Men Who Call You The Most Endearing Pet Names; “poundcake”, “sweetness”, “angel”, “sugar”,

we were absolutely robbed of this chaotic duo so here have some messy doodles

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.

GOJO WITH A SQUIRTING KINK.

cw — nsfw content minors dni. smut, f!reader, squirting, praise, pet names

ugh his obsession w it is borderline gross!!!

he’ll press your back down into the prettiest arch, giant hands with their mean grip on your waist, utterly manhandling you as he splits you open on his dick. he’s relentless, but he can’t possibly have mercy when your pussy wraps around him, sucks him in, pulses around him so well that all his morals have gone out the window.

your face is smushed against the towels laid out beneath you, mouth in an ‘O’ shape just from the way his heavy cock stretches you out to the point where it almost hurts, but not quite.

every drive of his hips just sounds obscene. he’s grunting, you’re whining, your pussy’s dripping all over him before you’ve even squirted, squelching every time his tip knocks against your cervix.

it’s mere minutes before you’re positively gushing everywhere for the first time of the night, coating his muscled thighs and the ridges of his abdomen with a yelp.

and gojo’s hissing as you do it, moaning shamelessly as though he’s reached his climax. “fuuuck, that’s it, baby,” he says half-laughing, borderline whining at the sight, lips curled into the most smackable, triumphant grin of his life. his thrusts never let up–he would rather die than slow down–in fact, is he speeding up?

“oh, satoru,” you cry. it spurs him on. inflates his ego too, sure, but when his ego is this proportional, you can’t find it in you to be mad. “feels s-so good, baby. you treat me so well.”

“that’s all you, angel–fuck–think you can be good for me? think you can squirt for me again?”

“please, yes, oh god, yes.” it’s humiliating how easily you’ll cave for him, how putty in his hands you get with just a little sweet talking, how divine it feels to beg him.

“come on, pretty girl,” he chuckles, his cock throbbing as he grinds it against your soaked walls with a force that shifts the bed beneath you. “know you can do it. be a fuckin’ good girl for me.”

and not moments later, there’s clear fluid streaming from your puffy hole again. satoru’s hand claps down against your asscheek, an affectionate smack that’s his way of saying he’s proud of you.

and even after his turn, when he’s emptied himself of every last drop of cum into your womb and he’s pulled you into his chest to pepper kisses over your face, still his long, lithe fingers dip between your folds. he sinks them into your twitching, sensitive cunt and he fucks you with two of his fingers, curling up to prod at that perfect spot that has your eyes rolling and this time you shriek as you squirt again.

because in his eyes it’s the ultimate form of praise—it’s your body telling him how fucking good he’s making you feel. he loves your little faces, your little whimpers, the way you claw at the sheets and his shoulders, the way your back arches so pretty, the way your wet walls clench around him. but your sweet pussy making a mess–that’s when he knows he’s doing something right.

saw a post a while back about Sophie making increasingly gaudy hats for Howl for every birthday and him absolutely loving them

PAC: THEIR S3XUAL STYLE, POSSIBLE K1NKS & FAVORITE THINGS (18+)

Look at each pile and choose the pile that you can’t stop looking at, or the one that you always return to. For current partner and future spouse only, it doesn't work for crush. If you have a partner already, remember to communicate before trying something. I use Tarot of Secsual Magic so the interpretation is a bit different.

Rules & Disclaimers

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Minors should not follow, read, interact, like, reblog, reply to my posts/asks.

Minors should not send me asks.

Minors do not interact it's il1egal.

If you interact with this blog/post, I will assume you are an adult and I will treat you like one.

Important:

People with more masculine energy are the masculine. People with more feminine energy are the feminine. This isn’t about gender, everyone has masculine-feminine in themselves, some people have one stronger than the other, some people are balanced.

When I say 'dominant' and 'submissive', I mean the behavior and the energy, not BDSM. When I use dom-sub or dom/sub, I'm talking about BDSM. You can be dominant (adjective) in bed without being an actual dominant (noun) in a dom-sub relationship.

