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shortythescreen · 4 years

Text

come over chapter 3: the party.

Warning(s): Dysfunctional family dynamics, Octavio’s parents being assholes, misuse of stim, kind of abrupt ending, fem reader, NSFT/18+.

Relationship(s): Octane/ Female Reader.

Author’s Notes: Last chapter you guys! Thank you so much for sticking with me through this. I’ve had so much fun writing come over and hope to write for Octane again soon <3

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3.

The rest of your ride to Psamathe is smooth. You and Octavio sip at that Aguardiente but about a half an hour before you two are due to arrive, you make him put it away. He protests, trying to tell you that in order to deal with his parents, you were going to need to be at least kind of buzzed. You two stash the drink anyway, drinking water all the way over, and Octavio eyes you up in the silence that follows.

Octavio probably could’ve given you head right after you finished with him but you were insistent about not looking sex ruffled – which would be a lot harder to hide with your hair fucked up, and that dress you’re wearing.

This is technically a job for you. He bats the thought away, trying to tell himself you came out as a friend. As your ship lands, though, and you lug your giant camera tote he told you that you didn’t need to bring out of the ship…

It’s not discouraging. There’s nothing to be discouraged about.

Which is what Octavio tells himself as you two approach his childhood home.

You react like most people do to the sight of where he grew up: your jaw drops, your eyes widen, and you take the time to look the manor up and down. Ma always complained she’d wanted a bigger mansion. Considering she and Pa had only had him, that had never made a lot of sense to Octavio. Their room was empty most of the time, let alone all the other ones that he or the housekeepers didn’t occupy.

“Holy shit,” you mumble to him and he offers you the crook of his elbow. You turn your head to look at him and blanch. Octavio stares at you, foot beginning to tap impatiently. “What are you doing?”

“Offering you my arm. You’re my plus one. This is what rich people do, amiga,” he tells you. He distinctly leaves out the fact that he had etiquette training from the time he could walk until he was thirteen and purposefully jumped off the top of the stairs mid-lesson. His arm was broken, and he was in a sling which meant he didn’t have to go through which spoon was the right one again.

“I forget you’re a rich person,” you say.

“Makes one of us. Take the arm, mami, c’mon, let’s get this over with.”

You raise an eyebrow at him but slide your hand into the crook of his elbow anyway. You two stroll up to the way too big, double doors of the mansion and a large man Octavio doesn’t recognize opens one of them.

Inside the foyer, there’s a line of men in black suits, clearly some kind of security detail. Your heels click across the porcelain floors and when he chances a sideways glance at you, he sees that you’re unable to flush your face of the awe written across it – the vaulted ceilings and the crystal chandelier glittering in your eyes. You turn your head, looking up at the portrait of him, and ma, and pa, and he tugs your arm a little closer, trying to take your attention off of the grim looking little boy he didn’t see himself in.

He turns his gaze ahead and instantly his arms tense. Mami stands in the threshold of the ballroom, eyes stabbing through his.

Last he’d seen her, she’d had the beginnings of grays at her temples. Predictably, she’s dyed it back to its original brown, and stands with her back poised straight, hands folded in front of her. When you two are close enough, her pinkened lips pull upwards, into a smile that shows her teeth but doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Mijito,” she says, opening her arms. She wraps them around him, and they press their cheeks together in a brief kiss. “This is your photographer?”

“Si mami,” he murmurs, using the hand you don’t have captive to gesture your way. He tells Mami your name and how every piece of media that’s come out of Apex’s headquarters has been yours. “She’s incredible at what she does.”

“I should hope so. We expect nothing but the best,” says Mami.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Silva,” you say, offering your hand out. Mami’s smile doesn’t fade but if it didn’t reach her eyes before, it definitely doesn’t now, anger flaring in them.

“Ms. Silva, cariña,” croons Mami, and Octavio cringes away from the way her voices oozes, thickened by sweetness she doesn’t truly have. “I divorced from Octavio’s father a long time ago.”

“Oh, I-” you begin, probably going to apologize for information he hadn’t given you. Octavio doesn’t want you to do that. As a matter of fact, he kind of wants his mom to apologize for looking at you so coldly when she hadn’t publicized her and Pa’s divorce to begin with. Octavio jumps in, cutting you off.

“She didn’t know, ma, back off,” he bites. Ma’s blazing eyes turn on him and he glares back. Before she can say more, Octavio is hauling you into the ballroom.

“She can set up in the corner, near the bay windows!” Ma calls after him in Spanish and Octavio’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t feel like playing translator for someone who speaks English just fine tonight, but he has a feeling she’s going to rope him back in, make him play the dutiful son just for talking back. The bar’s already set up and kitchen staff are putting out a long buffet table of food. In the corner that Ma said you could set up in, there’s a long drape rolled out with Silva Pharms logo all over it – in bright, stim green.

“Oc,” you say, catching his attention as you two pull up to where you’ll be stationed for a majority of the evening. The hand on the inside of his elbow squeezes and he turns his head to look at you, at the little furrow between your brows, at your other hand moving around to squeeze his. “Hey, it’s okay. Some people don’t like to even think about being married to someone they divorced. I get that.”

“You don’t know her like I do,” mutters Octavio. “She was a lot meaner than she seemed.”

“Well, I didn’t notice. So, it’s fine,” you say. Your hand encompasses his and he watches your tote fall to the crook of your elbow instead of your shoulder. You don’t try to adjust it though, focused on him, and that makes his shoulder relax as much as it makes his pulse rapid. “It’s okay, Oc, seriously. We just got here. No one’s here yet. Help me set up and then we’ll grab some food before your parents’ guests arrive, okay?”

That… Sounds like a good plan. Octavio tries to shake the nervous energy from his limbs, remind himself that at least you’re here, but he can’t quite get rid of it. He feels like a dog backed into a corner by handlers with sticks but instead of beating him, none of them are moving.

To take his mind off it, he rapidly puts together your camera. You scold him several times, reminding him to be careful with your equipment.

“Octavio, you have to screw that in, not push it-”

“I knew that!”

“You did not!”

Octavio only cackles when you tell him the right way to set up your camera, but he does do it the way you tell him to. Once your camera is put together and placed on its little trifold, you and Octavio meander over to the buffet.

Whoever Ma hired to cater (because Ma always does all the organizing for these things; Pa just shows up) likes colorful dishes, bright blue and reds staring up at you two. There’s some leviathan meat in the corner that Octavio will definitely getting his hands on before the night is over, cooked medium rare with some kind of garlic and herb butter spread over it, the juice pooling in the plate beneath. More important than that though is finding the chicharron that Octavio knows is here.

It only takes him a minute to pull up the rind, with large, square knots of pork along it. He grins at you, coming closer, the meat recklessly flopping with every step.

“You gotta try this,” he says as you bend over the other edge, eyeballing what he’s pretty sure is some kind of cheesecake, placed just beneath the chocolate fountain. You twist around with an empty plate, hovering it just beneath the chicharron before it can drip onto the floor.

“You need a plate,” you reply and Octavio snickers. Despite your words, you lean in, biting the edge of one of the protruding cubes of pork. You sigh at the taste and Octavio grins, showing all his teeth. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, baby!”

You and Octavio eat before the guests arrive and as people begin to filter into the ballroom, you take your place at the corner where you’ll be taking pictures. Octavio isn’t too far away, pacing the big, empty space just beside the tarp with all the Silva Pharm logos. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until someone he doesn’t recognize comes up to him, laughing about how Octane can never sit still, huh?

