship with his ex would ruin everything between the two of you?

author's notes: after the win against luxemburgo, where portugal national team set the record of goals, his ex just posted "mysterious" pics with floki, his dog. joão was also there, almost hidden, actually. we all know she always does it, never assuming anything maturely, but instigating the frustration of the fans who care about him and to make every gossip website and tv show talk about it, just like a teenager who wants attention would act. basically, this inspired me. i really don't hate anyone, by the way. even thought influencers who don't spread any impactful content and nepobabies with no talent and only standard beauty annoys me, i can't lie.

warnings: bad language (of course it's joão saying the words), chaotically humorous almost all the time, but also involving sadness and angst. implicit sex reference, i guess? maybe?

what do you feel when you hear my name? shame? embarrassment?

does your brain even bring you any sign or memory involving me?

do you ever think about me?

are your moments with her comparable to ours?

can we talk? can we communicate?

is it my fault? do you miss me?

your head was drunk for the whirlwinds of questions that piled up and get bigger, like waves. they seemed to be drowning you. the glowing light and peace of your woody brown gaze gives you triggers. his smile remains embedded, in your heart, an eternal home. the numbness and wrapping of his lips, every inch of his tanned skin and firm muscles being appreciated and admired by you. his hair was shiny, soft and full by the salty waters of the european beaches: always caressed for you. his laughs at you giving him the most silly and lazy hairstyles, with you pretending to be a professional who was filming your customer to tiktok.

“do that pose! yes, your hand against your face! now, give me that playboy eye. just like that! you’re doing amazing, sweetie!”

when you get carried away in the game ‘who am i?’ and tried so hard doing the mimes, jumping excitedly and demonstrating your animation in a loud tone, before covering your own mouth and feigning naturalness, just to repeat the same instant acts.

when you made joão watch your random dances as soon as you won at uno and he’d tell how hilarious you were. when you cooked your regional foods and desserts for félix, his brother who’s hugo, alex — the photographer — diogo from the movemind channel and all of his friends. when he used to hold your face, rest his touch on your waist and thighs. tracing his fingerprints across your scalp, reveling in the ethereal smell of your hair, laying his lips against your entire face and stature, exalting you completely: from your ears, neck, collarbone, belly, legs and even your feet. being a gentleman, joão opened the car door for you, he intertwined the hands of you both in every single opportunity and helped you eat: having the cutlery for you to open your mouth and giving you support with the napkin. when you did his goal celebration. when the two of you invented a handshake, along with various inside jokes. for example, when joão posted many videos of him swimming and playing in the ocean.

“hey, flounder! ‘the little mermaid’? i loved it!”

“why am i not your ariel, tho?”

“why you didn’t say you’d prefer to be eric of the real life?”

“give me some respect, i’m the protagonist of this shit!”

“slay, king!”

you remember singing the songs that played in his car in the most chaotic way, using his hand as a microphone and taking the opportunity to kiss all over it and his fancy bracelets. you offered him affection biting his skin and enjoyed acting like his personal masseuse. you called him ‘my prince of portugal’.

“please, don’t become a stranger.” your last words, face to face. the intensity of the summer weeks of vacation, which were already ending, consuming you.

“you know i’d never do that. look, you’re such a unique person, and even though we’re gonna go back to our busy routines, i still wanna keep you in my life. i still wanna be that close to you.” joão declared and they both found comfort in each other’s arms. his perfume granted the beg leave and penetrated your lungs, giving you life. you felt like you shouldn’t let it go, but there was nothing else to accomplish. you were single, so was he. you ask yourself if everything would be different. maybe if you had tried your lips once again: asking him to give a chance to them, to have more. to not leave what you went through, together, in the box of forgotten memories. would that really suffice, though?

"it's obvious that you’d choose the blonde influencer with light eyes, slender body and member of a rich family. the one who was with a formula 1 racer days before she went to meet you. before you just disappear from my life, without saying anything. the one that doesn't show an ounce of authenticity and, of course, affective responsibility. who am i in comparison to her?! right, joão?" your voice flashed the disparity of fragility and indignation, trembling hands clutching the phone.

“y/n, listen to me. you’d never understand it, okay? you’re not inside this relationship, me and her are. you’re seeing it from the outside, just like everyone else. yeah, she was hanging out and making out with other people. so was i with you. but then, some things changed.” john seemed to be busy. echoes of other people's voices ran through the call.

“nothing has happened between us since the vacation, joão. what doesn’t make sense because i thought you were liking me. i only think about you!” you vented out and received silence. his answers tried to become existent and complete. he stammered, the audible sound of his familiar backwards cap being pulled off and his honey-colored hair being rubbed against his own fingerprints.

“do you think i don’t like you? holy shit, y/n. i even thought we could have so much more. a future together and everything. i think about you and i swear in the name of my family, and i already said that they mean the fucking world to me. the thing is: there’s something that still keep me going back to her. i don’t know if it’s because i’m with her since i was younger, but…”

“joão, this is emotional dependence. i’m sorry to tell you this, however, it’s necessary. i care about you. you’re so internally and externally beautiful, precious, successful and talented. you deserve better!” you interrupted him, stepping back and forth.

“y/n, i love her. when i looked at you…”

“she’s all that you see, right?”

“hm… yeah…” félix found himself in a bind. paralyzed, he remained without an answer for a while. the coldness of the material of his gold necklace touches his tongue: a way to combat the nervousness that generates the gnawed nails.

“my toxic behavior wants to help and fix you so badly, but i know i can’t get more involved than that. i’m not the one for you.” the words reproduced by yourself reinforced the fragmentation of your heart.

“j, baby… are you coming or not? i’m waiting for you, floki is waiting for his dad!” you heard that female voice call to him and realized the way that just this factor made his breathing destabilize.

“i think this is officially the end of whatever we had, joão. goodbye!” your voice was unstable and he realized it: sharp as deep, transparent and suffocating waters.

“i wish you the best, y/n. i apologize for not being what you expected, what you needed, and…”

“caralho, joão! que merda! (holy fuck, joão! what the hell?). come on, give me your phone!” the girl began to rant. her heels against the floor were exclamatory. she was running out of patience.

the call is over. again, you were superimposed on the ocean of blazing tears. you tried to convince yourself that everything went the way it was supposed to be.

but was it for real?

#joão félix #joao felix #joao felix x reader #joao felix x you #joao felix smut #joao felix fluff #joao felix angst #joão félix x reader #joão félix x you #joão félix smut #joão félix fluff #joão félix angst #joao felix x y/n #joão félix x y/n #joao felix fanfic #joão félix fanfic #joao felix one shot #joao felix drabble #joao felix blurb #joão félix drabble #joão félix blurb #joão félix one shot #joao felix oneshot #football #football x reader #football smut #football one shots #joao felix headcanon #joão félix headcanon #🎧 ࿐ aléxia's works!

[corriganatheart]

if he was MINE / João Félix x reader

Synopsis: You’re secretly in love with your best friend, who is in a toxic relationship.

Pairings: João Félix x fem!reader

Genre: One sided romance, sad story

December 10 2022: Right after Portugal’s Elimination.

Breaking News: Magui Corceiro is spotted clubbing with a mysterious man while boyfriend João Félix gets eliminated from the World Cup.

With an unfazed eye, you scroll through the comments.

He deserves so much better.

At this point bro is doing this to himself because this is getting old.

Isn’t this like the 4th time? Lol

Magui doesn’t give a shit about João Félix's feelings; she knows he’ll forgive her no matter what.

