#also there's a chance that at least one of the people who im referring to will see this so. hi.

[killjoy-prince]

House M.D. but it's when a character says the name of the episode

[asexual-vampire]

I love when someone responds positively to my dirty talk it really does feel like getting a good grade in dom energy

[strwberri-milk]

Hi, good morning/ afternoon/ evening. I've probably read all of your work on LnD, and I love them all. If it's not too much, can I request like the boys getting a call/update from MC after a disastrous wanderer attack on the city after not being able to contact them?? If possible, established relationship😅 ... thank you for your time!

im glad you like all my writing for them!! im so aefjaweofaw please give me the next main story update - also theres lots of references/imagery of death so if youre not chill w that i will see you tomorrow [salute] - theres also some very very slight references to their myths!! it feels a little ooc to me but thats bc. i think theyd be a little ooc when faced w a tragedy like this!! i hope you like it anyway <3

Zayne holds his breath every time a new patient is admitted. The hospital is busy with all of the patients that are coming in with the disaster, a mixture of those hanging on and people running up to him because he's the closest doctor in the vicinity to confirm death.

He volunteered himself to do triage because he was convinced that he'd be able to stop you from dying, that if you came in through those doors he'd be able to separate his love for you from the mind that studied all those nights but that's impossible - he only got here because of you.

His mind runs circles around himself, almost separated from his body as he tries to figure out why you weren't there. Hopefully it's because you're fine - you don't need medical attention or the medics on site were enough for you. However, he knows there's an equal chance that it's just because a doctor onsite was able to confirm your death and now you were in some bag, stored away with the others waiting for him to come identify you.

When he finally gets a moment to himself he obsessively checks his phone, praying to something that might take enough pity on him to listen at the very least that you'll call him. Minutes turn to hours as he's called back to work. Silence is a commodity now as he's stuck in the theatre, only able to go home after he's exceeded the legal amount of hours he's allowed to work in one night.

The long turned cold water hits his muscles as his mind wanders in the quiet of his home. You still haven't called - nobody's called. He understands that surely, all of you are busy but he's been there when the calls have had to be made. To hear the sobs on the other side of the phone as a squad captain confirms the death of another hunter as they softly ask if they'd like to see the body. He's also seen the calls when the bodies are far too mangled, a sight that no loved one should have to bear. He's waiting for it, almost falling in his haste to grab his phone once it finally rings.

Your number pops up, the letters of your name taunting him as he tries to answer it. He's about ready to throw his phone on the ground from the water on his hand refusing to make picking up the call an easy feat.

"Hello?" Zayne asks, an uncharacteristic shake in his voice.

"Zayne! I'm okay!" you say, voice sounding a little weak but definitely better than he could have ever anticipated.

"Zayne? Honey? Hello?" you ask when you're met with only silence, now beginning to grow anxious yourself. You knew he must have been busy - you were too - and you thought he was safe. He should have been, you'd heard no reports of the hospital being attacked.

"You're alive," he chokes out, falling to his knees.

"Of course I am! Things have just been chaotic so I haven't had enough time to call you until now," you explain, continuing to talk to him.

You hear rustling on the other side of the phone, trying to get his attention again before he cuts you off.

"Where are you right now? Home?"

"Oh - yeah I'm on leave now. Most of us who were in active duty are to let his recuperate. How come?"

"I'll be there soon."

He hangs up immediately, leaving you a little stunned. You decide to clean up a little, having nothing else to do really until he comes over. Zayne never acts this impulsively so you assume that the day with no contact really wore on him.

Once he arrives you open the door for him, planning to apologise for the lack of contact when he almost throws himself at you. You hold him back just as tightly, a little shaken yourself as you close the door after him. You realise that for whatever reason he's soaking, unsure if you should confront that but you decide to ignore it.

