The white boys don't know how to deal with the sun.
cw: poly 141 x latine transmasc!reader, established relationship, mexican slang, suggestive, mention of reader's "titties" but not op specific
word count: 1593
You did warn them. And they did seem to listen. But maybe because of their jobs they’ve come to underestimate the little things every now and then.
It’s their first time visiting your hometown and you very clearly warn them as yall step out to lounge in the patio, “Aguas con el sol.”
Kyle smiles, already knowing what’s to unfold, as the others huff a chorus of it’s not that hot and a little sun can’t hurt and I’ll be alright. The heat has the white boys in less clothes than you’ve ever seen them leave the house in. The shorts are short, just enough to loosely cover the important parts. Shirts are so stained with sweat that they’ve just been tossed off, sweat left to glisten untouched, all their freckles on proud display. It’s fucking delicious, you can’t argue that. Even Kyle can’t help but drool a little, helping you wipe your own mouth with a chuckle.
“Boys, you need sunscreen,” you tell them before they get too far. They look back, the three of them pointing at themselves in surprise. Reluctantly, they each thoroughly cover their legs.
Kyle speaks up, helping you lure them back, “Will you put it on for us?”
At your nod, Johnny is jumping to your side, his smile so wide his tail would wag if he had one. You try to be gentle, wanting to make this cute, but he’s so wiggly that you end up roughly slathering him up.
“Done?”
“Are you in that much of a hurry to lay in the kiddie pool?” You already know the answer. In fact, he’s out of your hands before you can even rub the sunscreen into his skin, wide swaths of lotion bright against his skin.
Simon steps into your space before you can try to catch Johnny, looking down at you with a sweet smile, “Me next?”
You wave Kyle over to help you cover this gentle giant, making sure to cover the tattoos on his arms well. Simon melts into your arms, all but purring as he closes his eyes to focus on the feel of your hands roaming his body. Kyle’s hands come around to Simon’s front, fingers kneading his hefty tits, lingering to pinch and rub at his nipples. You kiss the back of Kyle’s hand and the big man lets out a soft grunt. Pulling the front of Simon’s body to yours, you reach down his back, hand sliding slightly into his shorts to grab at his ass. You can feel his heartbeat kick up against you. Gently, both you and Kyle pull away a little, back to taking your job seriously.
“You’ll have to reapply a little sooner than the rest.”
Eyes hazy, you know Simon is a little too far gone to fully hear you. He just nods and finds his way to one of the lounging chairs. You and Kyle share a look, knowing you’ll have to keep an eye on him.
When John steps up to you and Kyle, he already has white streaks of sunscreen on his body, “Thought you two could help me rub it in properly.”
The two of you easily slot into place. You take his back, using the slick of the lotion to help you give his wide shoulders a massage, staying there until it’s all worked into his skin. Kyle goes directly for his tits too, but a raised eyebrow from John keeps him from any teasing. Instead, Kyle uses the chance to grab at his arms, squeezing along the way, making John lift his arms and pose. You grab at his belly as you cover it in sunscreen, hands greedy for the feel of his body, your smiling mouth pressed against his back. When you try to follow the trail of hair, he stops your hand.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish.”
You and Kyle both let out a quick disappointed sigh as he saunters away to join the other two. What could have been. You find some solace in each other, helping one another with hard to reach spots and traveling hands. He helps you with your legs, smooth circles inching higher and higher up your inner thigh, loving the way his fingers dig into the soft fat. The grin on his face sharp as your breaths quicken. You shove your hands into his shorts, following the waistline of them from one hip, around his back, and to the other. He arches into your hand, trying to move his body towards it so you’ll touch him, cock straining against the fabric.
Kyle pauses for a moment, hands holding the hem of the crop top you’re wearing, “It’s just us and it’s a closed space. Do you want to?”
“I don’t think I want my titties out directly in the sun. But thank you for asking.”
“Alright, sweet boy,” he kisses your forehead, “pero dime si cambias de opinión. I can help you with your sunscreen again.”
Giggling and swatting at each other, you join the other boys, ready to spend your evening doing nothing for once.
The next morning is quiet. You meet Kyle in the kitchen, helping set up the table for the chilaquiles he went out early for. But the rest of the house is unusually silent. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, you call out for them. Slowly, they shuffle down the stairs in tiny shorts, bodies stiff and limbs barely bending.
“Did you guys slee-” there’s no point in finishing once you see them.
Simon’s pink all over. It’s not too deep of a hue, but it is absolutely all over, a stark contrast against the freckles and moles covering his body. He winces as he bends his arm to wave, the crease of his elbow tight. He doesn’t say a word as he sits at the table, worried about the sounds he’ll make if he opens his mouth. The least he can do is wait until the food is served, then maybe everyone else will be too busy to notice the sad whimpers coming from him. You and Kyle exchange worried glances, trying to remember how often Simon reapplied his sunscreen. He must have brushed aside the heat gathering on his tattoos.
“Trajimos bastante sábila, yeah?” you ask Kyle, and you know he’s worried even as he nods.
John doesn’t look so bad when he comes down. Everything seems to be fine with him, skin glowing with a golden touch that wasn’t there before. Honestly, it makes him look that much more delectable. He moves without hurting, taking the plates from your hands to help finish setting up the table. Ultimately, it’s his silence that gives him away, calling your attention from his body back up to his face. His nose is peeling, the freckles around his eyes sharply outlined in red, the apples of his cheeks rosier than you’ve ever seen them.
“Are you that happy to see us, cariño?” Kyle immediately teases him. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this flustered.”
John’s face goes darker as he truly blushes and you both blow him kisses. Then Johnny comes down and it knocks the wind from the room.
This has to be one of the worst consequences of his impatience. In his rush to settle and have some fun, he didn’t rub the sunscreen into his skin. At all. He has patches of golden skin, matching where you remember the white of the lotion adorning his body, and in between them, large streaks of angry red. You can clearly see the outline of your fingers where you started to apply the lotion before he ran off. The curve of his shoulders is glossy from how tight the skin is from the burn, the freckles adorning his skin darkened by the almost purple tone. The center of his chest, the middle of his back, and almost his entire stomach are practically radiating heat. He doesn’t speak, standing in front of you and Kyle in absolute misery.
“I kinda wanna smack it,” you whisper to Kyle.
He chuckles, matching your volume, “Think we can leave handprints on it?”
Johnny’s eyes widen and he drops into the chair furthest from you, clearly hearing you both. He keeps readjusting, unable to find a comfortable position in which the vinyl cover of the seat won’t pull at his skin. The room is silent save for the crinkling coming from the chilaquiles, the brown paper package adjusting to the heat of the food.
“What is the first rule of taking care of tortilla boys?” you ask them, words coated in disappointment.
“Don’t die.”
“Come home.”
“Drink water.”
Kyle is already bubbling with a laugh, “Those are good rules, but you all know better.”
They look down, mumbling under their breaths, pushing at the tableware in front of them.
“Louder,” you sound a little too much like a parent with that word.
“Don’t let the tortillas burn,” they say at once.
“And what did you do?”
“Let the tortillas burn.”
With that, you dish out the food and pull Kyle further into the kitchen with you, “Do you think they know why we call them that?”
He throws his head back and laughs, loud and from deep in his belly, and it sets off your own laughter. A minute full of cackling passes, both of you clenching at your bellies and backs, mirth so forceful you feel it in your bodies. You each wipe away tears and find the three white boys staring at you, confused.
“They’re about halfway there.”
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