People continue to type out their opinions, which worsens as you scroll down. You are watching from home and is very aware that Portugal got eliminated. When the camera pans to João’s face, your heart shatters from his expression. He was in as much pain as CR7, and you know he was very excited to play for his country but was only disappointed. You wished you could’ve been there, especially now that the news is out, but you thought Magui would be there, so you turned down his offer.

You and João are both aware that Magui doesn’t like you, mainly because you’ve been friends with him since middle school, but you’ve never done anything to harm his relationship. João has had a couple of girlfriends, and all seem insecure because you know him better than them, but he has always chosen you. This was, of course, until she showed up and had his undivided attention.

Magui Corceiro is one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen and, quite frankly, João’s ideal woman. He has always gone for blue eyes and blonde hair, but something about this girl was different; he was actually invested in her and was smitten by her. Your best friend was in love and overly blind too. Their relationship is not healthy, and everyone agrees on that, but João is stubborn and refuses to accept the truth.

When he first introduced you to the girl nearly three years ago, she was very sweet, and you thought for the first time you’d be friends with his girlfriend. But as time passed, she became more possessive and controlling to the point where you went almost a year without speaking to him. Magui was jealous of your friendship with João, and it was the one thing that she couldn’t control because he had told her several times that you’re a long-time friend. And since she can’t ask him to leave his friends, she manipulates him with breakups and male acquaintances of her own. Everything about his feelings for her was real, but she saw it as a tool to manipulate one of the best upcoming players. However, still, João is responsible for how he gets treated, and so far, he has allowed every gaslighting, manipulation, mental abuse, and cheating into his relationship.

You hesitate on whether to call João or not while watching Morocco celebrate their win in the quarter-finals. Your eyes drift to your friend, Hakimi, who looks as happy as ever to win the match. Although you’re upset that Portugal didn’t win, at least one of your friends can continue on the next game.

Your phone dings from the numerous messages from your friends to your family about the video. It was no mistake or misunderstanding. The video showed that she intended to grind on the guy and didn’t care that the camera was on her. You’re sure by now someone has told João of the allegation, and this would only make him more upset. She was supposed to be there for him, cheer him on, and that’s why you didn’t go, but instead, she was in another country with another man.

You go on Instagram, hoping his comments weren’t filled with the scandal, but you should’ve known by now that everyone was on João’s case. His latest Instagram post was filled with Magui’s allegation and how João would never learn his lesson. Even with the hate he gets for staying with her, it has become clear that he won’t leave her. You’ve tried to convince him before, and that only ended with him losing contact with you for months, but your friendship was much more important than your feelings, so you remained silent and helped him when he needed you.

Leaning on your couch, you wait for an incoming call. Morocco had just finished celebrating with their people, and by now, João was probably heading to his hotel. He might even take a flight early to avoid getting crowded the next day at the airport. People can be brutal, and he was trending on Twitter for the wrong reason, and some even blamed his relationships for Portugal’s loss. It was ridiculous, but that’s how the internet works, and sadly his girlfriend added more fuel to the fire, and you can only hope that dancing with the guy was the only thing she did. Groaning from the anxiety, you decided to go for it and dial his number. He picked up on the third ring, and you relaxed a little.

“Hey,” you softly said. You hear a bag zipped before he responds, “Hey you.” You lay down on the couch, saddened by his voice that sounds so broken. “You played well. You gave it your all. I’m so proud of you, João.” He doesn’t respond to that, but you hear stuff being shoved into a bag, and you can only imagine how frustrated he must be and probably wants to come home immediately. “We almost had it, Y/N; I just wanted a chance,” he says, his voice cracking. You imagine being there, pulling him into a hug, and whispering that everything will be ok like you always do. “Why don’t I make you your favorite comfort meal when you return? We’ll have movie nights like usual,” you suggested. You hear another bag being zipped up, and that is it. He was ready to come home. “Yeah, that would be nice.” You smile and refuse to bring up Magui’s situation because this moment is perfect, with no mention of her, just the two of you. “I wish you were here,” he mumbles. You softly smile, cherishing the way he says it. “Yeah, me too.”

Your best friend texts you that he has arrived back early in the morning and is getting some sleep. You smile, excited to see him because you haven’t seen him since he left for Qatar. Many of his teammates were disappointed that you weren’t there, and Georgina has called and threatened numerous times for you to be there, but you had to decline because of Magui. But it was a wrong call on your part because, in the end, she ended up leaving early. You weren’t sure why she wasn’t there for the last game, especially since the Quarter Final is so important, but whatever happened affected his gameplay. You know João more than he knows himself, and you sensed something was wrong with him. During the game, he was off so many times, and his mind was battling between the game and his personal life. Whenever that happens, it is because of his girlfriend, and that’s why his teammates don’t like her. Many of them have expressed their concerns for João because she was such a toxic person, but your best friend is stubborn; he does whatever he wants.

“Hey! Congrats on your game!” You said while making a list of groceries for your movie night. “Hey, hey! Thanks, bud!” Hakimi says, and you notice his kids and wife are in the background as he stables his phone on something. “Hey, how’s João Félix?” He asked, his voice hinting at curiosity and annoyance. “Oh, Ahum, he sounded fine when I spoke to him last night,” you mutter. Hakimi rolls his eyes and lays his head on the couch. “If he stays with her, he will be football's laughingstock.”

You awkwardly laughed, remembering that Hakimi knew your crush on João. It was a drunken mistake that happened during a karaoke night. You, Hakimi, his wife, and a couple of your other mutual friends were celebrating a promotion that ended up with you spilling your deepest secret. Luckily everyone was passed out, and only Hakimi was the only that remembered your words. At first, he teases you about the crush, but after seeing the pain that you go through because of the secret crush, he stops joking about it. “I just don’t understand what goes on in his mind. I mean, he has you around him all the time, and he still chases the one person that is bad for him.” You sighed, hating where the conversation was going. You don’t want people to pity you because you already pity yourself. After spending your entire life being João’s best friend, you’ve realized that you’ll never be anything but a best friend. “Just leave it, Hakimi; I’m sure he already feels like shit,” you mumbled. Hakimi gives you an apologetic look before he glances off somewhere and immediately smirks.

“Hey, my offer still stands, you know,” he said. You rolled your eyes, remembering his offer of setting you up with his best friend. You’ve declined several times, but apparently, his best friend was very persistent and really wants to meet you. “If I were to date someone else, it would have to be outside the football world,” you said, causing him to roll his eyes. “Come on, Y/N, just give him a chance. And I’m sure it’ll also get João Félix thinking,” he wiggles his eyebrows. You thought back to the time João was jealous, which was never since you’ve never been involved with any other guy, so it would be an exciting thing to do. “You know this is your only idea that doesn’t involve me getting sent to jail.” Hakimi gasped and dramatically placed his hand on his chest. “When I told you to teach Magui a lesson, I didn’t mean full-on murder; I meant sending her to a mental hospital because she needs one.” You roll your eyes and tear the sticky notes off and start grabbing your things to go out. “We’ll, Mr. Scandalous, I look forward to your match against Argentina! Good luck!”

You walked down the pasta aisle, trying not to eavesdrop on the people next to you. They mentioned João’s name, so it was pretty hard for you to ignore them. “I heard from a family friend that Magui is dating a soccer player from another team,” the shorter woman tries to whisper. “Poor João Félix, he’s going to end up ruining his career if he keeps involving himself with her.” You frown at the mention of your best friend's career getting damaged. He has to work his ass off to get where he is, so it would be a shame if his reputation gets ruined. “But isn’t João Félix also having an affair with another girl? I heard that Magui only started cheating after he was caught sleeping with his best friend.” You immediately froze, the can in your hand almost falling. It wasn’t news that people know João Félix has a female best friend, but they never speculate about your relationship further than that. João has mentioned several times to the media that you’re his childhood friend, nothing more than that. Eventually, it got old, and people didn’t care about it anymore and became invested in his other private life. “That’s fake news. Would he cheat on a gorgeous actress like Magui with a regular girl? He has standards.” Clenching the can in your hand, you slam it into your cart, causing the women to jump and turn to you. Without looking at them, you push away from them.