He leads you right to your couch, too exhausted to even find your bedroom as he buries himself against your chest. It's not the normal way he lays with you - typically he likes to hold you - but you know not to bother him now. You can't deny you were worried about him too, knowing he probably put in a bunch of overtime at the hospital.

He holds onto you tightly, measuring out the beat of your heart. It's the only way he can remind himself that you're still alive, that the two of you have one more day together.

Xavier has never felt like he wanted to die more than in this moment. One minute you were running with him, trying to stop the Wanderer from attacking the group of civilians the next you're totally gone. Logically, he knows you're most likely fighting a Wanderer by yourself and you can handle it but somewhere he's convinced you'll die without him at your side. You've proved yourself more than capable but he worries about you all the time - he knows how to fight these things, he's been fighting them for far longer than you have - and if you died here he'd have no more reason for living.

He practically goes beserk, tearing into each and every creature with the hopes that one of them can take him to you. With each failure he starts to spiral, standing atop a pile of rubble as he watches the recovery teams start to spread into the city. It practically took an entire squadron to force him to go home, promising him that he'd be the firs t to hear once they found you.

You were diligently following Xavier when you noticed another Wanderer going after a child. You knew that he'd panic once he couldn't find you but you couldn't just abandon them. You tried to tell him you'd be splitting off but over all the screams and screeches he couldn't hear you and you couldn't waste any more time trying to get his attention.

You were able to defeat the Wanderer but not before sustaining an injury that made it too difficult for you to continue active duty, taking the child to a safe spot and staying with them until help arrived. You ended up passing out from the pain shortly thereafter, waking up a day later to Tara in your face heaving a sigh of relief as she called for a doctor to come check on you.

Your body was simply fatigued and after an extra day of monitoring and ensuring you were receiving everything you needed to make sure you wouldn't collapse again when you get home. You nod, knowing what procedure is at this point. You reach out for your phone once the doctor leaves, knowing that Xavier must be worried out of his mind.

You're right, of course. He's laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as he waits for someone to call him. He saw the scale of disaster this attack was, knows that everything is absolutely awful and he's not the only one waiting for news but every minute that passes is another minute you could be trapped, praying that he's coming there to save you.

He decides to ignore the strict orders he's gotten, suiting up to go help the recovery efforts. He was going bad staying in bed all day, unable to get a wink of sleep as pictures of your suffering flash across his tortured mind. Working on pulling valuables and any remnants of life is depressing on a good day but right now it's downright torturous. He can't help but think that the next thing he pulls out is going to be your hand, severed far from your body.

When his phone rings everything disappears. He quickly picks up, steeling his expression to avoid making things worse should someone look over at him. He doesn't even notice who called him, just hoping that it was someone with news.

"Oh! You picked up fast. Are you just sitting at home then?" you ask casually, so casually he thinks it's almost cruel. How could you act so nonchalant about the fact that you held his life in your hands, that you are the only thing in this world he can bear to wake up for?

"No, I'm helping the recovery efforts despite orders. I...it was too quiet at home," he offers as an explanation and you hum. He can imagine you nodding, tapping your chin as you think to yourself.

"If you missed me you could have just said so," you tease, hoping that the ease in your voice will make him relax.

"Of course I did. Is that even a question? Are you able to take visitors?' You know what, doesn't matter. I'll just wait there until you are. I'll see you soon love."

He hangs up quickly and you know that he'll appear in the hospital within the next two seconds with that uncanny ability of his. You straighten yourself out a little, knowing that you were injured but not wanting to look like a total mess.

You can hear his footsteps running up to your door, slamming it open as he catches his breath. You've never seen him out of breath before - maybe he's much more tired than you initially thought.

"You made it," you laugh, making a slight sound from the impact of him practically jumping at you, holding you tightly as he buries his face into your neck.

"I was worried about you," he says softly, looking up at you. "I thought you'd been hurt, badly. And I wasn't there to protect you."

You sigh, helping him sit down into the chair at your bedside. You offer him your hand which he holds gratefully, never taking his eyes off of you.