Octavio smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he agrees. That’s one of the things he’s always hated about these stupid fundraisers or events or whatever the hell this thing is. He usually doesn’t know half the people there, or even a quarter, and they all walk up to him like they know him. Even more so now that he’s made Octane.

“Octavio,” someone says, and he glances up to see his Ma fast approaching. She doesn’t look angry, though. Maybe a little annoyed but Octavio has learned that she always looks like that, one side of her mouth pulled up a little further than the other, brows low on her face. At least, she always looks that way around him. “Come and say hello, the photographer isn’t going anywhere.”

Octavio sputters, though Ma places her hand on the inside of his elbow and without thinking, Octavio bends his arm to meet her. Octavio doesn’t think a lot anyway, but it feels like a low blow to use you to make his brain work a little less. He glances back at you, standing with your back straight, waiting for someone to come get their photo op. You smile at him. He smirks back.

It makes sense that mostly old people invest in a pharmaceutical company but that doesn’t mean Octavio doesn’t find them totally, completely boring. They talk about things like their most recent vacations, or something silly their butlers did, and Ma laughs along, placing a hand over her chest as though these stories are the funniest things she’s ever heard.

Maybe they are. Octavio wouldn’t know. He stopped finding the staff’s misfortune funny around the time Señora Luz told Pa she was pregnant, and she suddenly didn’t have a job anymore. He wasn’t allowed to open the door for her either.

Ajay’s parents approach and Mami greets them warmly, pulling them into big hugs and giving them kisses on each cheek. On principle alone, Octavio is a little less familiar, waving their way, and they all laugh about how they’d never known him to be shy.

They didn’t know the first thing about him anyway.

“Oh, but where is his blazer?” Ajay’s mom asks and Octavio grunts. Ma turns her cold eyes back to him, calculatingly sizing him up. She must not have noticed when he walked in that he wasn’t wearing one. He’d almost gotten away with it, too.

“It’s so hot in here, don’t you think?” Ma smoothly covers and Octavio taps his fingers soundlessly against his thigh. He’ll hear about it later.

Octavio finds himself getting restless. His fingers itch and his toes curl in his overpriced shoes. He wants to run. Maybe even turn and jump out the bay window. Or go out back and see if Ma still has horses on this property or if she finally got sick of the memories of Pa in these halls.

He glances your way, finding you hunched over your camera. The couple at the other end of it smiles and you snap three shots, back to back. He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between them, but you’d know if the angles were different, or if one had flash and another didn’t. When they walk off, you stand upright and catch his eye.

Your wink sends a powerful burst of something through his chest. It makes his blood pump faster but also makes his shoulders relax and fuck. He’s so, totally fucked. You’re the one thing keeping him from doing something stupid. Which means he’s fucked.

“Mijo,” he hears, though this time it isn’t Ma, and Octavio curses to himself. Yeah. He’s fucked.

He turns, not bothering to paste on a smile. If nothing else, amongst themselves, the Silva’s aren’t fake. Ma is busy with the Ches and a group of people that like to laugh at other people’s expense. Octavio hasn’t seen his Pa in awhile but he looks just like Octavio remembers – his thick eyebrows are trimmed, arched like he’d spent way too much time having someone do them, his dark hair graying at the edges. Unlike Ma, he doesn’t dye it though, claiming the silver makes him look more refined, that his most recent wife likes him gray. He’s surprised she’s not clinging to his arm, in something way too tight and tiny that would piss Ma off if she saw it.

“Where’s Gloria?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Gloria’s young, grossly so, closer to Octavio in age than Pa. She’s nice, though, and last Octavio heard, she and Pa’s marriage was going swimmingly.

“Who knows?” Pa asks back and Octavio subtly rolls his eyes. Leave it to Pa not to know where his wife is. He doesn’t outright berate her though, which means they must still be together, so she’s somewhere around here. Octavio should say hi. He’d be happier to see her than Pa, or Ma. “You look nice tonight, hijo. Thank you for bringing a photographer – you know your Mama won’t let anyone I hire work.”

Octavio does not know that and doesn’t really care to, but he nods along anyway. His eyes keep flickering over to you, eager to go make stupid faces in the background of your pictures or tickle your sides so that you lose focus.

“Ah, I see,” Papa says. Irritated, Octavio turns his gaze back to him.

“You see what?” He asks.

“You’re fucking her?” Papa asks and Octavio feels his shoulders jump up to his ears. His whole body braces, like he’s about to jam stim into his thigh, like he’s about to take off in the middle of a firefight.

“What the fuck, papa?” He hisses back, not even realizing they’ve switched to Spanish until a second after he’s speaking it. “Why would you ask me something like that?”

“C’mon, son, you wouldn’t be the first one to fuck the help,” sniffs Papa, and the way he says help makes Octavio bristle all over. “It’s okay. She’s cute!”

“That’s none of your business,” seethes Octavio, practically baring his teeth. “Don’t compare her to Luz. This is different.”

“Luz? I wasn’t talking about Luz,” says Papa. Then, his eyes narrow, and he looks a little bit more hostile, stepping into Octavio’s space. “What do you mean different? Octavio, did you get her pregnant? You know we can’t afford that kind of a scandal-”

“Oc!” You suddenly chime from his right and he and Papa both jump. He spins to face you and you look at him, bug eyed, hands risen like you’re trying to declare a cease fire. “-Tane. Octane. Buddy. Some people are asking you for a photo-op… Am I, uh, interrupting something?”

“No, no, not at all, sweetheart,” Papa says, moving forward to introduce himself. Somehow, it’s worse than Mami not doing it at all, especially with the sweet smile you give him as you shake hands. “Go, Octane. The people want you. Here, take a vial with you, get into character.”

Pa hands him a vial of stim and Octavio’s fingers close tightly around it, knuckles white with frustration. You jam your hand into the crook of Octavio’s arm and drag him away. He’s still fuming, hot all over with his rage, and you move a little closer to him as you guys stroll across the ballroom.

“You okay? That looked kind of heated,” you say, and Octavio looks down at you, doing his best not to fixate all that fury on you.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s-it’s fine- did someone really want a photo-op or did you just sneak me out?” He asks, realizing that you must’ve seen that something was going on between he and his papa. The sheepish smile that tugs your lips confirms it. Octavio laughs, trying not to bend at the waist so he can keep walking. “Bad girl.”

“Sorry,” you say, but Octavio kind of wants to kiss you for it, “but I can keep you for a little while with that photo-op thing. These people won’t turn it down.”

Okay, yeah, Octavio really wants to kiss you. Not only did you save him from an exchange with pa (about you, but he pushes that part to the back of his mind), you’re now offering to keep him from him indefinitely.

“You’re the best,” murmurs Octavio. His lips barely brush your ear and he doesn’t miss the little stutter of your breath. Oh yeah. He’s definitely going to repay you for earlier on the ride back to the Apex City.

Octavio lines up and that really seems to get people wanting to come over for pictures. Two old men he doesn’t recognize give him a cigar and he wedges it and the stim vial between his teeth, pointing at the camera with two of them. When a woman walks up, he dips her low, cackling while she swoons. More people come and Octavio makes stupid faces at the camera, even getting one old timer to throw up horns with him. You make the shoot fun and for once, he thinks he might have to pat Ajay on the back. Or apologize for lying. Maybe both.