Breaking News: João Félix actress girlfriend Magui Corceiro confirms break up with the Portugal football star with an Instagram post of her and a mysterious man.

You read the article Hakimi sent you, eyes glued on the mysterious man. You know the man, who wasn’t mysterious, he was João’s long-time friend. You aren’t sure why she was doing this publicly, knowing damn well people would be judging and talking. Every time she gets caught, she makes an Instagram post denying everything, but this time it was apparent she intends to hurt him. Closing the article, you text Hakimi a shrugged emoji and a good luck text before focusing on making your best friend his comfort meal. By now, João must’ve seen the news and probably been getting numerous calls and texts from his nosy friends, but you know he won’t speak up because he doesn’t want to ruin her already ruined reputation.

Smiling at your preparation, you text João to come over. You’ve made his favorite pasta dish and have some refreshments for the movie nights. You’ve also tried to look good and were excited about seeing him again.

10:30 p.m

Breaking News: Chelsea star João Félix spotted leaving a restaurant with a model. The athlete was thought to be going through heartbreak after girlfriend was spotted clubbing and hanging out with another man, but he had a nice date with a new beauty. Is the Portugal football player finally moving on?

Staring at your phone, you see a couple of tears landing. The pasta you’ve made had been sitting for 3 hours, untouched. When he didn’t read the text or answer your calls, you assumed he turned his phone off due to the scandal. Still, after not hearing from him for two hours, you were scared that he might’ve done something stupid, but just as you were about to flee to his house, the paparazzi photos of him with a girl were everywhere on your newsfeed.

Embarrassed for yourself, you got up and threw the dishes away, and started cleaning up. Out of all the things he could’ve done to get revenge on his ex, he went with this. It was already enough that Magui tarnished his reputation, but he had to make everyone think he was as bad as her. João Félix could’ve told people that he was over this and focused on his career, but instead, he had to be trapped in a toxic relationship that would never leave unless he let go. And from the looks of it, he was not over his relationship with Magui; he wanted her to feel jealous, he wanted her to beg for him to come back, and he still wanted her. Despite being hurt repeatedly, he still wanted her and would never want you.

Slumping down on the cabinet, you hugged your knees and cried. You cried because years of unrequited love had expired, and you needed to move on. He was everything you ever wanted in a guy, and he deserves so much better, but he would never have that respect for himself. You’ve liked him the moment you laid eyes on him when you were 14 and loved him the moment he stood up to the bullies when you were 16. But sometimes you must let go; even if it tears you apart, you must let go.

20 missed calls from The Golden Boy

The Golden Boy: I’m sorry pick up.

The Golden Boy: Pick up please Y/N, I didn’t mean to not show up.

The Golden Boy: what can I do to make it up to you?

The Golden Boy: don’t do this please….

“Y/N! Open the door! It’s been two days; you have to speak to me!”

Rolling your eyes, you glance at the pounding door. João has been banging on your door for seven minutes now, and you’re sure the neighbors will call the cops, but what can you do? He has already ruined his reputation; he might as well go to jail. “Come on, don’t be childish!” Ignoring the remarks, you scroll through your Instagram, filled with nothing but João Félix and his new beau. “Fine, I’ll just have to call your parents,” he threatens. You frown and immediately stand up and head to the door. “Don’t you dare!” You screamed.

“Oh, she’s alive,” he sarcastically says, and you can imagine the smirk on his face. Rolling your eyes, you open the door to reveal your best friend in a hotass outfit. “Hey,” he smirks, but you walk off before you check him out further. “Why are you mad? Look, I forgot, ok?” He said. You aggressively turn around and glare at him, “Well, thanks, João; it makes me feel so much better that my best friend forgot that he made plans with me.” João glares at you, clearly disliking your attitude, as he leans on the wall. “You’re being dramatic. I went out with a girl; wouldn’t you do the same if your ex was fucking your friend?” Crossing your arms, you said, “no, because I would’ve left them when they did it in the first place!” João’s face immediately turned red, angry about your comment. You knew damn well that his insecurity was being cheated on, yet you slapped it in his face. “I don’t deserve your bitchy attitude,” he warns. That only made you angry because he has done much worst. “And I don’t deserve being stood up!”

João glares down at you, frustrated that you aren’t forgiving him like usual. He had stood you up many times before, and you’ve forgiven him every single time. It makes no sense why you would be upset with him all of a sudden. “Look, I’m the one that got cheated on like a piece of trash. I should be the one upset. You’ve told me numerous times to move on, yet you’re getting upset that I was out with someone last night? What kind of friend are you?” Taken aback by his sudden manipulation and no common sense, you frustratedly walk to the kitchen. “I spend so much time cooking for you so you could feel better, you asshole!” You screamed.

“I have been by your side since day one! How can you treat me like an invisible wall? How can you only come to me when you need me?” João stares down at you, upset with your sudden outbursts and confused about your questions. “As a friend, you should fucking understand where I’m coming from!” He yells, “you know how much I love Magui! And if fucking someone else takes the pain away, so be it!” Your eyes roam his, tears filling yours, and only anger was in his. “You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to ruin your reputation. Someone out there loves you with all of their heart.” João chuckles as he tilts his head back. “Who in this fuck up world could truly love me?”

You stare into his eyes as he stares intensely into yours. In a quick moment, the realization was finally sinking in, and his eyes went from anger to disbelief. “You don’t mean you-“ he pauses and straddles back. Rows of tears start flowing down while staring at him; all these years, he had never thought that you might love him or even thought of being with you. The disbelief and shock only show how little he thought of the chances of you two being together. And once again, he has broken your heart. “I need you to leave,” you mumbled, voice cracking along the way. “Y/N, I didn’t-“ you didn’t let him speak any further because you pushed him away from you. “OUT!”

You cried the rest of the day, embarrassed and disappointed in yourself for being so stupid. You’ve let yourself fall in love with your best friend who had never shown interest in you. João had always treated you as a friend, and you kept hoping he would change his mind or miraculously fall in love with you, but his heart belongs to someone else. And even if he were to accept your heart, his wouldn’t be yours fully. You were selfish to yourself and him, and you needed to move on, even if it meant losing him as a friend.

Wiping your tears, you open your message app and find Hakimi’s name. With a heavy heart, you decided it was time to move on.

1 month later

Breaking news: João Félix's best friend Y/N, who was once caught up in cheating allegations with him, has moved on. She was caught dining with PSG star Kylian Mbappé and was seen leaving the restaurant together, holding hands. Mbappé, best friend of teammate Hakimi, was seen cheering when Morocco beat Portugal in the quarter-final. Could Mbappé hang out with Y/N to add more fuel, or could this actually be a true romance?

Part II: https://www.tumblr.com/corriganatheart/712468039657996288/when-will-you-publish-the-next-part-of-if-he-was

#joão félix #joão felix #joão felix fanfic #joao felix #joao felix headcanons #joao #joao felix one shot #joao felix x reader #imagines #joão felix blurb #joão felix imagine #joão felix one shot #footballer imagine #football x reader #soccer x reader #soccer #world cup #fifa world cup #kylian imagines #kylian x you #kylian fanfic #portugal #chelsea football club #chelseafans #chelsea imagine #chelsea football team

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - Remember You and Me Part 5/8

This chapter = 🥳❤️‍🔥🤯

Summary - After a traffic accident reader is left with no memory of her life with Ruben, who desperately tries to get her to remember him.