PILE 1

Core Personality: The Moon

I asked about the core personality of your person that would appear in sex. This person seeks depth in a connection; emotionally and psychologically. This is what they will bring into the sex, and this is what they will seek from their partner to feel satisfied. What they like sexually probably has something to do with their insecurity or issues.

7 of Swords, 4 of Swords, Ace of Pentacles Rx, 6 of Cups

I’m not getting a strong masculine or feminine energy in this one, so this person could have a balanced feminine-masculine or they shift from one energy to the other depending on the situation. In the case of sex, the way to know that they have completely surrendered to your connection is when they show their submission. They like their partner playing psychological & emotional games and making it a bit painful, to make them obey. They like the pressure, and the release that the pressure can give them at the end. It’s mentally soothing. For those who like men or people with a masculine demeanor, this may not be obvious on the outside and they may not do this with every sex partner they have, only with those they are comfortable with. Because this desire makes them feel vulnerable.

They like being taught a lesson, being made to wait, being ordered around, being ignored. For example; after doing something ‘wrong’, being told to sit on their knees with a cock ring on OR with a sex toy inside their ass/pussy while their partner watches, not letting them have that release. They like having their stability shaken and feeling like they have to serve their partner to gain that stability back; their partner pulling away and them having to follow orders and perform to get that favor back. Masochistic streak. Master-slave, dom-sub.

They like roleplaying. As a punishment, they like being made to wear something they don’t normally do (eg. nothing else but leather body harness and a collar), or being put in a position that is embarrassing (eg. being made to masturbate in front of the window with the risk that anyone can walk past and 'see' them. It could be tinted glass if your person is not open to actually being seen but still wants to feel like it could happen).

They like being marked and feeling like they are owned by their partner. Hickeys. Their like their dick/pussy being ignored until it’s wet and swollen. They may also like being made to watch their partner masturbate and not being allowed to participate. Or being made to watch porn with their zipper open and their partner 'checking' whether they are hard or wet, but not being pleasured.

They don’t mind where, but they prefer somewhere private. I’m not getting much about the pace, since it starts with mental stimulation-- the pace can vary. For example, some days you guys may fuck when they can’t take it anymore which can be over in just 3 minutes probably. The fucking itself I mean. The foreplay is longer, the foreplay is the main thing here. With this person, orgasm isn’t only achieved through penetration alone, their partner or them can achieve that orgasm during foreplay, so there could be multiple rounds in one session. And of course, after all of those plays they like to be soothed.

To conclude, they like to approach sex first with mental stimulation (mentally tested and pressured), and lose themselves into it deeper and deeper (emotionally) as the arousal builds up. There’s nothing else I can say other than you should buy a collar.

PILE 2

Core personality: 5 of Pentacles

I asked about the core personality of your person that would appear in sex. I think this person has gone through serious hardships in life, or they have a lot of Saturn energy in themselves. So they understand that pain. But instead of it making them sadistic and rough, it makes them caring. It’s not submissive... it’s more like... responsible, like someone who nurtures and someone who wants to provide a safe place for their partner.

8 of Pentacles, 8 of Swords, 7 of Swords, Strength, Knight of Pentacles

This person has a strong masculine energy but that nurturing side of them is coming from their feminine energy. So they are pretty balanced I guess. They are more dominant than you are, or the people they tend to go for. This person likes their partner to submit to them, to let go and let them take care of it. They are giving off dependable and mature vibe, and marriage material tbh. This person may be like this only with a serious partner (i.e serious relationship, not casual sex). They like to have control, but they are firmly gentle about it.

They like things to start slowly; the foreplay and the sex. Very attentive and detailed. They don’t mind doing the work. They like to court their partner, to ease their partner into it. Slow and light touch. Lightly touching their partner’s chin, neck, chest, navel-- before unbuttoning their pants. Or having their partner sit on their lap so they can play with their partner's dick/clit, slowly moving their thumb around the tip or slowly rubbing their fingers between the folds. It’s building up the arousal but at the same time soothing the partner.