“Mijito,” Octavio hears in the middle of another picture with two women. One has her hands on his chest, her leg swept up, and the other presses against his back while he holds up his arms in some silly superman pose. He peers over the head of the one in front of him, seeing not only Mami, but Pa standing at the very edge of the tarp. Fuck.

The picture’s taken and you lift yourself from behind the camera, glancing between him and his parents. He shoos away the two women, who thank him for the time and then swarm you to get a look at the picture. You fumble with your camera, clearly preoccupied with making sure his mami doesn’t bite his head off. With no other option, your gaze turns to the photos, and Octavio tries his best to keep his chin held high as he walks over to his parents.

“Your papa has told me something interesting,” says Mami first. Octavio’s jaw clenches and whatever tension he’d been accumulating earlier returns full force. The urge to run or fight hits him hard but he stands his ground. “Is that photographer pregnant?”

“No,” groans Octavio, reaching up to scrub at his face. “God, what is wrong with you two? Why is it if I look at someone you have to tell me to not get them pregnant? Or assume I will?”

“You haven’t been responsible with anything else. Why would we expect you to be responsible with sex?” Mami demands. If he weren’t already seething, Octavio might be embarrassed at this conversation. He is, though.

“I was responsible with Navi. And with every other pet you got me. And with my stim. I’m here, aren’t I?” He growls out and Mami holds up a finger instantly, drawing a little closer to try and hide the look she’s giving him.

“Don’t speak to your mother that way.” Pa says and Octavio whips his head to look at him, instead of his mother’s icy glare.

“What way? I’m just telling her the truth. I’m here when I didn’t want to be. I brought you guys a photographer,” growls Octavio.

“For no one else’s benefit but your own,” hisses Mami, “I should’ve known you wouldn’t do something like this without an ulterior motive. Does she have something on you Octavio? Is that why you brought her here?”

“No! She’s a good photographer and I needed someone other than you two here!” Octavio snaps, the words rolling off like venom and Mami’s chin tilts down, eyes flashing.

“Oh, of course, bringing a chew toy to a PR event must make you feel so much better,” Mami scoffs. He reaches up, pushing a hand through his brightly colored mohawk, nostrils flaring.

“Don’t talk about her like that,”

“I’ll talk about whoever I want however I want, and-”

“Not her!”

“God, you are just like your father, Octavio. We cannot afford to have you in trouble with the Games, and certainly not for some-”

“Ma, I’m not doing this with you. I’m here, I’m promoting Silva, and unless you want me to leave, you will not speak about her the way I know you were just about to. You will not.” Octavio outright barks and this seems to draw the attention of those strolling by them. Mami’s face slackens, her eyes flashing. In them, in the clench of her jaw, the curl of her fist, he sees something. Something like recognition.

He doesn’t care, too busy fuming about the fact they’re even having this stupid fucking argument. Octavio barely notices Pa, standing off to the side, looking as useless as he always does when he and Mami argue, or the short, porky man that hurries up to Mami’s left.

“Excuse me, Señora Silva,” the butler says, cutting their staring contest short. “There’s something requiring your attention in the kitchen. A wine shipment hasn’t arrived?”

“Hijo de gran puta,” snarls Mami, throwing her hands up. She turns away from his glower and it feels good to have won one of those standoffs. Even if it was technically a foul. Mami stomps into the distance and that leaves Octavio and Pa.

“Son, you know it’s not a good idea to-” begins Pa, but Octavio doesn’t let him finish. He hates when he does things that remind him of Mami but he turns away from him anyway, looking out at the rest of the ballroom as though he’d just gotten into an argument with everyone in it. He wants to run. He wants to jam the stim into his thigh and carry himself all the way back to the ship port, maybe roll in some mud to get this stupid crisp button up dirty. He wants to-

“Hey,” your voice chimes gently. He feels your fingers on his cheek and you turn his head, making him look at you. Your face is soft, and vulnerable, and open, and he’s so fucked. “C’mon. Show me to the bathroom.”

Octavio snorts. He offers you his elbow, but you don’t take it, instead interlocking your fingers and pulling him towards the exit. He notices your camera is still set up on the way out, but you’ve draped something over it to signify your booth is closed for a little while. Realizing he’s supposed to be taking you somewhere, Octavio pulls you up the stairs, down the hall, and into one of the many rooms of his childhood.

Being the son of preoccupied billionaires with too much on their plates to bother handling a rambunctious little boy, Octavio had a lot of rooms growing up. He had a game room, and a homework room (which was supposed to function as an office, when he got old enough to take over some of Silva Pharms mountains of paperwork). This room was always his favorite though. He slept in it most nights and even when he moved out, he hadn’t changed anything about it.

The full-sized mattress in the corner has racecar sheets. Octavio can’t drive for shit, but he always liked to watch old movies when it was common for everyone to use cars. The noises of engines rumbling with motor oil, of rubber on pavement… When he was a little boy, he told Luz he wanted to be a race car driver when he grew up. She laughed but on every holiday from then on out, she bought him a model race car.

All of them are lined up on the very top of a shelf, which has a bright red racing strip painted down the side. He’s got posters of old Nascar drivers on the wall, people who have been dead for centuries but who got to do super cool, fun things. Who sometimes even wrecked their cars.

“Hope you didn’t actually need the bathroom,” mutters Octavio, locking the bedroom door.

“What if I did?” You ask. He looks over his shoulder at you, checking to see if you’re serious, only to see you lounging on the edge of his mattress, peering around the room.

“Your room’s really cute,” you say, and Octavio snorts as he joins you, collapsing onto his old bed. It was way too big for him as a little kid, and even now as a young man, his slight frame doesn’t take up much of the larger beds offered to him. “Who even likes cars anymore? No one drives them.”

“We have a Bugatti in the garage.”

“Of course you do.” You two sit in silence for a while, the sounds of the party downstairs just barely reaching you. “So… you wanna talk about it?”

Not really. Talking about it means telling you what it was that got him and his parents into an argument in the first place. “My parents are just… The worst.”

“I got that.” You say. He glances your way, appraising you, and you hold your hands up. “Hey, we call them like we see them here.”

“They just, um.” Octavio frowns. Should he tell you? He feels like he shouldn’t. “My dad kind of saw me looking at you and asked if we were fucking.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you says anything, unsure of how to proceed. Octavio’s knee begins to jiggle, and he huffs out a big breath, dragging a hand down his face.

“I told him it was none of his business, so I guess he decided to tell my mom. Which was… What that was about,” explains Octavio, waving his hand noncommittally. “They thought you were pregnant.”

“Ouch,” you say, and Octavio giggles. He peers over at you and you’re smiling, eyes soft, shining in the low light from his stupid race car lamp. Your make up has smudged a little, the vermillion on your lips mostly gone after you two had your share of food. Yet he can still see the remnants of it, especially as he sees the little upwards curve of your lips.

Fuck.

Without thinking, Octavio reaches up, hand cupping the back of your neck so he can haul you into a kiss, trying to take the remnants of that pretty red you’d been wearing. You go willingly, matching his vigor, his speed, and that’s one of the things he loves about you. One of the things that’s been driving him crazy, keeping him up until ungodly hours as he tries to figure how someone could affect him this way. You always keep up, even if you’re not ready to run into the line of fire.