Enjoy!

You were sitting in the kitchen staring blankly at your phone in disbelief. Your parents were on the other end, wishing you a happy birthday. Another thing you didn't remember, your own birthday.

"Happy birthday, honey!" Your mom chirped, oblivious to your mortification. "We hope you're having a wonderful day!"

"Thank you." You awkwardly mumbled. Just then Ruben entered the kitchen. He frowned at your paused expression. "What?"

You pointed at the phone. "It's my mom, she's wishing me a happy birthday."

Ruben perked up in suprise. Seems like you weren't the only one that had forgotten about it.

"I'll talk to you soon mom, bye for now." You hung up the phone and welcomed the silence between you and Ruben.

"So it's your birthday." He said.

You didn't blame him for forgetting. You had both been so busy trying to get back on track with your lives.

"It's my birthday." You shrugged.

"What would you like to do?"

You didn't get to answer Ruben's question before there was a knock on the door, somone letting themselves in.

"Surprise!" Rachel exclaimed. She entered the kitchen holding up a giant birthday balloon. "Guess what, I'm throwing you a birthday party tonight!"

You looked to Ruben, who looked equally puzzled.

"Rachel, how did you...?"

"Remember Y/N's birthday?" She turned to you. "He forgot, didn't he? Just like last year."

"Rachel, what are you..."

"I'm taking Y/N shopping for a dress to wear to tonight." She came around the kitchen island, grabbing your arm, forcing you to get up and out of your seat.

"But Rachel, Y/N need to..."

"She deserves a party Ruben."

Ruben was brought back by her stern tone.

"She's been through alot and deserves to be celebrated, right Y/N?"

You were lost for words. You wanted to turn to Ruben for answers but somthing told you that he would let you make the decision for yourself.

"I want a party."

"You do?" Ruben frowned.

You nodded.  "It might help with my memory."

"Great!" Rachel jolted, her red hair bouncing with her jumping. She continued to drag you out of the kitchen, out into the hallway and towards the front door. "Ruben, you meet us up at the penthouse at seven, I'm throwing the party there. Everything is already arranged, food, DJ, you name it. But can you please make sure to invite some of your teammates." She paused in the doorway. "But only the cute ones."

"Rachel I don't think..."

"Okay, bye!"

The door was slammed behind your back. Rachel drove a black BMW with tinted windows, but offered to roll yours down as you wanted to see where you were headed. She took you into the city, to the epicentrum of where the shopping was done in Manchester. You were going along with things that your nineteen year old self didn't agree with, like trying on promiscious lingerie and dresses that barely cut below your waist.

"Try this black one. I know Ruben loves a woman in black."

Rachel accompanied you into the fairly large dressing room.

"Have you been friends for a long time, you and Ruben?" You asked.

"Ever since he moved to England." She smiled.

"Well, where is he originally from?"

"Portugal." Rachel laughed. "Hasn't he told you that?"

"No."

"Well you guys must have a lot to catch up on, with your memory being lost and all."

You nodded. There was alot that you still didn't know about Ruben, like how you two met and how far into the relationship that he purposed to you.

"I should tell you..."

You met Rachel's eyes in the dressing room mirror. "Yes?"

"He and I used to date you know... before he met you."

"You and Ruben?"

She nodded, helping you pull up the zipper to your dress.

"Oh."

You were not sure how you were suppose to react.

"It was only for a short while though. A mistake, Ruben calls it."

"He said that?" You frowned. Didn't sound like somthing Ruben would say.

"Either way, he didn't want you to know about it before, about us. But I figured that with your memory loss and all, its better if we both get to know each other without the secrets this time."

"Agreed." You said, respecting her honesty.

"I think this is the one." She said, stepping back to admire the way you looked in your dress.

You turned in the mirror. The dress was a bit revealing but undoubtedly gorgeous on you. "I think so too." You smiled.

Arriving to Rachel's penthouse was a quest on its own. As soon as you stepped through the door a sea of well dressed people shouted 'Happy birthday!'

"Thank you everyone." You felt awkward and very timid. You recognized none of the people that tended the party, no one but Ruben.

"Happy birthday." He emerged through the crowd like the sun on a cloudy day, dressed in a suit and bowtie. In that moment you realized how much you depended on Ruben. Depended on him to protect you and keep you safe.

"Thank you " You said, hooking your arm with his.

"Champagne for the twenty five year old?"

Rachel appared by your side, offering you the flute.

"You probably shouldn't..."

You emptied the glass before Ruben could protest. Rachel laughed at the wrinkled face you pulled right after.

"Let her enjoy Ruben. You only live once, right?"

The alcohol hit you right away, clouding your mind. "Can I have a another one?" You asked.

"Of course!"

"No, Y/N. I think one is enough." Ruben tugged your arm, wanting to pull you aside to talk in private.

For some reason you fought against him.

"Relax Dias." Rachel said, stealing you away from him. "It's her birthday."

Ruben did not look pleased with you, not at all actually. There was an unsettling feeling within you, the fact that Ruben wanted to control you.

"I'll be fine." You assured.

Although Ruben looked to want to protest, a group of well dressed men ambushed him, looking to jump him. "Eyyy Ruby. Why the long face?" They taunted. "Cheer up mate, it's a party, no?" Ruben still had his eyes on you until Rachel had you follow her out onto the balchony. There she had a waiter bring you two shots of somthing strong.

"At least you're allowed to drink again." She shouted through the loud music.

"Wait, I wasn't allowed to drink before? By who, Ruben?"

Rachel nodded her head. "I know some women do it, but Ruben would never let you try."

"Why not?" You frowned. Your nineteen year old self would never allow a man to make that kind of decisions for you.

"I dunno that's the way he is." Rachel shrugged. "He cares about you alot, you know. More than he cared for me."

Perhaps he cared a bit too much, you thought.

"Wait for me here, I'm going to check on the cake." Rachel left you with a view of Manchester City. It was breath taking and oddly familiar. And then it came to you, in the flash of a memory...

"Will you merry me Y/N?" It was Ruben down on one knee. His back turned to the very view that you were overlooking right now.

"Yes Ruben. I'll merry you."

And as quick as it came to you, the memory suddenly passed, leaving you with a throbbing headache and a urgent sense to throw up.

"You alright, love?"

A man came to see you whilst you were emptying your stomach in the bathroom. He was tall, blond and had remarkably striking eyes.

"Don't tell me I'm suppose to remember you because I don't." You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

The man smiled. "I'll go get Ruben for you."

The room was spinning. You couldn't stay in the bathroom because of the smell. People, no, strangers passed you in the hallway, wishing you a happy birthday. You nodded and smiled but felt sick to your stomach. Just as you were starting to feel like you were going to suffocate under the weight of all the balloons and well-wishes, Ruben appeared by your side. "Hey, you okay? John told me that you weren't..." Ruben caught you, just when you thought you were about to fall.

"Ruben I don't feel so..."

"What is it Y/N?"

"My head." You groaned.

Ruben pinned you to his side, draping your arm over his shoulders for support. "I'm getting you out of here."

You left the penthouse in a rush. Ruben brought around the car and drove you home. You didn't even get to say goodbye to Rachel, nor thank her for throwing you a birthday party.

"I'll go get your medication."

Just like that you were back home. You and Ruben, in your big big house.

"Here take these." Ruben handed you a glass of water and three white pills.