This is the kind of person who likes to undress their partner and to dress them up. Again, slowly. They definitely like to see their partner in lingerie, or something pretty. They really like to just play with their partner's dick/pussy, and get the partner aroused to the point of giving in to them. They may like to restrain their partner a bit, gently I mean. It’s like they would say “it’s okay baby” while tying you up and kissing your forehead. They may also like to buy sex toys and lingerie for their partner, as gifts.

When they talk (during sex), it’s more about saying things to soothe their partner instead of being loud. As for the pace of the fucking itself, it’s just like their general approach to sex. They start slowly, they fuck like that too. Since you have Strength here, this person has hidden passion in them. So the slow fucking usually gradually becomes harder and deeper; hard to breathe and bed shaking type of fuck. If they have a dick, it may be thick and straight. For some of you there could be a slight upward curve at the end. As for pussy, thick/big labias? Or whatever you think the equivalent is.

There is a part of them that is a bit ‘animalistic’, but they have a good control of this. They hide these dirty animalistic thoughts. They may channel this side through those little things that can help them release their frustration little by little, like I said; tying up their partner, or pinning their partner on the bed, having their partner lie on their lap so they can spank that ass. Oh they like spanking. Sorry to those who hate this, but this is really giving off the Daddy vibe, so they may have that kink.

PILE 3

Core personality: 3 of Wands, Ace of Swords

I asked about the core personality of your person that would appear in sex. It’s the curious side of them, the part of them that likes to explore. This is a typical masculine pile, I think your person has a bit of an ego (i.e leads with their ego sometimes, likes being adored and praised) but it's mostly harmless. The personality is fiery and/or outgoing. They are vocal and have many ideas, so they are open to trying new things in the bedroom.

They may like having sex with different types of people. I’m not saying they like open relationship. I’m saying that this is the kind of person who doesn’t mind fucking a bookworm today, a cheerleader tomorrow, an athlete next week. They are okay with anything/anyone. But they prefer a partner who is more feminine than them.

Queen of Wands, 9 of Wands, Death, The Star

Their sexual style is passionate/hot. Even the quickies. The fucking itself may be hard and heavy, you will feel it, alright, and you will feel hot all over. But I would say the pace is in the middle range, nothing too slow and nothing too fast either despite these Wands cards.

They like their partner to soothe them, this is different from the previous pile. They want the feminine to attend to them, not really in a submissive way, but in an encouraging kind of way? To praise them, to make them feel good. They like their partner quietly confident. Not sure if this is the right thing to say in a sexual reading, but this is the kind of person who can act like a baby, eg. rubbing their face on your chest for attention. But once you guys start kissing, it gets heavier and hotter.

They like watching their partner undress, because of the anticipation. They like doing it with clothes on as well eg. dry humping. Since this person is open, anything goes really. The vanilla, the taboo. They are okay with sex toys. If they have a dick, the dick may be a bit thin but long, there is a curve to it. This may not resonate with everyone tho, obviously.

Regardless whether they have a dick or pussy, there’s usually a lot of cum/wetness. Their pre-cum may leak and drip onto the floor when they stand, or they may wet through their panties or the bed sheet. And they like cum play. They may also like to make their partner gag during oral; mouth full of cum or not being able to breathe properly because of it. They like seeing the cum on their partner’s clothes.

They may be okay with exploring ideas but they also seek emotional/spiritual connection; the best sex for them is sex where they can be vulnerable and rewarded for that. They like to fuck when they are not feeling emotionally okay, this person seeks comfort from sex. They may like doing it on the couch, sitting there and receiving oral. They may be open to a make-out session in nature lol, a bit hidden from others. I think this person prefers sex that has no obvious dominant-submissive roles, like equals, just sex yknow. There’s not much dom/sub play here. I’m not saying they won’t do it at all, it’s just not their go-to sex.

Honestly, as long as their partner is nurturing and feminine and the sex can give them that comfort and deep spiritual satisfaction, they are good. Have passionate sex on the couch and end it with forehead kisses, they will probably be as happy as a clam. There is a bit of childlike quality to this person, despite Death here. For some of you, the intense energy is not really from them, it’s something they seek from their partner, they like their partner to be so into the sex with them. Their personality is more passionate and fiery than intense and dark.