"I know. I'm sorry. But look, I'm okay now, aren't I?"

He ignores the pain in his chest, trying not to imagine how heavy your hand would feel in his if you really had drawn your last breath. That weight is far too familiar to him, haunting his every thought in the hours that passed between then and now.

"You are. And I'm going to make sure you stay that way," he promises.

Rafayel didn't even know there was an attack until far after it. He knew you were working and that sometimes, you'd accidentally go MIA. You'd already texted him before your mission anyway and then he got drawn into another project of his and completely lost track of time. It's not until the next day that he finally sees his phone and the message from Thomas telling him not to come into the city for supplies for a day or so.

He immediately starts looking through articles, scouring pages that are constantly updating the death toll in search of your face. He curses himself for not paying attention earlier - every minute he wasted on some stupid was another minute you could have spent at Death's door, all because he allowed himself to forget that nothing matters if it's not you.

It's obsessive the way he looks through all of them, calling your phone non stop all the while. Every time he gets sent to voicemail he feels his breath get knocked out of his lungs, resorting to blowing up your phone with texts. When it's clear you aren't replying he grabs his keys to drive into Linkon despite Thomas' suggestion, knuckles white on the steering wheel as he heads to the hospital.

Even in all the chaos people can't help but stare a little as Rafayel makes his way to the counter, demanding someone tell him where you were. He's really trying not to be a brat, promising you that he'd be nicer to people but when it's your life on the line everything is up for debate. He goes through any and every possibility, figuring out what he can do to guarantee your survival.

Unfortunately for him, he gets escorted out. Jenna tries to calm him down, telling him that he'd be the first to know if they had any updates on you. Right now everything was just far too messy to know anything about anyone and there was a good chance that you were just being treated at a different hospital than usual due to the high causality count. He doesn't take no for an answer and manages to strong arm the name of the other hospitals you could have been sent to, starting up his car again right as his phone lights up with your name.

"What do you think you're doing not answering your phone?!" he yells, making you flinch.

Rafayel's never been mad at you, certainly not to this extent but you know that it's because he's anxious. He immediately catches himself too and you hear it, catching the sound of his hands against his steering wheel as he takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. Just - where are you?" he asks, sounding so exhausted that you feel like crying.

"I'm okay Rafayel," you say instead, adding the name of your hospital. He's immediately driving over as you talk to him, keeping your voice even.

"I was split up from the group is all, then triaged at a different hospital. I'm fine though - I managed to just sprain my wrist from overexertion so I'll have a sling for a bit-"

"You're staying with me then. I'm not having you stay alone with a broken wrist. Knowing you you'd do something dumb and make it worse," he scoffs, trying his best to drive safely to see you again. You don't bother to correct him, knowing that's the least of your worries.

You fall quiet, not sure how to respond. Rafayel has always been good at masking how he feels, rarely showing you what he's hiding behind his mask. Now he's an open book, making it clear that nothing will be okay until he sees you again.

"Okay," you agree, leaning further back into the pillows of your hospital bed. "They wanted me to be released into the care of someone if I could anyway. That's why I was calling you - that, and trying to return all your missed calls."

"Thank you," he says so quietly you barely hear him over the sound of his car.

"Of course my love," you say just as softly. "I knew you'd worry as soon as you saw the news."

Another moment passes between the two of you. Rafayel thinks his heart fell out of his chest - or it would have if it was still his to hold. Instead, it's beating firmly in your palm, only able to do so under your affections.

"Rafayel, I'm really fine, I promise. I'm just hungry. Let's get something for dinner, yeah?" you offer, hoping to redirect his energy.

"Yeah," he replies, exhaling deeply.

"Anything you want my beloved. Just name it and it's yours."

[leclsrc]

do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

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

word count: 10.5k  

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

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

“Portugal is not boring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

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

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

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

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

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

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

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

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

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

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

“Try fourteen,” you argue. 