He watched you put the pills in your mouth and you knew he wouldn't leave you alone until you swallowed them. You sat on the living room couch whilst Ruben stood pacing in front of you, back and forth, forth and back. He looked deep in thought, running a hand through his already messy hair. You guessed that he was upset with you but probably didn't want to shout at you.

"Did you have any thing more to drink...on the balchony, did you have anything more to drink?" His pacing came to an end.

You looked up at him and for some reason you wanted Ruben to complement your dress, or at least the way you looked in it. He didn't really pay attention to the way you looked.  Perhaps he wasn't that attracted to you anymore.

"Y/N please answer the question."

"Yes." You admitted. "I had two shots of somthing. Maybe vodka."

Ruben closed his eyes and sighed. "Y/N, didn't I tell you that one was enough. Look what happned to you, it means you're not ready to..."

"To what, have fun?" You hissed. It was the first time that you were vocal about your objections. "Ruben, I was celebrating my birthday, why was that such a big deal to you?"

His eyes searched your face, not sure where all of this was coming from, why you were suddenly not agreeing with him. "It wasn't." He muttered.

"Yes it was, just admit it. You didn't want me to go out today,  you wanted me to stay inside like I've done for the past three months."

"Y/N, I'm just trying to look out for you."

"Ruben, I don't know who I am. I don't know what I want. And I have absolutely no idea what you want. Everything is just so fucking confusing to me right now and your not helping when all you want to do is lock me inside this house." Tears streamed down your face. Ruben seemed to want to reach out and touch you but ultimately hesitated. Instead he collected himself and said. "I'm sorry Y/N. I never intended to make you feel locked in. And I don't want to prevent you from getting your old life back. I just..." He looked to his feet. "...I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

You saw it, the hurt in him, in his voice. He was suffering too.

"Ruben look at me." You rose from the couch, approaching him where he stood. Ruben lifted his chin to meet your eyes. Like your eyes his were glossy too. He was crying too.

You placed a hand against his cheek, caressing his stubble. "There is no way you can guarantee that I won't get hurt again. No one can. Just like I can't guarantee that you won't get hurt. But what we can do is stop being afraid of life. I want to live Ruben."

He nodded, the side of his face pressing against the palm of your hand.

"I want to live with you." You whispered.

"What?"

You nodded. "I remembered." You said, recalling what happened to you on the penthouse balchony. How the memory of you and Ruben flooded you with such strong and sudden emotions.

"W...what did you remember Y/N?"

You smiled. "The happiest day of my life."

Ruben caught your back as you stood on your toes. You didn't have to tip far before his lips collided with yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, moving on to tangle your hands into his hair.

"Ruben." You gasped. He was backing you up against the couch. "Let's go upstairs instead."

Ruben grunted in response, refusing to detach his lips from yours. How you even got to your bedroom, you had no idea. Ruben had you step out of your dress and lie down on the bed. You watched him toss his bowtie somewhere in the corner, moving on to slowly unbutton his shirt.

"Are you sure about this?" He asked, his bare chest seductive in the night light.

"Yes."

For the first time in a long time you felt certain about somthing, Ruben was the love of your life. The way your body wanted him, your insides screamed for you to keep him close and never let go. There could be no other explanation, Ruben was the one.

"Spread your legs for me."

You did what you were told, spreading your legs wide as you fell back against the matress. Ruben pushed his knee between your thighs, his body hovering over you.

"Take off your panties."

"Do you have a condom?"

Ruben bent down to kiss your belly. "No." He mumbled.

"No?" You brought yourself to rest on your elbows, watching Ruben trace wet kisses further down your body. The pleasure was immense. "Was I usually on birth control?" You asked.

Ruben raised his head to look at you, a slight crook in his brow. "Um...no." He answered. "You were....we were..."

"Ruben?"

He shook his head. "No, we weren't using condoms. We wanted to try for a baby so..."

Your lips parted in suprise. "Ruben, I'm so sorry."

He crawled towards you, collecting your face into the palm of his hands, kissing your mouth, your nose and the crook of your eye. "It's okay." He smiled. "I get that you want to use condoms now."

"But I used to want to try for a baby, no?"

He nodded.

The thought was hard to grasp, you and Ruben, having a baby.

"We don't have to do anything if you don't want to." Ruben was content enough to share a bed with you again, let alone hold and kiss you. You shifted to lay in a spoon,  Ruben's body cradling yours.

"I'm glad you remember us." He whispered, his voice laced with fatigue. "Just wait and see, there are many more happy memories to come back to you."

You said nothing, wondering if some of your memories were worth forgetting about. Like your desire to birth a child?

Tags list:

@christianpulisic10

@urmotheris

@magicalfundragon

#fanfiction #football imagine #ruben dias #man city #manchester city #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias imagine #footballer imagine #footballer x reader #football angst #john stones

[joelslegalwhre]

We love you too Mommy

pairing⁀➷ lando norris x fem!reader

word count⁀➷ 780 give or take

summary⁀➷ You visit your parents with Lando and your baby daughter

warnings⁀➷ parenthood, female reader, fluff, (good) relationship with parents, (this is not my best work, sorry lol), use of y/d/n (your daughter’s name)

a/n⁀➷ (tell me if I missed a warning pls!) This was one of the very first one shots l've ever written and it shows, sorry for the bad grammar...

Last week has been wonderful, you thought. Lando just came back from his race in Portugal so you decided to go for a little walk. Your little one was dressed in a cute Teddy Overall she got from Lando and the sun was shining through the trees. It was a bit cold but that's England.

"Are you ready to see Grandma?" you lifted your daughter out of her baby seat and she smiled at you like crazy.

Lando came around the car to help you get her out so you could get the diaper bag. He gave you a quick kiss on the lips before walking towards the door.

Once the doorbell of your parents' house rang, all three of you were welcomed with warm hugs and kisses. You haven't seen your parents in a few weeks due to Lando having two race weekends in a row, so they were really happy when the both of you called them.

"Hello, sweetheart." Your Mom took y/d/n into her arms after greeting you and Lando, and y/d/n giggled.

Your Dad was already deep in conversation with Lando and they were going to the living room while your Mom and you were still in the entrance.

"So, how have the last races been? I watched the one where.." you could hear your Dad talking to Lando. You giggled, he’d loved Lando ever since you two announced that you were dating and he enjoyed having 'a man to talk to', as he likes to say.

"Lando, do you know where the diaper bag is?" you shouted from the entrance. "I got it!" he shouted back as you went to the living room with your Mom, holding your daughter in your arms.

────────────────────────

You were nearly finished with having dinner when your Dad got a Newspaper from the couch table and gave it to you and Lando. "Have you two seen the article about you yet?" he asked. What?

"Uh, no we haven't." You said as Lando's face was equally confused as your own.

"Oh don't be scared, it's only positive things!" your Dad said to calm the two of you. You both had a look at the article he gave you. Two large pictures were covering the page with the headline saying;

"Lando Norris' girlfriend in cutest partner look with one-year-old daughter"

"So we weren't as alone as we thought we were." You chuckled. But to be honest, that article was cute. The picture showed you and Lando with your baby in the stroller.

It was shot when Lando told you about his last race and all that had happened.

Not that you haven't watched it, but it's always different when he tells you about it later. He was gesturing with one hand while the other was holding the stroller and y/d/n was looking up at you two from her seat. Your hands were buried in your teddy-like jacket.

The second picture was even cuter. Your daughter was smiling at you and Lando. Your heart melted by the look of that. These were the good sides of the press, they could be so rude and sometimes pretty annoying too, but whoever captured this moment really did a good job, you thought with a smile.

You and especially Lando ensured that your little girl wasn't in the media very often, but the press is part of dating Lando, part of your life as a family, and you just had to deal with them being everywhere. So having such a positive article was a nice break for both of you.