You rest your hand on his chest, tilting your head, and Octavio instantly wedges his tongue between your lips. You part them readily and you still kind of taste like whatever chocolatey something or other you’d gotten your hands on earlier. His other hand settles on your hip, and he wants to pull you on top so badly, wants you to scream so loudly that they know what’s going on downstairs. He wants you to look at him like you just were but maybe forever.

He wants to tell you. He wants to tell you what he said to you that night, what’s had him so bugged out. The thought alone feels like a rush.

You pull away from him pressing kisses across the taut flesh of his jaw. He sighs, head moving away, and your teeth clink against the black studs he has in his ear lobes. His blood pumps in his veins, the hand on your neck gliding down the length of your spine.

“Te adoro,” he murmurs between kisses. You pause, pulling away to meet his eyes. Your hair tickles his cheeks and he reaches up, tucking it behind your ear. “Eres en mi vida todo mi tesoro.”

“What?”

“Quiero decirte. Pero tengo miedo,” continues Octavio, fingers slipping into your hair. He tugs you down, catching your lower lip between his teeth, and you shudder in his grasp. You’re half on top of him, your body hot, your mouth swollen, and he wants. “No quiero perderte.”

“Oc, I don’t understand,” you breathe. Rather than telling you, though, he kisses you hard, lips moving across yours, and you melt into his arms.

“Jesús,” groans Octavio as his hand slides beneath the high cut on the side of your dress. He grabs at your panties, trying to yank them down your thighs. The twist of your torso to lean over him makes it hard. “Get those things off.”

“What did you say?” You huff out, though you obediently rise, dragging your panties down.

Rather than answering you, Octavio grabs you by the waist, pulling you back on top of him. He doesn’t stop you at his cock, though, half hard and tightening his pants. Instead, he helps you up, hooking your legs beneath his shoulders, your thighs on either side of his head and you whine, burying your fingers into his soft hair as you realize what he’s doing.

His hands travel up your naked thighs, to your ass, gripping it tightly. He looks up at you, at the dark look in your eyes as you pull the fabric of your dress aside, spreading your legs wider, clit even closer to his mouth. He huffs a breath against your cunt, damp but not wet, and his cock demands that he rectifies that right now.

With no further warning, Octavio’s mouth finds the shape of your cunt, molding against it, wetly kissing the pretty pink flesh. You quietly gasp, fingers wrinkling your dress, and he swipes at your slit with gentle flicks of his tongue, letting the musky taste of you linger on his lips.

That doesn’t feel right, though, not for the urgency at which he feels the need to move, so he flattens his tongue, sliding it through your slickening folds and up to your clit, slowly peeking out. The minute he feels it, firm and juicy and wet beneath his tongue, he sucks it between his lips.

The unhinged moan you let out is only emphasized by how you tighten your grip on his hair. You try to spread your legs further and Octavio fingers dig into the pillowy flesh of your ass. Octavio helps you fuck your clit against his tongue, using his grip to make you grind against him, and the moan that leaves you sends a painful jolt to his dick.

His eyes flutter briefly open and if he wasn’t hard before, he is now, Dios. Your hair frames your warmed face beautifully, mouth open to heave in desperate little pants. Your clit is needy, twitching against his tongue, and your hands are fisted into the fabric of your dress, partly for leverage and partly to give him access to you.

His tongue slips down to your hole, the tip of it pushing, pressing it apart to gather up even more of your taste. You shudder above him, trying to roll your hips forward, and Octavio quickly takes the hint. His tongue moves back up to your clit, flicking back and forth, moving swiftly, and he feels your thighs tense, ass cheeks clenching in his hands.

“Oh, Oc, don’t stop,” you whimper, and he sucks as you thrust forward, uncaring of the way his chin drips with you. He’s going to smell like pussy. “God, right there, right there, Octavio, yes, yes, yesyesyes-”

You cum with a noiseless gush and Octavio groans at the sensation of your juice trailing down his chin. He doesn’t care that you slacken in his grip, that he’s momentarily suffocated by your cunt, just wants you to grind against his face as much as you can, try to ride out that orgasm you just had. You shudder, pushing at his head. Octavio pulls away, letting you scoot back down the length of him. The second he can reach you he kisses you, open mouthed and dirty, letting you taste the salty cum on his lips.

“Fuck.”

“Si, I’m trying,” he says, pressing your hips against his slacks. The noise that leaves you is half laugh, half moan, your clit hypersensitive against the fabric. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Yes,” you say, “please, yes. Yes, let’s fuck.”

“Yes, good, okay,” Octavio babbles. He taps your ass with two fingers. As you roll off, he undoes his belt, tossing it to the side. He unzips his pants, thumbs hooking into the waistband, only to find you reaching down to help him. He raises his eyebrows up at you and you smirk, seemingly having caught your second wind. “Si?”

“Si?” You taunt, reaching down to tug his pants down. You only pull them just enough that his cock can spring out, erect from eating you out, and you sigh at the sight of it.

He grins, trying to scoot his pants down a little more, only to pause at the sensation of something cool in his pocket. You climb on top of him, parting your dress again, and he watches you carefully.

With one hand, Octavio rolls that sweetheart neckline down your shoulders, to your elbows. It puts you in an odd position, unable to move your hands, but your tits fall out and, fuck, if that isn’t the sexiest shit he’s seen.

“I’m gonna ride you.”

“Oh, I thought you were sleeping.”

You snort. Unable to move your arms, your dress caught around your biceps, Octavio has to reach down to position his dick beneath your wet cunt. It opens beautifully for him as he drags the blunt tip along your lips, drenched with your earlier orgasm, and when it bumps your clit you jolt. Finally, gratefully, he finds your hole, and without further teasing, you sink all the way down onto him.

Your mouth falls open and you both groan in unison. Octavio’s thighs clench, trembling, because it’s only been a few hours since he’s cum and he’s not sure how much it will take for him to do it again. You feel so good, though, your pussy pulling him in.

“God, Oc,” you groan, falling forward, and your hands find purchase on his firm abdomen, tits squishing together as your index fingers touch. Before he can say something back, you’re moving, breasts jiggling with every bounce of your hips.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he whines, tips of his fingers digging into your thigh, and he’s pretty sure you can feel his pulse thumping through his dick. He bucks up into you, making your tits bounce harder, and you gasp as the tip of his cock thumps against something that feels different than the rest. “God, there?”

“There,” you moan back. As your eyes flutter shut, he slowly, carefully, pulls the neon green vial from his pocket. You’re lost in your own bliss, only sliding halfway up his cock. He waits, waits for your eyes to flutter open and when you finally look at him again, eyes heady and dark with lust, he jams the stim into his thighs.

Your jaw falls open, eyes widening as his veins bulge green, eyes brightening. He grins, wolfish, heart pounding. In the games, the stim makes him want to run, to shoot something. Now, all it does is make him eager to fuck you harder, faster, faster, faster.

The vial rolls out of his hand and he seizes your hips, holding you in place. You whine, desperate and he’s quick to oblige you. He thrusts up, cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur, tirelessly fucking you from the bottom, his thighs tensing at the tight squeeze of your walls on his cock.

The soft hair around his cock is already slick with you, worsening as he fucked into you with all the energy he saves for the ring, saves for when he’s Octane. Your chin drops against your chest, and he devours you with his eyes. He catches the way your teeth sink painfully into your lower lip and something primal comes over him, an animalism for your noises to overpower the ones from the party downstairs.