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

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

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

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

“I am not a big reader. You?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

He squints. “Beer?”

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

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he responds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feel good?

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m cumming—!

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

“I said fuck me.”

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

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

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

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

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if your dad walked in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look pretty.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

[ham1lton]

SHE’S SO LUCKY, SHE’S A STAR!

pairing: charles leclerc × famous!reader.

warnings: mentions of mental health. slightly angsty.

summary: lucky is the dream girl. she has everything. the man, the career, and the fame…. or does she?

faceclaim: britney spears ♡

author’s note: this has been in my drafts for SO long. glad to share it with you. let me know if you enjoyed it! <3

— part of the diva anthems series ♪

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liked by lucky, landonorris and 1,383,737 others.

charles_leclerc: happy music video release day to the love of my life! thank you for letting me be a part of your journey. i’m your biggest fan until the end of the road.

also keep an eye out for my cameo on oops!… i did it again - out now! :)

tagged: @ lucky

view all 234,982 comments

user1: he’s so whipped it’s adorable. he truly loves her.

user2: the album is so good. this is crazy!! the album of the year.

*liked by charles_leclerc*

user3: favourite song?

-> charles_leclerc: i love them all…. but dear diary.

user4: charles in his acting era omg.

-> user5: charles leclerc: f1 driver, astronaut, actor and official wag to thee yn.

-> user6: lucky has his ass WORKING 😭

user7: charles going from having a crush on yn to dating her?? he needs to give me his game card. i need to use it on theo james.

user8: OOPS U THINK IM IN LOVE THAT IM SENT FROM ABOOOOOOVVVVEEE

-> user9: IM NOT THAT INNOCENTTT

user10: video vixen charles 😍

user11: the titanic reference omg!!!

lucky: i love you!!! i’m your biggest fan. this album wouldn’t be here without you. 💕

-> charles_leclerc: 💕

────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────

"so are we ready for the tour" your manager speaks to your team. you're wearing a threadbare t-shirt that you stole from charles' wardrobe and a pair of jeans that were more comfortable than stylish.

no one commented on your lack of makeup.

“i can't do a tour." you say, softly.

“you have to. it's the best way to make money. the more shows you do, the more money you make."

“it’s not that. it's just... i'm tired." being lucky, the superstar was a façade. one that you felt that only you could pull off.

it took a certain amount of mental fortitude to lie to everyone in your life.

"maybe next year? can we delay it at least?"

"what about your fans? you know the music industry, yn. the less you strike while the iron is hot, the bigger the chance you’ll be irrelevant when the next new thing comes out.” a executive says. “besides, we’ve already announced it.”

to be genuinely honest, you didn’t care. it would have been absolutely fine for you to retire now. you felt that you’d made your mark. tours would drag you away from your loved ones, they require constant discipline and a lot of effort. something which you didn’t have a lot of at the moment.

“okay. how many shows?”

“not too many. around 80/90.”

you bite your inner cheek and nod. there isn’t anything else you can do.

────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────

liked by billieeilish, beyoncé and 2,493,928 others.

lucky: this has been a work that has been lovingly crafted by so many people. i want to thank my team, everyone who helped to bring this album to life. my best friend who would always bring coffee to set, my makeup artist and stylist tina who helped me create this gorgeous look and my incredible fans who make every release one i look forward to sharing to you. ‘oops!… i did it again’ is out now!

also i see you already getting your red jumpsuits ready for halloween!! tina’s already posted a list of makeup products on her ig - @makeupbyti.

also the biggest thank you to my biggest fan, my confidante and my forever muse - @charles_leclerc. this album wouldn’t be possible without you. thanks for being my first listener. i love you till the end of the road 💕

view all 107,928 comments

user1: THANK YOU TINA!

-> lucky: we love tina in this household 💕

user2: “HER FOREVER MUSE” excuse me while i sob, scream and perhaps cry.