After dinner, you decided to split the work, so the men were bringing everything to the kitchen as well as entertaining your youngest family member, while you and your Mom did the things left to do in the kitchen.

"The picture is so cute, love. You can see how much she adores you two, you know." Your Mom smiled at you as you were cleaning the last dirty dishes. You could hear Lando and y/d/n giggle in the living room. "| do love them. So much." You said with a dreamy smile.

"We love you too, Mommy." You heard a whisper from the kitchen door. As you turned around, you could see Lando holding y/d/n in his arms, peeking through the door. She was smiling and giggling as they 'ran' towards you.

Lando gave you a kiss on the lips before he said "Very much. Especially me." He whispered the last part, pretending to not want your baby daughter to hear it. You just giggled and gave him another kiss. "I love you too, you Muppet." you whispered back with a chuckle, playing along with him.

༄ Don't copy, translate or republish any of my works on any app or other platform please. I only post my work on Tumblr and Wattpad.

Reblogs are always appreciated, they really make my day🧡

#mywork #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x f!reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #dad! lando norris #parenting #f1 x you #f1 x reader #formula one #formula one x reader #formula1 #mclaren #mclaren f1 #mclaren formula 1 #lando norris imagine #lando norris fic #joelslegalwhre's masterlist

[thebottomfromhell]

hey, i read your upper moons x goth reader headcanon and i was wondering that what if upper moons have female lolita reader ? Like she is wearing cute easthatic clothes

Ngl when I read the word "female lolita" I choked on the air, then I read further and I has like "ahhhhhhh victorian clothes". Anon, you almost gave me an attack (I've read the book).

Friendly reminder this freaks are in Taisho Japan, but most of are from Edo Japan, so they would have their own opinions about a style based on the Rococo French (bruh, France, Portugal, Spain and England colonizing the world is one of the reasons Japan closed their borders in Edo 😭, Japan ALWAYS hated outsiders, it is NOT a WWII thing).

How do the Uppermoon feel about your asthetic? Victorian inspired styled (lolita) Female Reader

Warnings: Slight infantilization (not sexual), Implied xenophobia (these are mostly japanese men from edo, like... c'mon.), Mentioned cross-dressing, Kokushibou being a grampa x2 and Akaza's implied angst (bit of spoilers of his backstory).

Gyutaro:

Ok, here is the thing.... it's too much. He can't even keep out with the amount of details your robes (are those even robes? He can't tell at all) are making him dizzy. Also, it looks expensive... and uncomfortable, even if he knows that is not relevant in the world of beauty. Isn't it a bit too tight on the waist? Why is the skirt so pompous? Is it not hard to walk with those? And don't get him starting with those shoes, he hates them. And it wasn't him... but Gyutaro threw afaw your make up, not feeling confident that it wasn't toxic (Daki's isn't any better, but she can stand it). "You don't like it?" You ask as you spin to show him your newest set of clothing, seeing he is not very enthusiastic about it.

Usually he would like anything that goes against Japan's beauty standard, but this is not too different to like nor similar enough to hate. And he really wants to like it, because you like it and dressing like that makes you happy. He knows that, and really wants to tell you he likes it, that he likes how you look (because he likes how happy you look), but in the end "Ne... fuck it, my taste is shit anyways, ne." Gyutaro is doing no compromises.

Gyokko:

Gyokko straights adores it. De details! The uniqueness! The details! The mix of empowerenment and innocence in the skirt! The tightness is perfect, showing your body shape better than any kimono, making your curves visible. Round and symetric, the perfection of the world in shapes but with way too flashy and uncharacteristic colours, make up to make your skin glow up, he can't help but get into it. He adores the dresses, and sometimes he is tempted in using a female canvas with one of those, it would look beautiful! Kitsch! Definetely the perfect complement for his arts.

"I know that is I give you one I won't be recieving it back, if you are going to wear it or make another girl wear it it's the same." You argue when he asks for some of your materials, the only thing you let him get away with are the hair accesories and jewelry, not because those are easy to find, but because the dress can get to be... too much, even for you, that you won't be missing them as much. Also, you can trust Gyokko to do your hair and make up, so you must be able to give him things that go from your neck to above, He is as supportive as he can be, being Gyokko.

Hantengu:

It's... intimidating, everything put together. The heels make you taller and make too much noise against the wood, the robe (it's... it's a robe, right? What do you mean it's not? Then what is it?) in the skirt takes up a lot of space, more than a kimono, but besides that, it's pretty. And it suits you because of it, since you are pretty. He doesn't know how to voice it, but it's something nice to look, even if it's not easy on the eyes because of the amount of details, it makes him feel tipsy.

Sometimes he halps you with your hair and make-up, he knows how to make ponytails and braids, and besides a clear base your make up it's not so hard to do (when his pulse is not working against him, of course). He is more than supportive, even if he doesn't find the words to describe it.

Sekido:

"So? What do you think?" You ask Sekido and... he just looks at you for 5 minutes straight, a face that clearly says "are you kidding?" as he then proceeds to examine what you wear. A new dress, like the other one, full of details and looking uncomfortable as fuck, besides that too many accesories for his liking, but... you do seem happy, and he knows you like expressing yourself that way. "Looks good." Better than anything Urogi and Karaku can pull, he tells himself, and you do look good.

As long as he doesn't have to wear himsef any of that, the make-up, the produced hair-styles, the gloves, the heels, the skirt... everything is too much. Honestly, if you give him any of those as a gift, or even just lending or trying it on him, then he will give it to Karaku to lose it and Urogi to destroy it. He will support you in whatever you want to wear, it's not his problem, he sees the beauty in it, but it's not for him.

Karaku:

Karaku thinks it's cute. Something about it screams "childish" and "indulging", the feeling of being down below and on top at the same time. He has heard foreign, the ones you buy all this expensive stuff from, the term "kitsch" to describe it, "bad taste". He likes it, so you should not be surprised when he starts stealing these dresses for you, enjoying how... "flashy" it is. The details, the heels, the weird sizes, the tightness in the waist and the curves? What it's not to like? And you look happy in those.

After a while he also starts stealing things for himself, barely using them, but every once in a while he likes to mess around with this type of clothing. It's not the most comfortable, specially since it was desighned to be for women (men's attire is completely different, and he finds it boring compared to the ones you use), it's just to cause trouble. To look pretty and, in his body, like a pervert. These are good laughs, even if you don't feel the sime, but you are glad he is vocal about liking your style.

Urogi:

Urogi adores it, he thinks it's unique. "I have never seen anything like this before." He comments as he takes away a piece of the hair accesories, pulling it and toying with it in his hands, wearong doesn't seem as nice as it would be to make a nest with it. You answer that it's mostly based from an old style from Europe, another continent, a concept you have to explain to him. Urogi gets curious and asks as much as how did you get these things and about the continent they come from, you have never been there so you answer as much as you can.

"It's weird to be able to trade with humans beyond the see, last time I check they were a possible menace and pest. Didn't the borders close in Edo because of them?" He tries to understand, but because he was alive in that time he is the one that should be explaining it to you. He seems more interest in the concept of being from outside than the look itself, but he does steal your things to build nests. Besides that, he is not that interested, and you can't trust him with your stuff (not even the make up, he ate it once).

Aizetsu:

Aizetsu thinks it looks... young... childish sometimes. That is not exactly a good thing. He knows you want to look cute, but... can't you at least wear something less indulgent? It looks expensive, and damn him if he doesn't feel melancholic when he sees the bill of those things you wear. (Leave it to the west, he swears they always battle to make things the most expensive they can, should have kept the borders closed). Also, it doesn't really look comfortable. with everything over it he can't tell you you are reaching to look like yourself or look how you would like to be seen, because it's too much effort to, everyday fix your hair, make up, wear clothes that are hard to walk and run with (and surrounded by demons, no less).