PILE 4

Core personality: Judgement

I asked about the core personality of your person that would appear in sex. This person is quite intense, they seek healing. They bring in a quite serious energy too, almost like seeking a renewal from sex. I don’t feel like this is a loud or outgoing person, at least most of them are not, because we have more Water and Earth here.

Ace of Pentacles, 4 of Pentacles, The World, 2 of Cups

Like I said, they like that feeling of renewal. Almost like being a different person after sex, figuratively I mean. They like to fuck slowly and deeply. There is an emotional undercurrent. Long sex, you have the Ace and The World here, they make sex an experience. They like physical closeness and they like to have that emotional bond. Probably 'fucking and staring into each other’s eyes' type of sex. 'Fucking and listening to the little gasps and moans' type of sex. This person may not have casual sex often, if at all. There is nothing much kinky going on (at least, it's not obvious in this reading) but they do make sure their partner reach that O.

Sex with them is full of love, but it feels committed and serious instead of bubbly and cute. They like the morning after, when they feel the soreness and see the marks, it’s the proof of what happened the night before. They like deep kisses, French kiss.

They like to be visually stimulated; looking at their partner’s nudes or porn. If their partner is open to it, they will like to record videos and take pictures. They like to watch their partner sleeping. This person may also like to touch their partner when the partner is sleeping, and maybe wake them up with them between their legs. They like the look of vulnerability that their partner shows when sleeping. Honestly if you don't like this kind of thing, just communicate.

This is the type who fucks while holding hands. They like to taste as well, so when they give oral they will swallow. They make sure to lick everywhere and get every drop of cum. They like seeing their partner spread open under them. They may be into shower sex or sex in a bathtub/pool/Jacuzzi. They like sex in the dark or under dim light. Because it represents the intensity/intimacy that they seek. This person is low-key, they probably don’t immediately come across as a sex God, but they have it alright, they know how to experience sex.

They may have a breeding kink; they like the idea of cumming inside their partner or being made pregnant by their partner (only if this is physically applicable). If this isn’t physically applicable, just see it as their feelings. Despite their breeding kink, there are no obvious dominant and submissive roles. Their energy is usually slightly more dominant than their partner, but they like give and take, giving and receiving. They do take care of their partner tho, making sure their partner is comfortable and feeling good.

To conclude, they like sex that is healing, emotionally intense and serious.

So Good For Me.

Summary: Bucky has only one thing on his mind to tonight and that's to make you his. And he hopes you'll never want to let him go.

Pairing: Alpha Bucky x Omega Reader

Work Count: 2.5K

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, consenual biting, mutual marking, smut, creampie, rough sex, minors DNI, overstimulation (if you squint). Soft Bucky turned Dom Bucky, size kink, mentions of belly bulge

A/N: Unbeta'd. Do not copy, translate, repost or rewrite my work, even if you credit me. I do not give my permission for my works to be copied or shared on other sites. Likes, reblogs and comments are cherished.

The reddish-yellow flame comes to life around the wick, swaying and flickering, the soft glow reflecting in his sapphire eyes. Backing away with a pleased hum, he looks over the mantle, adjusting the last of the candles, hints of white tea and vanilla drifting across him in hazy waves.

They remind him of your unique scent as he inhales the air, so sweet, delicate, and fresh. After tonight, he’ll make sure he carries your scent on him wherever he is. Its a gnawing feeling, unfamiliar to him. Wanting to let the world know that you belong to him and he belongs to you.

He's never felt like this with other omegas.

But they've never been you.

Placing the silver lighter on the nightstand, he glances around the room. Anything he deemed too rough, too Alpha was tossed out and replaced with things he hopes you’ll like. Fresh new sheets under the thick duvet, which is now the softest thing he owns. He bought a few all in your favorite colors. His favorite shirts folded neatly along the edge of the bed. He spent a long time making sure he heavily drenched them in his scent.

If you choose even one for your nest-Bucky breaks into a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

Bucky knows he shouldn’t feel as anxious as he does, but he can’t help it. The same way he can’t help, the way his heart thuds a little harder in his chest whenever he thinks about you. Here. In his room.