One of his hands shoots to your stomach, thumb blurring down to your clit. He fondles the hard, wet nub, and groans at the sensation of your pussy muscles clenching hard around his throbbing cock.

You borderline scream, trying your best to smother it with a scramble of your hand. It doesn’t help, the noise choppy with every powerful thrust of his hips into your cherry red cunt.

“Oh! Octavio! Oc!” You cry, the fingers of your opposite hand digging into his button up, grasping for purchase. He doesn’t know whether you lose your balance or just can’t keep yourself upright, but you plummet into his chest. He doesn’t flinch, just uses the angle to fuck you down the length of him, panting into your ear. Your pussy makes wet noises as he pounds you down onto his cock, tongue flickering out over your ear.

“What did you say?” You suddenly whine. It startles him and his rhythm stutters with his surprise, breath hitching in his throat. He holds it until he’s lightheaded, staring past your head at the ceiling. You weakly grind against his cock and he realizes he’s practically stopped moving, body only moving because of the stim being force through his veins like adrenaline.

“Oc,” you huff out, turning to press your brow against his throat. He can feel his pulse hammering in his jugular and he can’t tell if it’s because of the stim or because of you. “Please.”

Octavio abruptly sits up beneath you. His hands wrap tight around your waist, lips placing wet, open mouthed kisses along your collarbones.

“Te amo,” he murmurs into your skin, lowly, like maybe you won’t hear him if he speaks quietly enough. Recognition flashes in your face. The arms of your dress slide back up your shoulders as you suddenly wrap your arms around his shoulders You use him for leverage to lift yourself up and down his cock, your wet cunt squeezing, hugging. Sloppy noises make their way out and he vaguely recognizes that his pants are going to be ruined.

“Say it so I can understand you,” you demand and he’s helpless, a slave to your desires, every sweet roll of your hips sending bolts of lightening through his gut. He grunts, fingers digging into your lower back.

“Fuck,” he hisses and you twist your head, biting into his throat. He moans, the noise low, strangled, drawn out as you continue to raise and drop your hips, only moving part way up his dick as you do. “Fuck, fuck, baby, porfa, I need-”

“Say it!” You gasp, the friction of his pubic bone against your clit sending you into a frenzy, making you use your grip on his shoulders to raise yourself up higher, until only the tip is inside. Your thighs work to keep you up but you slam back down and Octavio shudders.

“I love you,” he finally whispers, and you turn your head into his hair, wailing near his ear. He whimpers at the noise, trying to roll up. In this position, though, he’s at your mercy, and you fuck yourself onto him once, twice, three more times until you’re shaking into a wetter, softer orgasm.

He hisses at the sensation, at how your cunt clutches him, trying to keep him inside even as you continue to drag your body along his dick. He presses his face to the space between your breasts, smelling your sweat, and your perfume, and he pulls you all the way down so you’re sitting on the very base of his cock, rocking you along it. Almost there, right there, yes, mierda, so good…

“Fuck,” he hisses out loud as he cums. It’s weaker than the one in the ship, little spurts gushing out of him instead of erupting. He keeps his forehead on your chest, catching his breath, your cheek resting on top of his head as you do the same.

“So…” you say, softly, and your voice is hoarse, even though you hadn’t been doing a whole lot of noise making. Shame flushes through Octavio, the last of the stim ebbing from his system. He’ll need to get his dialysis machine to wash away the shreds of it but he can’t focus on that, can’t focus on anything but what he said to you.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m,” he says, grabbing your hips, trying to push you off. You clutch him tighter and your fingers cup his chin. You bring his gaze up to yours and his breath hitches at the way you look at him, at that soft, gentle look that he wanted you to give him forever.

“I love you too.” You say. The world freezes. The noise from downstairs fogs out of his ears, the wet, sticky sensation of you on top of him gone as he stares up at you. You, who has been here for him this whole night, who started off as a hook up.

He moves quicker than lightening, quicker than he’s ever moved, yanking you into a kiss. Your lips move together, hurried, passionate, making up for all the time he didn’t know. He pulls away, lips making a wet, popping sound.

“I could listen to you say that all day,” he huffs out. You giggle and he holds you tightly to his chest for a long, perfect minute, your fingers carding through his short hair.

Octavio hurtles back onto the bed, arms flopping above his head and you snort, still sitting in his lap, his dick inside of you. You don’t seem in a hurry to get it out though. Octavio strokes your thigh. “I really wish you would’ve told me that before this. I could’ve come as your girlfriend.”

Octavio’s lips twitch up in a little smile and he reaches up, placing a hand on your cheek. You make a face at the sweat there, but you don’t move away, your eyes a little softer, a little more open than he’s seen them before.

“You could’ve told me. Ever thought of that, chica?” Octavio asks. He throws his head back, laughing when you lean away from him, climbing off his lap to flop next to him in bed. You loop an arm around his shoulders, interlocking your fingers and nestling against the one closer to you.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, and he kisses the top of your head, humming.

“You love me.”

“I do. I do.”

#octane/reader #octavio silva/reader #octane x reader #octavio silva x reader #apex octane #apex legends octane #apex legends #apex lemons #apex imagines #nsft #lemon #shorty writes #female reader

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hookedonapirate · 6 years

Text

To Play the Game (and win your heart)

Summary: Some people would call it a job, but to Emma and her sister, Milah, it’s a game of the heart. Play by the rules and you’ll never get hurt.

Whatever you call swindling wealthy men out of their money, this con-artist duo has it down to a tee. Milah sets up an available, rich man and gets him to marry her. Emma seduces and lures the husband into having an affair so he’ll get caught in the act. He then loses his money in the ensuing divorce.

The sisters wear a coat of armor around their hearts to keep them intact, but when they set their sights on their next mark, professional golfer Killian “Hook” Jones, Emma never imagined how hard the game could be and how easily her heart could be stolen—especially when she switches roles with Milah and becomes the one exchanging vows with the gorgeous multi-millionaire. Heartbreakers AU.

Artwork by: @distant-rose

Rating: Mature for connivery, vixen behavior and sexual themes.

Content Warnings: This story deals with conning and manipulation and also mentions/includes children with various disabilities, and also .

Author’s Notes: I was so nervous last week when I posted the first chapter, but you have all blown me away with your lovely words and excitement. Thank you everyone for the feedback!

Thank you @captainswanbigbang and all of the moderators for organizing the event and for all of your help throughout the process.

A huge shout out goes to @ilovemesomekillianjones for all of her help with this fic. She really kicked some butt while beta reading, and if not for her, this story would not be what it is.

Thank you @distant-rose for stepping in as my artist. She is so talented and I can’t wait for everyone to see all of the art she has planned for this fic. She even made me a playlist for this story including Emma’s and Milah’s theme song, Homewrecker by Marina and the Diamonds, and some other great tracks that fit well with the theme of the fic.

Thank you @onceuponaprincessworld for all of her feedback and for her constant support and for letting me bounce ideas off of her during the process. Thank you @teamhook for her help and ideas with scenes I was struggling with.

There are 12 chapters, and I will be posting every Tuesday, so let me know if you would like to be tagged.