Aizetsu always thought it was sad how it was expected for women to "fix" themselves for their families, for their husbands, for their society, and he doesn't know what to think while seeing you. "So, what do you think?" You show him another set, he has been thinking into asking help from Karaku and Hantengu to get money (stealing it, what else?) so he can at least support you a bit, because no matter his thoughts on the matter, you seem happy in those dresses. "It looks fine." So he plays along (even if he thinks he is cuter when making sad puppy eyes than you with all those things, maybe that is why he doesn't understand the effort. He doesn't need it, why do you?)

Nakime:

"I'm not wearing any of that." Is the only thing Nakime said before leaving with her biwa to another room-dimension-floor-whatever after you came with another one of those dresses of that style you wear. You know, skirt at the lenght of the knee (at most), many details, tight on the waist, socks over the knee, hair accesories and make-up powder, but in black and grey, asking her her to wear it. You thought it would look cute on her, she didn't agree. Nakime... doesn't like it, it feels odd for her, too foreign for her liking, because she does like luxurious items, the hause has them, but she likes traditional luxury. This is... too European.

Also, Nakime feels is a bit... infantilizing in some point, so she would rather avoid the experience of wearing it at all. She has never shown or vocalized her dislike because in her view it has nothing to do with you, she doesn't like it, but you do. You can wear whatever you want, it's not her job to police you, but she is not even going to try it on, no matter how much you ask. Nakime can and will also compliment you from time to time, only to feed you confidence, but she is not more supportive than that.

Akaza:

He... feels weird about it, there is something that he doesn't like and he doesn't know- fuck it, Akaza knows exactly what he doesn't like, the fact that you, as a woman, are trying to dress more like you were younger, the lenght of the skirt is the one you would expect only in young children, he remembers Edo, he used to dress.... forget it , he did, the thing is, you are a young lady, why look like a child with all the pink and details and fragile looks like she had. She was sick, he had to take care of her. Why are you reminding him she was just a girl? A girl who dresses with pink, the patterns were not as flashy as they couldn't afford more, but he would have given her more. "Akaza?"

He looks at you are you where showing him another set and he zoomed out. He looks at you a bit lost before answering quickly "Yeah... yeah, it looks nice. Soft pink... it's nice." He wants to take care of you, but not in the usual way, he wants to fix you beddings and set you there and talk you to sleep, keeping awake as he looks down at you, hopefully soundly sleeping, waking you up from nighmares and comforting you after. To bring you food and check your temperature, not let you up. He doesn't understand it, why would he want to treat you like a child? He can't get it, so he can't like it. "It's nice."

Douma:

Douma likes it, it's knew, foreign. He doesn't have many outsiders as followers, five at most if he is not wrong, but his cult recieves them nonetheless. He must admit, just one had a style any remotely similar to yours, European, and he ended up killing that same follower. It was not personal, they were not liked around in general, carrying too much silly ideas of their own nation to accept the superiority of those in front of him, accusing Douma of being a demon, so he got silenced. Honestly, it's entertaining, the details, the shape, the make-up, the heels... it's all so outstanding.

Douma adores new things, new tastes, anything than can kill monotony and boredom. But besides that? He doesn't care. You can dress whatever you want and he couldn't care less, and once het gets used to this look then he will stop caring. His only interest is to see more of this foreign culture, and take a bite id he can. He will not point your looks out, mostly not wanting you to be berated for them, since it's hard to get along with Europe, it has always been, so you could say he is ignoring it.

Kokushibou:

So.... Kokushibou will not say an opinion... but he will. "It looks inappropriate." Really, the skirt is a bit short, showing from your knees to below or even more... you are a young lady, not a child, you should be covering properly. Women in his times did (we heard you gramps 😅). Also, the details are too much and it gives off the impression that you expend too much money on yourself (the proces really are not at your favor in that argument) and are seeking too much od spotlight, it defies what a proper lady should look like, with simple grace and humble wealth (as if that existed 😒), and he dislikes it. It does follow some of Japan's beauty standars, like the use of clear bases and make-up that doesn't fight your natural skin tone, so he doesn't hate it.

Still, while he has never told you how you should dress, he really doesn't like it. It's clearly a foreign style and, honestly? He is not impressed, it's clearly meant to be for those who lack the discipline of the Japanese traditions, meant to break the links with the ancestors and the values in simplicity. What else could he expect from outsiders? The fact that you use that... clothes only for the sake of indulging proves him right! (Yeah, yeah, go to sleep Kokushibou) So don't you dare including him in... this phase of yours. (... at least he is not fainting of horror 🤣).

#demon slayer #kny #upper moons #kny x reader #karaku #urogi #aizetsu #sekido #gyutaro #hantengu #gyokko #nakime #akaza #douma #kokushibou #seriously who invented the idea of “lolita” in japan? #Victorian rococo inspired people #My career is making me biased

[ask2pame]

regarding your rant on frances design: TELL ME ABOUT IT. tbh i think all the designs peaked with beautiful world, and everything after that was just...discount budget versions of whoever theyre supposed to be. the beautiful world designs are GORGEOUS on their own, but compared to world stars? theres no contest. some designs i do like, like england looks nice, if not a little too polished, and portugal is really cute, but everyone else just got twinkified and butchered. and i love a twink! i do! but they look like they could be swapped out with my little pony designs and it wouldnt make a difference. france to me will always be a blonde with a ponytail, a little unkempt, with chest hair and stubble and flamboyantly manly with a touch of tragedy. thats france to me. not whatever waif they cooked up in the more recent series

// ok ok i can't tell if u mean like ''oOOOh tell me about it' as a phrase or u actually are inviting me to tell you about it but i'm going to take it as permission to ramble <3 but im putting it under the cut so i dont spam

okok so UR SO RIGHT i think the new designs are so OFF... like it kinda lost the plot. the characters are all weirdly polished?

ok im just gonna run down the characters i have a lot of thoughts about CUZ my god

ENGLAND!!! its gotta be beautiful world

cuz the early seasons england gets his crankiness on point but this design fits just how cranky and posh(?) he is, like he dresses like an old man and wears outdated 'punk' fashion, he drinks tea like an old lady.. it fits hes cute and expressive.

this england isLOSING hair where did his EYEBROWS GO!!!! thats HIS WHOLE FUCKING CHARACTER but also i really dislike the change from him going from a dirty blond to a bleach blond... doesnt work...

i want my man to look like he has a nicotine addiction, rugged and smug as shit. i think they leaned too hard on the 'tsundere' trope for him cuz hes not puffy cheeks with pouty lips hes an old man with a laundry list of war crimes

-

ROMANO

ok. this one is a little hard cuz romano is good in ever season but he has these little minor changes that drive me CRAZY but my favorite will always be the earlier seasons

this ver of romano was a NASTY bitch he just showed up to be an asshole and i love it so much , i love his hair being dark brown with brown eyes ok , at the minimum his design fit his voice...

for beautiful world i think hes cute but i really don't ? like his eyes being green? like i dont know it just never felt right to me:( i like him having brown eyes

and later his design leans into the prev but when u look at him u don't see that one guy who REALLY doesn't wanna be here hes . too soft?

and the newer romano does have the bad attitude but now he's suffering from the 'progressively becoming a ginger' syndrome that a lot of hws characters have now

-

RUSSIA

my pick for him is all over the place bc i think his new design is SO FUCKING CUTE like i wanna bite him and crocodile death roll him but i think he is SUFFERING from cuteness.... hes so . soft?

earlier seasons of russia showed up just to say some morbid shit and be brutal as fuck but he could also lean into being cute, thats his whole gimmick, cute but scary. his current design is cute with no threat.

i think beautiful world had that balance between cute and scary, he was cute and say mean shit like before and was ready to throw down any time america showed up, thats his whole deal. and you know at the bare minimum he's supposed to be fucking BIG and world stars makes him look like a fucking twink

-

SPAIN

beautiful world was WORKING to make spain look good, he was ugly . he was boring. and then he walked in with a new tan and a warm hair color and the cutest smile (tho its hard to find pics of spain in these seasons cuz hes younger in a lot of them) and then it's just

what the hell happened here. i feel like im going insane but did his skin tone get ashy? like it looks more grey. and i know saying spain is 'tan' is generous but what the fuck happened. why did all his colors dull, why is his hair so . boring. where did the body mass go, where did the attitude go... world stars spain is very 'head empty' and not in a good way ....