He can’t help the way his stomach twists just a little when he imagines you on his bed, marking his things with your scent, touching his sheets, clothes. Touching him. Letting him touch you. Becoming part of his life, his world.

He could easily claim you, use his Alpha status, commands, and size to dominate you into being his. But here’s the thing. He wants you to be his, but he needs you to want it as much as he does.

He’s taken his time with you, knowing that you deserve to be wooed properly. Wanting to care for you, cherish you the way you deserve. His Alpha nature wanting to make you happy. Dates to the museums, botanic gardens, movies, any place you like, dinners at fine restaurants, and little hole in the wall diners where you spend the entire time squished against his side in a booth too tiny for his large body, arms, and hands tangled as you eat, laugh and talk.

Bucky wants you to have all the best things, everything he has is yours, even if you don’t know it yet.

His new favorite hobby is finding presents for you, little treasures, each carrying his scent, of course. Personalized gifts sent to your house and work, most for no reason other than they reminded him of you.

Most of them hand-delivered because he can’t get enough of how flustered you get when he gives you something, you have no idea how much he adores your small pleased chirp that slips out when he leans in, asking if you like it little one. It makes his heart sing, knowing how much he affects you.

His Alpha pride blooming the more you fall for him.

Bucky bounds down the steps when he senses your arrival. Opening the door before you have a chance to knock, he holds back a chuckle when you startle, grabbing your overnight bag before it slips from your hand. “Hi, little one,” he warmly greets, stepping back to let you inside.

You smile shyly in response, your curious eyes darting around the hallway. Anticipation crackling in the air. While it’s not the first time you’ve been in his house, it’s the first time you’ll go further than the living room. You answer his questions about your day and the ride over here as he guides you up the stairs, his large hand splayed across the small of your back.

Bucky hovers behind you, waiting patiently as you stare into his bedroom. After tonight you’ll belong to Bucky Barnes. You swallow down the whimper that wants to escape your throat, your pussy aching at the thought of finally being his, your slick coating your panties.

HIs shuddery breath lets you know he can smell how aroused you are. Glancing over your shoulder, his heady lust-filled gaze makes you bite your lip. His eyes drop to your bottom lip, caught between your teeth, a low growl rising from his chest. The deep sound making your stomach tense in anticipation.

You step inside his bedroom, awash in the soft glow of candlelight, your knees almost buckling when his scent overwhelms you. Stronger than you’ve ever experienced. Fresh rain and plums, hints of evergreen laced throughout. All uniquely him.

Walking around the California king bed, you place your bag by his shirts. “I thought you could have a nest here.” His unspoken with me resonates in the quiet air.

You smile, imagining a large nest surrounding you and Bucky as you touch the soft fabric of his Henley with your fingertips. Your hand stills when you hear his breath hitch, your eyes flicker up to his large body. His hands fisted at his sides as he cranes his head back. You stare at his pulse beating in his neck, the omega in you preening when you take in how badly he wants you.

No one has wanted you the way he has. It’s intoxicating and exhilarating.

You pad over to him, placing your hands on his warm broad chest. Exposing your throat in submission. “Make me yours.”

He's waited so long to hear those words, his control begins to fray, taking every ounce of his being to keep from bending you over the side of the bed and claiming your body.

Still, he promised himself to take his time with you

Bucky grazes his teeth along the curve of your neck, back and forth until you whine, twisting your hands in the fabric of his shirt. “Please, Bucky.”

He hums into your skin, his breath washing over you. He bites down gently, too gently. You want to feel his teeth sink into you, claiming you so bad you’re trembling with need. “Please, please Bucky.”

God, he won’t stop teasing you. His hands shifting over your hips, pressing your belly into his large, hard cock. Warm and throbbing. Your slick cunt drenched and aching. Another plea ignored while you slide your hands into his soft hair and push him down with a whimper. He chuckles, nipping your skin so lightly you want to scream.

“Buc-” your voice cracks when he groans into your neck, his tongue laving the bruises he creating on your skin.