Catch up: Ch 1

Also available on: AO3 FFnet

Chapter 2: Finding the Perfect Opponent

~Rule #2: Don’t play against a flawless opponent. Size them up and know just who you're dealing with. Make sure he's ready to handle anything, make sure he's worthy, but if he’s too perfect, too handsome, too young or too smart, then chances are you will lose. If you can't choose the sucker, then you will end up being the sucker. ~

The following day, Emma and Milah take full advantage of their time here, and have breakfast delivered to them via room service, which they enjoy on the balcony under the sun. Afterwards, they change into their bikinis, grabbing their beach necessities and head for the sandy beach, finding a suitable spot to perch.

Once they’re anchored in their lounge chairs and slathered in suntan lotion, Emma begins scouring the beach for single, male patrons. However, the building they are staying in mostly hosts attractive, young couples, with the exception of the occasional businessmen buried in the electronic devices on their laps.

“Why don't we just wait to do our research before we start picking out potential candidates?” Milah suggests, putting away the bottle of lotion and laying back into a comfortable position. “I’ve been divorced for approximately seventy-two hours and I’d like to relax for a minute before we start scouting out our next target.”

Emma sighs, unwilling to give it a rest. They both had acquired plenty of that the day before, spending time at the spa and getting a good night's sleep. She had slipped into her silk pajamas and her warm, comfortable bed last night, looking forward to their next con. She blames Milah, though. She's the one who'd talked her into this years ago. To top it off, they had Mal and Lily as role models. Emma actually regrets the day she signed up for this. It’s quite like heroin; once they began conning and became good at it, they found it difficult to quit.

Emma lifts her sunglasses to gaze across the ocean. The sun is bright and beaming down as a gentle breeze blows through her hair, the sound of the waves gently slapping at the shore and the scent of the ocean permeating her senses.

Seeing the various boats gliding through the water, Emma's eyes settle upon one in particular—a rather large yacht. Grabbing the binoculars from her bag, she looks through them, seeing a man walking out on the deck. Emma draws in a sharp gasp of air, taking in the fantastic view before her.

Jesus. This guy is gorgeous.

Unruly black hair blowing in the wind, bright blue eyes, and dark scruff on his chin and cheeks. He’s shirtless, only wearing a pair of trunks that hang low at his hips, and Emma takes full advantage of the view, slowly spanning his form through the binoculars.

She's guessing he's in his late twenties or early thirties. His body is tanned and sculpted like some sort of Greek God, his chest is sprinkled with soft-looking hair that she itches to run her fingers through and there’s a happy trail that leads her eyes over his toned stomach and abs.

“Milah, you have to check this guy out. He has a yacht; he's gotta be loaded. Plus he's hot, so there's that,” Emma adds with a sly smirk. A heavy sigh is heard as Milah sits up, her eyes following Emma's as she reaches out a hand.

“Let me see those.”

Emma transfers her sister the binoculars and Milah raises them to her eyes, peering through them. Emma swears she can hear her sister gasp, “Holy shit.”

“So you agree, he's our next mark?” Emma smiles wickedly, imagining how much fun it would be to play with her potential toy—how fun it would be to make him throw his sacred marital vows out the window to have his way with her. Even if the vows wouldn't actually be sacred, considering the bride would be using a fake name and wouldn't actually be in love with him.

Milah lowers the binoculars, returning them to Emma before laying back down in her lounge chair. “Absolutely not.”

Emma's face falls flat, a mixture of disappointment and bewilderment flaring in her eyes. “And why not?”

“For one, we don't even know how much he's worth. That boat may not even be his. We haven't even looked at our other options yet. And lastly, he's way too young and handsome,” she says flatly.

“And why not someone young and handsome this time?”

“Because, Em, handsome is dangerous,” Milah points out, her words just as poised as her sunbathed figure, “you know that.”

Emma lifts the binoculars again, gazing at the beautiful man on the yacht. He’s staring out into the vast ocean with an abandoned look in his eyes. It must be lonely for one single man to be on such a large boat by himself, she thinks to herself. Unless he’s hoarding a bunch of women underneath the deck, or a wife.

Desperately hoping he’s not already married, she tears her view away from him to span the entirety of the yacht. She grows more curious, seeing the elaborate lettering that spells out, Jolly Roger, and wonders why he’d chosen that name; maybe the man is a huge fan of pirates?

Emma lowers her binoculars, tucking them inside her bag before finally laying back in her chair. Arms resting at her sides, she shifts into a comfortable position and closes her eyes, making a mental note to remember the name of the boat for when they gather intel on their potential marks.

$*$*$

“Alright, so this guy, Dr. Victor Whale specializes in family medicine.” Milah turns her MacBook around, showing Emma the photo on the screen as they sit at a booth in Camelot, a bar not far from their apartment. “He has a net worth of five million. He's never been married. No children. And he’s forty years old and not bad to look at. You said you wanted someone younger and cute, so this guy’s perfect.”

Emma shrugs, her chin resting in the palm of her hand as she stirs her almost-empty chocolate martini. The doctor is a little cute, she will admit, but also kind of creepy looking. Besides, she can't stop thinking about the guy with the yacht, which he named the Jolly Roger, she remembers, mentally patting herself on the back for the small success.

“Okay, what's wrong, sis?” Milah inquires, her words laced with worry as she pushes the laptop aside.

“Nothing,” Emma sighs wearily. “Did you find anything about the pirate?”

A puzzled expression crosses Milah’s face. “The what?”

“The handsome guy with the boat,” Emma clarifies. It’s been a few days since they saw him at the beach, but the man isn't easily forgettable.

Milah shakes her head and raises the glass to her lips. “I already told you, he’s too dangerous,” she replies before taking a small sip of her strawberry daiquiri.

“Why?” Emma whines, not understanding what Milah’s problem is with him.

“Because, handsome leads to feelings, feelings lead to love and love leads to getting knocked up and ditched in a Walmart parking lot. Haven't you learned anything from Mal?”

“I'm pretty sure you got the part about getting knocked up and abandoned at Walmart from a movie, not from one of Aunt Mal’s fucked up stories… surprisingly enough,” Emma teases, rolling her eyes. “How can you be so sure one of us will develop feelings for him? The guy could be a complete ass for all we know. Most attractive men are. In my opinion, the cockier the better.”

“Emma, I'm sorry, but you're not the one who has to marry him, I am. Therefore, I have the final say. And I’m telling you it's too risky,” Milah states firmly before returning her attention to the computer and pulling it in front of her.

Emma huffs in frustration and stands up, hastily grabbing her empty glass. “I need another drink.” Spinning around, she marches up to the bar counter, setting her glass on the surface. “I'll take another chocolate martini.”

“Coming right up,” the bartender assures with a wink.

Emma sighs, leaning her elbows on the countertop and resting her face in her hands.

In all honesty, she’s not sure she can do this anymore. Maybe it’s because she knows Milah’s going to get her way, and she knows their next mark is going to be some old, wrinkly guy who can barely walk. The only thing Emma really reaps from conning wealthy men with her relentless partner in crime is a cut of the divorce money; there is an empty pit in her stomach that tells her it’s not enough… and not just the monetary value.

This trip is supposed to be fun, full of possibilities and an endless amount of relaxation, beaches and sun. In reality, three months of watching Milah date a rich guy and waiting for her to get married before Emma has to swoop in and seduce a guy she isn't even remotely interested in is not fun.

Sometimes she has to take things further than a kiss, depending on the situation and timing. If Milah’s on her way home, or wherever the affair is staged, Emma tries to stall as long as possible, but sometimes the men grow impatient, and she doesn't want to ruin the whole thing by kissing too long when the guy clearly wants more.