-

CHINA

one of the most overlooked characters but i love him

i think my favorite ver of him is still his original cuz i preferred him with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes and he's side part... it was so cute... and they swapped it for a middle part .... </3

like he was so cute ;; plus i preferred him as this kinda irritable older know it all character, like he was groaning and huffing and did NOT want to be there. but then he kind of got? infantalized(?) i think they wanted him to be cute but idk if china is considered one of the ancient nations by its own rules, then can we tone down the :333 factor on him a bit

like just comparing but this might be me raise hands at hima for this characterization. what did you do to my boy

like do u see it. am i crazy

-

these bitches

these 4 just suffer from success in their OG and the beautiful world just made them way better (except i miss italy's darker hair </3) and then they just got handed bad animation in world stars

ok thats all i have time for rn BUT YEAH

#THANK YOU FOR TALKING TO ME ABOUT IT #I LOVE WHEN I GET TO RAMBLE ABOUT THEM CUZ I HAVE LIKE 2 HETALIA FRIENDS THAT I CAN TALK TO.... </3 #mun talks #ohh tumblr fucked up my formatting ....L

[bookishtheaterlover7]

Oh hello! I see that I was proven right once more...

Aren't y'all tired of predictable people, posting predictable things when their narrative is being shattered?

Well, let's unpack everything shall we? Gotta put this warning, riiiiight here

Much better!

Now to the fabulous part of the post that y'all came for!

Isn't it weird that they post two Portugal sightings and pics, just a few minutes apart?

Even better, Chris' teleportation powers are back 😆 he's so fast he was in LA and suddenly at Albitch's side!!!!

I honestly love these photos, because Chris suddenly looks so different from his more recent pics, where he's actually there...

What am I talking about?

Well, that outfit in the first pic is real OLD! So, technically they aren't lying about the pics being taken, and real. Just the time is definitely not at night, nor recently.

For the second pic, it's just hilarious! And I know y'all are sensitive about the whole "photoshopped/edited" thing but it's too easy, that it's so funny 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Here's what I mean...

The shirt Albitch is wearing, is the same one from her February 16 France trip.

And you can repeat outfits, but not with the days this close together... Is she back to being so poor she only has a few outfits for travel?

And also, Albitch's "husband" is a well known ass man.

So, why in the hell is a random guy putting his hand on her ass? A guy who most definitely isn't her husband?!

I'm not even going to mention the fact that she gave herself, Barbie proportions. She doesn't have the curves, so like everything, she has to fake it 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

And when did Chris' necklace turn black, and where did his glasses that, he can't live without go? Did he get lasik between Mass, LA, and Portugal?

Isn't that fun... 😌

Well, I'm tired now. Tired of staring at ANOTHER picture from the same tactic, from people still trying to prove this is legit. So, I'mma go, and enjoy REAL people.

And to prove how predictable they are, watch for the next one, another pap walk with rings in display, and another hand clutching, with a peck in the middle of some random street with the same outfits, that she doesn't have enough originality to make them her own.

Or maybe another blurry photo, with Albitch following them the next day, as if followers mean anything when you're hemorrhaging them every day, and losing money trying to keep up.

Lemme know if I forgot anything else. And like, I said, it's a rant post.

Until the next one!

❤️ Booky

#booky reacts #chris evans #chris evans fandom #booky's rant post #booky's thoughts #alba baptista #chris and alba pr #couldn't be more obvious if you tried. #you ain't selling shit

[applecrumbledore]

Happy WW! Question for this lovely Americana week: If you HAD to take the boys outside of America either on a quick job or to live for awhile, where would you make them go and why? I hate that we had that quick phone call with Bobby where Sam and Dean went abroad (Scotland, I think?) and we saw NONE of it! As much as I love my red-blooded American boys, I think we've been deprived of a great plot point!

hello!! what a great question thank you!!

the short answer: I'm Canadian and would love to see some Canada action, but the only canada-related plots in TV are hamfisted and cringe, so I can't imagine what spn would actually do with that that would be good

the long answer is a snippet from a fic I'll never publish that I KNOW I've posted on tumblr before but I can't figure out where, so I'm posting it again:

"You hung over?" Dean asked. Sam shrugged.

"Nah. Took some Advil."

"Good, good." Dean let a smile spread slowly over his face. "You, uh, really had a few."

"No more than you."

"You went on your little rant again."

Sam went still and looked over. Dean's smile was cranked up to a thousand watts.

"Which rant?" Sam asked carefully.

“You know which rant. Every time I get more than four drinks in you, you find a way to bring up moving to another country and telling people that we have the same last name because we’re married.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean saw his back get tight. He was embarrassed.

“Excuse me for finding creative solutions to the ongoing problem of dating my brother.”

"Have you considered not dating your brother?"

"Shut up, Dean."

Dean put his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands and made faces at him.

"This time it was Portugal. You said we could live in a seaside shack in Portugal. You were worried they weren't progressive enough, though. Then I said, if we want progressive, we're stuck with either California or Canada or maybe Oregon on a good day, and you said that wasn't far enough away, except maybe Canada."

"Would you please—"

"You know a surprising amount of Canadian lore, turns out. Have you been doing research? House hunting? I'm not moving to Canada, we'd never get guns again."

"Canada's too close," Sam grumbled. "Go away."

"Canada's big. And rural. Bet we can find a place backwards enough for our, uh, alternative lifestyle. But—"

"Alright, that's—"

"—I'd be willing to bet that any fucked-up commune that's down with the incest part would be extremely not down with the gay part—"

"Dean."

"—So maybe we'd just better keep being weird, violent hermits in Kansas for now."

"Are you done?" Sam asked, sounding physically pained. 

"Are those pancakes done?"

"If it'll shut you up, they are."

"Deal."

Sam took the plate of warmed pancakes out of the oven and all but threw it down in front of Dean, leaving him to get his own utensils and syrup.

Sam had been very excited about Portugal. Dean thought it was grossly sweet, but he wasn't about to miss an opportunity to rib Sam by doing something as stupid as agreeing with him out loud. He knew it would never happen, but thinking about it made his heart turn over; two matching silver rings tapping on the railing of a balcony, sun-bleached stucco and curtains fluttering in the hot wind. Drinking vinegary pilsners and driving along a winding coastline, two old American guys with omnipresent sunburns and no past. Sam with his hair in a ponytail, reading a book under a beach umbrella.

Dean blinked and shook his head as if clearing sun spots from his vision. Maybe Sam thought about that life while he was drunk, but Dean thought about it sober. He really, really tried not to dwell on that delta. It made everything less funny.

#roncillary #ronanswers