-> user3: i need a love like theirs one day.

user4: ALBUM BANGS

user5: NOW IM STRONGER THAN YESTERDAY!

-> user6: NOW IT’S NOTHIN BUT MY WAY

-> user7: MY LONELINESS AINT KILLIN ME NO MOREEE!

user8: ONE KISS FROM YOU!! AND SUDDENLY

-> user9: I SEE THE ROAD LEAD OUT IN FRONT OF MEEEE

user10: IM A CMULM STAN! SOTY!!!! 😋

billieeilish: thank you for letting me help write some songs alongside you. i love you 🖤

-> lucky: love you the most billie. thank you!!

-> user4: this is my favourite music friendship. so cute.

────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────

────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────

you pull out your phone when you see charles ringing. you smile to yourself and lie it against the pillow across from you. when the facetime connects, you see he’s in the same position as you. sleep rumbled with flushed cheeks and twinkly eyes.

you want to kiss him but you’re in amsterdam and he’s in madrid. you doubt you would even have time to make it, even if you could justify the expense to your team.

“hi sweet girl.” he grins at you. “you look pretty.”

“you’re prettier. didn’t you see the tweets? i manifested you.” you laugh slightly. “lucky girl with a gorgeous boyfriend.”

“opposite way around actually. lucky guy.”

“i miss you.” you sigh, looking around your hotel room. it’s gorgeous. it has everything you could possibly want or need and if it didn’t, a quick phone call downstairs would immediately rectify that. but you miss charles. you miss your best friend. you miss your home.

“i miss you too. next time i get a break i’m flying to wherever you are and that’s a promise. okay?”

“okay.”

────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────

FIVE MONTHS LATER.

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liked by messyfan1, messyfan2 and 1,827,346 others

ham1ltonshaderoom: according to sources, singer yn yln and athlete charles leclerc have broken up. the reason being that their busy schedules had gotten too intense for the two of them to handle. singer yn, also known by her stage name lucky, has just embarked on her newest world tour and driver charles is currently travelling for his f1 races.

sources state that their families and friends were all ‘shocked’ by the news as it seemingly came out of the blue. with one party stating that he had seen them only a month earlier and they were ‘all over each other’:

view the link in bio for more information, but how are we feeling at the demise of the power couple ham1ltons?

view all 497,868 comments

user1: well how is he gonna stay relevant now?

-> user2: he’s an f1 driver. i think he’ll be fine.

-> user1: don’t gaf. he’s a flop. how do you fumble THEE yn yln?

user3: NOOOOOOOOOO JUST FELL TO MY KNEES

user4: wait um… why am i happy… yn is single now

user5: him breaking up with her because she got successful is sick. men always want to destroy a woman when they become more successful than them.

-> user6: we don’t know that’s why they broke up or that he was the one who initiated. it could have been her or it could have been mutual.

user7: good. he’s been driving like shit since he started dating her.

-> user8: okay now that’s a lie 😭

user9: this is so sad. they were in love just before she went on the tour. could they not handle long distance?

-> user10: probably not. while yn was writing and recording, she was able to be more flexible so she would travel with charles wherever he went but being on tour means she can’t do that.

-> user11: this makes me believe it was his fault and he broke up with her.

-> user10: i always hated them together anyways. athletes are always bad news.

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liked by pierregasly, landonorris and 1,626,727 others.

charles_leclerc: leo, frank and i.

view all 238,727 comments

user1: the dog is so cute :(

user2: is it true y’all?? did they really break up?

-> user3: they kept all the pictures of each other on their profile and he still follows her.

user4: CHARLES MARC HERVÉ PERCEVAL LECLERC WHAT IS GOING ON 😭

user9: the frank song… oh they’re over :(

-> user10: he’s playing SELF CONTROL too 😭😭

-> user11: is the lyric choice deliberate? yn cried on stage the other day :(

-> user12: idk omg. it sounds like a dick move if so… poor lucky :((

user5: that f1 gossip page was lowkey right because yn is halfway through her tour and he hasn’t been to ONE tour date.