Waiting for the drink to be made, Emma lifts her eyes to the television hanging behind the bar, and sees the ESPN channel showing the PGA golf tournament which is now taking place in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida. Emma actually enjoys playing golf. Milah’s ex-husband had a son who Emma had been obligated to entertain since she’d worked for Gold, so they’d spent most of their time together playing golf. Emma hadn't cared much for the guy, but when her life revolves around waiting for her sister to tie the knot, Emma gets very bored and has to occupy her time somehow.

Emma's eyes are fixated on the screen, seeing it's the second round of the Players Championship. She doesn't really ever watch the game on television, but it’s better than going back to the table and arguing with her sister about who their next mark will be. And she knows the basic concepts of golf—the person with the lowest score wins, a par is the average number of strokes at a particular hole, a birdie is one stroke under par and a bogey is one stroke over par—so she can follow along and understand what the commentators are speaking about.

As the sports reporter spouts off the highlights of the impressive round from one of the star players, a clip appears on the screen of the golfer with a perfect swing, obliterating the ball off the tee.

Emma gapes at the television, completely perplexed as she realizes who it is. When she’d seen him on the yacht, she had never pictured him stepping out of a sports magazine, more like a supermodel's wet dream. Emma has to blink a couple of times to make sure it's actually him. But, oh yes, it definitely is.

He’s fully clothed this time, wearing a red polo shirt, black slacks and a baseball cap on his head showing Adidas sponsors him, but Emma would recognize the man anywhere. The name Killian “Hook” Jones flashes at the bottom of the screen as the camera cuts to a blonde journalist with a microphone and the man himself, her Australian intonation carrying through the dull chatter of the bar.

“The last few weeks have been incredible for you, on and off the golf course. How are you able to keep your mind clear and play the way you've played the last two days?”

When Hook answers, his cheeks tinged with pink as he scratches behind his ear, Emma almost melts at the sound of the British brogue he speaks with.

“Well mostly I've been focused on the game, even when I'm not playing, but this week I've spent some time with the children, so that really helped a lot, and also being out on the ocean gets me away from the green. It helps me relax and separate myself from everything else that's going on.”

Disappointment pulls at her gut when she hears him talking about his children, but perhaps they can still make it work. Gold’s son was thirty years old and he’d been none the wiser. Emma just prays he's not already married; he hadn't mentioned a wife or girlfriend, so perhaps he shares custody of the kids. She listens keenly, hoping to pick up on any more clues, meanwhile getting lost in his eyes and every answer he comes back with, when the bartender’s words pull her attention from the television.

“Chocolate martini for the beautiful lady. Topped with whipped cream and cinnamon, just the way you like.”

“Do you know who that is?” she asks, ignoring the drink he’s passing to her.

“Hook? Of course, doesn't everybody?”

The scowl she flashes him indicates she does not.

“He's only the best player on the PGA tour. They call him Hook because he has a flawless left hook shot that's won him many championships,” the bartender boasts proudly.

“Left hook?”

“Yeah, he’s a lefty, so when he hits the ball, it curves from left to right, but it's intentional, and he does it perfectly. For most players, it's the result of a mishit,” the bartender explains, his eyes flickering with curiosity. “You play at all?”

“Not much anymore. I've just seen him around,” she replies casually. “Does he live here in Palm Beach permanently or just visiting for the tour?”

“He’s one of the locals. I'm surprised you've never heard of him. They say he's the British version of Tiger Woods—you know, minus the philandering and trouble with the law.”

“Really?” She has to steady herself to keep her fingers from shaking as she tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her mouth opens to ask another question, her tone as breezy as she can manage. “So, he's like a celebrity?”

“Oh, absolutely. Everyone loves him. He even started a foundation for disabled children.”

Emma arches a brow; to say she's surprised would be an understatement. She wonders if maybe the children Hook had referred to were the disabled children. “So, is that what he meant when he spoke of spending time with the children?”

The bartender nods. “Sure is. He doesn’t have any of his own. It’s hard to have children when you’re on tour all the time, never settling down. It’s a shame, really. The guy could easily have any woman he wants and yet he's never been married.”

Emma sighs in relief, but at the same time her heart is clenching in her chest. On one hand, her interest is highly piqued, even more so now that she knows he’s not married and doesn’t have children, and she wants to strangle her sister until she agrees to marry Hook, but on the other hand, she feels a twinge of guilt for wanting to take money from a man who helps disabled children. “So, he’s never been married?” she asks, unable to believe a woman has never wanted to tie the knot with a man like him.

“Never. He's dated a few women here and there, but they turned out to be gold diggers, only after his money.”

“So, he’s really worth that much?” she inquires, attempting to seem as nonchalant as possible.

The bartender snickers in amusement. “You really aren’t from around here, are you?”

Emma shakes her head as she takes out her purse. “No, I just drove in last week.”

“Well, Hook’s only worth seven hundred million dollars,” he replies, his words thick with sarcasm as he wipes down the bar.

Emma’s eyes almost pop out of her head, her mouth turning dry as it hangs open. “Seven hundred million?”

“Like I said, the man’s really good at what he does. Plus he inherited a large amount of money from a dead rich uncle.”

Her mind is exploding with all the possibilities; she doesn't even know what she would do with that kind of money. Somehow pulling herself together, she retrieves some cash from her purse, attempting to pay for the drink, but the bartender puts out his hand to stop her.

“No need. The drink’s on the house.” He winks at her again, a flirty smirk curving his lips as he throws the rag over his shoulder and presses the palm of his hands into the edge of the counter, speaking in a husky tone. “I get out in about an hour if you want to talk some more about golf.”

Leaning over the counter to grab her drink, she forces out a giggle and graces the bartender with a smile, but inwardly, she’s cringing at his proposal. The guy is cute, with bleach blonde hair and tanned skin like a surfer, but not her type. He looks like he’s barely twenty. No, he is more like a boy, and she is only into men. Men like Hook, to be more specific; someone who has strong arms and facial hair, and someone who is actually skilled with his hands for more useful or pleasurable things.

Her eyes are locked with his as she takes the martini glass, dips her finger in the whipped cream and scoops some on her fingertip.

His mouth is hanging open as he stands there watching, practically drooling over the counter as she slides her finger between her lips to suck off the white, creamy sweetness in a slow, seductive manner.

Catching the guy intensely eyeing her lips as her tongue sweeps off the cream, she leans closer to whisper in his ear, her tone and demeanor dark and alluring, “In your dreams.”

She pulls away, flashing him one last grin before turning around and heading back to her seat across the table from her sister. Slipping into the booth, she sets her drink down, excitement dancing in her eyes as the brunette’s face is still buried in her laptop.

“Milah, did you hear that?”

“You mean that guy shamelessly hitting on you?” Milah asks spitefully as she rolls her eyes, which are still locked on the screen. “I already knew guys swooned over you; no need to rub it in.”

“What are you talking about? Guys swoon over you all the time,” Emma reminds her. “I bet if you went over there right now, the bartender would buy you a drink, too.”

“I'm supposed to be the commitment type, remember? Not letting guys drool all over me for sport.”

Offended, Emma glares at her, but Milah never looks up from the computer. “Anyways… what I meant was, did you hear the part about Captain Hook being worth seven hundred million?”

Milah’s eyes are blown wide as she finally averts her attention from her MacBook. “Are you kidding me?” She slides the computer over to her sister. “Show me.”