He’s so big and warm. Smells so good. You’ve never wanted anything, anyone more. Every instinct, every part of you crying for him to take you. To make you his girl, his omega, you want him to be your-

“Alpha.”

Bucky stills in your arms, his grip tightening around you as he grows impossibly harder. He's waited so long to hear that word as well, sweeter than he dreamed.

“Alpha, please.” Breathy and desperate in his ear.

Bucky closes his eyes, his hands sweeping up your back. Your voice is addictive, and he’s going to do everything in his power to keep his name on your lips. You say it again, awakening his dormant feral nature.

His teeth sink down, a burst of pain and pleasure shocking you to your very core and you go limp.

Bucky cradles your body, walking you back to the bed, biting harder into your soft skin until you shiver, crying out his name. Bonding you to him, a connection, so deep and primal that he can’t let go. He feels you, the urge to claim you, take you overwhelming his senses.

Bucky releases you, his dazed eyes darkening as he looks at his mark on your pretty skin. “Mine. Need you right now.” He says, brokenly, frantic and demanding.

“Yours. Love you.” You gasp into his chest, pulling at his shirt, needing to feel his skin on you. He licks the bite and your eyes roll back. Another desperate gasp pulled from your lips. “Alpha.”

“Love you, little one. My pretty little omega” He decorates your skin with soft, passionate kisses along your neck, up across your jaw in between ripping your clothes off, your greedy hands pulling and tugging at his belt as he yanks his t-shirt over his head, the pile of shirts and your bag tumbling to the carpet.

A flurry of torn fabric fluttering to the floor until you’re naked before him. Your eyes roaming down his large muscular body until you reach his cock swaying in the air, the swollen tip leaking.

He’s so big, you don’t know how he’s going to fit.

“Don’t worry, little one, your pussy is made for me.” He arrogantly smirks, covering you with his large warm body, his smooth chest brushing over your sensitive nipples. “I’ll fit-” He groans, slotting a thigh between your legs, “-in your tight little pussy.” He pushes his thigh over your mound, swallowing your needy moan when he glides over your clit.

Bucky swears he’s going to take his time later, bury his head between your thighs until you beg him to stop, tear you apart piece by piece until you’re a trembling fucked out mess but right now he has to be inside you, needing your warmth around him.

His soft lips drape over yours, deepening the kiss as he moves over you, mumbling your name when you reach between your bodies, grabbing his thick cock in your hands, guiding him to your pulsating core. You grab his firm back, keening into his mouth when you feel his swollen head breach your core, his thrust slow and deliberate, his veiny ridges stretching your silken walls.

His groan rings in your ears. “Goddamn, you’re tight, so fucking tight, fit around me so good, you know that, don’t you? You know how good you feel.” He praises, continuing to fill you until his pelvis is flush against yours. “So fucking perfect doll.”

You dig your sharp nails into his back with a muffled cry. So good, so good you think, squeezing your eyes shut as he moves deeper in you, god he’s so good.

“We haven’t even started yet,” he chuckles, swiping his lips over your swollen mouth, “breathe pretty girl.” Another chuckle rumbles over your neck when you arch off the bed as he slides out of you, “Gonna have fun ruining your pussy, fuck, this pussy is going to be mine, isn’t it?” His next deep stroke making you wail.

It is, it, you were his the moment he laid eyes on you.

His words punctuated by another harsh thrust that you feel in your stomach. You try to answer but can only gasp when he lifts your hips, making you take every inch of him.

Bucky moves deeper inside your hot, wet pussy until he can see your belly bulge, his masculine ego enlarging with each sob and moan he drags out of you. He can feel how close you are, the waves of bliss drowning you until you tense beneath him, his pace quickening as he pushes you closer to your high. “Cum for me, be a good girl, and cum for me.”

Your body obeys his hotly whispered command, your orgasm crashing into you. Chanting his name, you rake your nails down his back, grabbing his ass, crying out, “Oh god, Bucky, oh, Buc-,” you sob out, your head lolling back, the candlelight shining over his mark.

His hips slow to a steady pace, never ceasing as he rolls you on top of him. Pleasure sparking through your body with each powerful stroke.