-> user6: thats lowkey crazy when u consider how she would always come to his races to support him.

user7: i just want them back together :( they were the only celeb couple i could stomach.

-> user8: no deadass. they were my taylor/travis.

user13: frank ocean…. this is the most post-breakup ex boyfriend post ever 😭 charlesynnies we lost.

────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────

PARTIAL PHONE TRANSCRIPT BETWEEN YN YLN AND CHARLES LECLERC. — LEAKED BY TMZ.

YLN (CRYING): i hate it. i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry charles. i didn’t want to do it. i just can’t do it anymore.

LECLERC: hey, it’s okay. i get it. it’s okay. i’m not upset with you. i’m not angry.

YLN: i fucking hate touring. i hate it so much. it takes everything from me. i broke up with you because i knew you’d get tired of me. that the tour would make me a shell of myself and you’d inevitably dislike me.

LECLERC: where did you get that from?

YLN: that’s what my ex did. i don’t even blame him.

LECLERC: but i’m not him. i understand that it takes a lot from you but a relationship isn’t supposed to be 50/50 all the time. sometimes it’s 90/10 or 70/30. it’s okay for me to help you. you’ve already done what? two thirds of the tour? not too much left to get through and then you’ll be free. you can do it.

YLN: i know. i just hate it. i love my fans and i love making music but the tour is just too much. this is my third tour in two years…. i miss you. i’m sorry.

LECLERC: i miss you too yn. there is nothing to be sorry about.

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liked by messyass1, messyass2 and 2,837,123 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: tmz leaked the audio of a emotional phonecall between exes superstar yn yln, more famously known as lucky, and f1 athlete charles leclerc. the two minute leak has the global superstar crying about her current tour and her ex-boyfriend comforting her.

what do we think of the leak ham1ltons?

view all 789,927 comments

user1: oh this is so disgusting my god.

user2: whoever leaked this go to hell. this was very much a private moment between the two.

user3: yn’s management need to let her take a break. a album and a world tour EVERY YEAR is insane!!! i’m surprised she hasn’t burnt out yet.

-> user4: she’s reaching the end of her rope and that makes sm sense. this is a insane amount of work and she’s only in her early twenties!!!

user5: charles was so sweet. at least we know it wasn’t his fault but i feel so much for lucky :( she doesn’t deserve this.

user6: poor lucky :( her management should go to hell!!!

user7: she needs more people looking out for her. this is awful. why would someone even record this anyways???

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liked by ynswifey, messyass1 and 828,726 others.

charlesupdates: charles was spotted in rio de janeiro/galeão–antonio carlos jobim international airport! he signed a bunch of stuff for fans and then had to head off before taking any pictures! i wonder where he’s headed? 🤔

view all 124,837 comments

user1: OMGGGGG

user2: LUCKY IS PERFORMING IN RIO DE JANEIRO

user3: CHARLESYN BACK TOGETHER AGAIN THANK YOU GOD PLEASE

user4: PLEASE PLEASE

user5: ITS HER LAST TOUR DATE PLEASE

user6: i’ve never been this invested in a celebrity relationship ever but i really want this for both of them!!! they seem miserable without each other.

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liked by charles_leclerc, billieeilish and 3,938,737 others.

lucky: and that’s a wrap on the world tour! thank you to all of my incredible fans, the hardworking and talented team behind the scenes and my family and friends for being there for me throughout everything.

a lot of things have been speculated upon and discussed on the internet about me and my life. i am aware of my status and how it endorses these sort of conversations about me but i just want to encourage kindness. we don’t know what someone is going through and a little compassion can go a long way.

i will be taking some time off for my own personal reasons as the tour has wrapped up, but i will see you next year. i love you! stay lucky!!! 💕

tagged: @ charles_leclerc

view all 1,562,828 comments

user1: WAR IS OVER THANK YOU LORD!!!!!!

user2: take all the time u need lucky!!! we love you!!!

user3: CHARLESYNNIES HOW WE FEELIN??

user4: THE PIC OMG! they’re so cute :(

-> user5: yn was so happy at this concert, and charles was spotted there all four nights!!!