Emma complies and starts typing his name in the Google search bar, immediately pulling up his bio on Wikipedia. She turns the computer around to show the brunette. “See? He's a professional golfer who inherited a bunch of money from a deceased uncle. You can't tell me you're not interested.”

“Killian Jones, born on January 26th 1988, better known as Hook, is a British professional golfer who plays most of his golf on the PGA Tour, while keeping his membership on the European Tour. He is the current World Number One in the Official World Golf Ranking, having reached that position with his win at the 2017 Genesis Open in February 2017. As of March 19th, 2018, he has been the number one ranked golfer for sixty consecutive weeks, which is the sixth longest streak in PGA Tour history.”

Milah reads about his progression and some of his accomplishments before moving on to his personal life. “Hook was born in Brighton, England and moved to London when he was three. He and his brothers, Liam and Dylan, were raised by a great uncle who owned the Royal Wimbledon Golf Club. Hook started playing golf at the age of five.” She continues on to read about his childhood, how his mother died giving birth to the youngest, who was born with Autism, how Hook’s father abandoned his sons in the middle of the night and that the eldest brother died while serving in the Royal Navy.

Emma’s heart is torn apart from hearing about all of the loved ones he’s lost.

“Hook inherited his uncle's entire estate and used a good chunk of it to start a charity for disabled children. He is also a golf coach and holds sessions, giving them the opportunity to learn and play golf... that's so sweet,” the brunette comments, her eyes melting a little at that.

“Yes, but he probably does all that for publicity,” Emma reasons. The guy just seems too good to be true. “For all we know, he’s a self-centered asshole?”

“Maybe, but we can't be certain of that. Some celebrities are actually genuinely kind.”

“Either way, we’re talking about seven hundred million,” Emma reminds her, keeping them both focused on the goal. She’s not about to let his tragic backstory or the possibility that he might actually be a decent guy get in their way, no matter how much it pains her.

“No wife to speak of and no family to get suspicious of our motives,” Milah notes, studying the page a bit longer before lifting her eyes again, her face surprisingly full of doubt. “I don't know, Em. A guy that loaded will see us coming from miles away. He probably has ironclad prenups.”

“He's never married before, but I've heard that a lot of celebrities have an infidelity clause in their prenups nowadays to keep their spouses faithful. If there is an extramarital affair, the spouse who's been cheated on would receive a financial reward from the other spouse. And even if you ask for a quarter of his worth, and we pull this off successfully, it could be our last con. We can move to Hawaii like we always talk about.”

“That would be amazing, Em, but won't the infidelity clause give him a really good incentive not to cheat?”

Emma frowns. “Are you doubting my abilities, Mi? Because it really sounds like you are,” she says, offended by the implications. When it comes to getting the opposite sex to do whatever she wants them to do, she never fails. And she isn't about to start now.

“No, I'm just saying we’re going to have to bring our A game for this to work. It's not going to be easy. We've never played a guy this wealthy and attractive before,” Milah points out, pursing her lips in contemplation.

Emma eyes her suspiciously.

“What?”

“This isn't about us not being able to pull this off without Hook suspecting anything, is it? We both know we can do this. We’ve done this many times.”

Milah shakes her head. “I'm not doubting our abilities, Em, but—”

“But… you're worried you're going to fall for the guy aren’t you? You're worried that you're not going to be able to go through with it?”

Milah's eyes widen, obviously offended by the accusations. “Of course not.”

“You said it yourself, handsome leads to feelings, and what if this guy really isn't an ass? I mean he's a well-liked celebrity,” Emma points out. “You've gone soft. That's why you were so upset after you divorced Gold. You developed feelings for him.”

“That's nonsense! I do not have feelings for him!” Milah counters adamantly. “I told you, it was just exhausting.”

Emma sighs. She knows Milah is lying, but maybe it’s best not to argue with her. “Fine, you're right. It must be exhausting going through the motions—going on dates and being proposed to, having a nice wedding, breaking the guy's heart and taking his money,” she mutters sarcastically as Milah looks away, trying to avoid her gaze, “so, let me take this.”

The brunette’s eyes snap to Emma’s, widening in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Emma smiles eagerly and leans her elbows on the table, crossing her arms and closing the distance between them to keep out prying ears. “I mean, let me be the primary. I'll marry Hook, and you can get him to have an affair.”

Milah scoffs, amusement besetting her features. “You seriously want to be the primary?”

“Why not? That way you can take a break for a while. Think about it—the man's a professional golfer and you hate the sport. As his girlfriend and potential wife, you'd have to support him and go to the tournaments with him and listen while he talks about his games. I can do that with no problem. But I know you would be miserable. Wouldn't you rather be free to do what you want—go shopping and live the single life for a while? Maybe even start drawing again?” Emma adds, watching and scrutinizing her sister's reaction.

Milah’s facial expression transforms, revealing her lack of opposition at the possibility. “That does sound appealing.” She chews on her bottom lip, mulling over the idea. “I don't know, Em. It takes a lot of practice and discipline to get a guy to commit to marriage in three months without falling for him.”

Emma scowls, not believing what she’s hearing. “Again you're doubting me? I can totally handle this guy. I'll have him eating out of the palm of my hand in no time, believe me.”

“Of course! I'm not doubting your skills. I'm just looking out for you, that's all. I want you to be sure about this.”

“I am sure about this,” Emma states tenaciously.

There’s still a bit of skepticism in Milah's eyes. “Are you absolutely certain you're up for this? Because it’s not going to be easy, and once he sees you for the first time, there's no switching back.”

Emma's lips slowly expand into a devilish smirk and she speaks in a tone that reeks of devilry. “Are you kidding? You know I love a challenge.” She takes a sip of her drink, licking the chocolate liquor from her lips as she contemplates the idea of gaining even a quarter of Hook's wealth in the divorce. Plus, she’s not opposed to admitting she’s looking forward to bringing a man like Hook to his knees. It’ll be a nice change of pace compared to her usual role and the typical wealthy men they go after.

Milah sighs in defeat. “Fine, you asked for it. He's all yours, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Emma’s grin widens as she pulls the MacBook towards her, studying his photo. “Okay Hook, it looks like you're going to be my first husband. Hope you're ready for me.”

Milah finally smirks along with her, realizing her new task. “He’s about to have his world flipped. Trust me… he’s not ready for that.”

Emma lifts her martini glass, getting excited about pursuing her first target as primary. “Here's to our next and final mark.”

Milah nods her head and raises the strawberry daiquiri she’s barely touched, clinking the two glasses together. “Hook, line and sink him, sis.”

Emma smirks deviously, but on the inside her heart tightens just a little at the thought of crushing his heart. “Gladly,” she assures, bringing the glass to her lips and sealing the promise with a drink.

@mayquita @freakassbuthunter @libbcoxnet-blog @goldengirlschildhood @courtorderedcake @florenzu @marcella2727 @veryverynotgood @i-would-cross-realms-4-her @hooklineandswan @wonderfullycarriedaway @0swald-c0bblep0t @cs-forlife @andiirivera @snotelek @capswantrue @nikkiemms @capswantrue @swansong12 @lg-campbell @lassluna @followbatb @harshini01 @betchesgetshitdone @coliferoncer @ultraluckycatnd @resident-of-storybrooke @kinkyhiddlesgirl @teamhook

#cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan #csbb #to play the game (and win your heart)#my fic

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