Placing your hands beside his head, you gaze down at him, wheezed gasp slipping through your lips. Bucky offers you his neck, his position almost submissive if not for the smirk in his eyes. And the way his massive hands firmly roll your hips over his cock. “Go on, pretty girl.”

Tears shimmer in your widening eyes, you swallow thickly. Oh. Oh, Bucky. You place your mouth on his broad shoulder, feeling his gland. You’ve never heard of an alpha willing to wear his omega’s mark, to have Bucky offering you his throat is indescribable. To be loved the way he loves you, god you don’t know how you’re going to survive him.

You bite down, feeling the bond open even wider. You feel him, hear him. He loves you so much.

His guttural groans of pleasure make you clench down as he slides out of you. When you release him, looking in wonder at the bite on his broad shoulder, he slides his hands over your hips, murmuring good girl. The room spins as he rolls you back over. Bucky thrusts into you, the headboard slamming against the wall so hard it cracks.

He craves you.

His cock stretching you, going so deep inside you. More tears form as pleasure spreads across your entire body, his solid, heavy chest driving you into the soft duvet.

Sweet girl.

“You feel me right here, don’t you?” He presses his hand on your belly, feeling his bulge with each deep thrust. “You’re going to feel me all weekend.” He promises, wild eyes meeting your dazed ones.

Perfect, so fucking perfect.

He places your leg over his arm and grabs the headboard. “Yeah, you are.” He swears under his breath, watching your mouth fall open, a thin high moan emerging from your throat. He grins, knowing he’s found your sweet spot. “Fuck, I could live in your cunt, stay inside you all the fucking time. So goddamn good.”

Love you. Adore you. Worship you.

He laces his metal fingers between yours, pinning your hand over your head. Mine. Mine. Your cries of pleasure making him snap his hips into yours. Wet sloshing of your cunt intertwining with the nearly vulgar sounds of skin slapping. Mine. All mine. His deep moans in your ear as you pant, his name garbled on your tongue as you give yourself to him. “I’m yours, Bucky, please, please I’m so close-” you slur, unable to finish your thought when he changes his pace, your breath rasping out.

“You wanna cum for me don’t you little one, you’re gonna be good for me, go on and give it to me.” He whispers over your mouth, his forehead resting on yours as he watches you fall apart.

Your walls spasm over his cock, making his pace fraught and erratic, he lets go of the splintered headboard, finding your clit between your sweaty bodies, swollen and sensitive, his thumb swirling around your bud hard and fast until the coil snaps. Another orgasm rocking you, making you clench down on him.

“There you go, such a good girl, my pretty girl.” He coos, smiling as you thrash under him. “That’s it, knew you could take it.”

He grinds his hip down so hard you cum again, grunting when you clamp down, “shit you’re still milking my cock-” You tremble, not hearing him over the roar in your ears. “Gonna fill you up, wanna see me leak out of your pretty, greedy little cunt.” He groans, his words making your stomach flutter. You love when he loses control, his words rushing out of him as he pounds you into you, chasing his high, his eyes focused on your face.

You nearly cum again when warmth blooms in your core, his hot spend coating your walls as he goes still, only his hips jerking slightly until he collapses on top of you.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, turning you on your side, his cock nestled within you.

“Amazing, Bucky.” You rasp out, snuggling into his sweat-slicked chest. Your tired giggles ending in a yawn.

“Me too.” Bucky kisses your forehead, pulling back with a smile. “Didn’t mean to wear you out like this.” His smug tone making you give him a look that says you don’t believe him, his shrug in return replying he knows. “Go to sleep, I got you.”

You drift off feeling protected and cherished in his arms, your unbreakable bond strengthening with each whispered affirmation of love, pulling you closer to him. Bucky’s deep voice drifts over you as he continues to praise you for being so perfect for him. He watches the candlelight dance over your sleeping face.

He scents your neck, inhaling you, a dizzying combination of the both of you wafting off your skin. Yeah, he's going to make sure you always smell like this. Reverently touching his mark, he murmurs, "good night sweet girl."