-> user6: i love them 🥺🥺🥺

user7: lucky i hope u spend this time having fun and relaxing!!! u deserve it!!

user8: missed seeing charles being tagged in every lucky post…. IM SO HAPPY THEYRE BACK TOGETHER.

billieeilish: i love u :(

-> lucky: i love u too!!! i’m still around!!! always :)

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liked by lucky, arthur_leclerc and 1,726,828 others.

charles_leclerc: home ♥️

tagged: @ lucky

view all 236,727 comments

────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────

— diva anthems taglist: @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @chuxk-lerclerk @ivyvlair @luvsforme @claymoreshaze @mehrmonga

— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @aliciaablueprint @lennnooshh @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @theblueblub @lavisenri @marshmummy @23victoria @ourlifeforchaos @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @tsireyasgf @landososcar @yongi-lee @maxlarens @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong

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[cy-cyborg]

It's been confirmed that there are 3 amputees in the main cast of Dragon Age: the veilguard - Neve (leg amputee), Bellara (arm amputee) and your inquisitor (arm amputee). So as an amputee myself, here are some things I'd like to see.

Note: these aren't predictions, just things I'd really like to be included.

The inquisitor doesn't use a prosthetic (I already talked about this in its own post but with 3 amputees, and 2 of them already being shown to use prosthetics that, lets be honest, do look like "perfect replacement" prosthetics, it would be nice to see at least one who doesn't)

We will get to customise our inquisitor in chatacter creation, so I would love, if they do use a prosthetic, for there to be some customisability to it (im not holding my breath there but still).

Neve and Bellara's prosthetics aren't perfect prosthetics, and they are actually acknowledged as being disabled while still being active members of your party.

There's some kind of party banter between Neve and Bellara about some of the downsides/problems with their prosthetics, not necessarily in a "poor them" way, but in a "ugh, don't you just hate it when you can't get the stupid thing on in the morning" kind of way.

I get a kind of jokey/adventurous vibe from Bellara, I hope they aren't affraid to let her use her prosthetic for pranks or jokes. I don't think neve would, but I can see bellara having a blast with it.

I hope the prosthetics come off during down time. No amputee wears their prosthetics 24/7, it's uncomfortable, and they get heavy and sore after using them all day.

I hope we see Neve express some frustration or see her alter her walk animation on rough terrain. It's hard to get a clear look because the trailers she's been shown in are so dark, but her foot doesn't look articulated, which is going to change how she walks, even just a little bit.

I hope the prosthetics don't break - this is a trope I'm starting to notice more and more, where someone has a perfect prosthetic that is only not a perfect replacement when it breaks, usually for plot reasons, at which point the character in question is forced out of the action until its fixed. DA has forced companions out of your party for story reasons before (e.g. solas after you free his spirit friend and he needs to cool off) so I can see this being used for plot, and I really hope it's not.

The inquisitor, Neve and Bellara compair prosthetists (the maker of the prosthetic) and maker techniques.

I really doubt they'll do this but I'd love it if random NPC's approach you if you have any of the amputees in your party to ask what happened and/or make weird comments at them ("but cy, that would be so annoying and inconvenient!" That's the point. So many people do that to irl amputees, and it's never at a convenient or even safe time, and I've never seen it happen in media. A game is arguably the best place to have it happen, in, say, a random event similar to the ones that could happen in origins)

In that same vein, I'd love to see a scene where someone approaches the inquisitor to call them an inspiration- you and the inquisitor assume it's for, you know, beating corripheus (I know I spelled it wrong lol) and saving the world, but it's revealed the chatacter has no idea who the hell the inquisitor is and just means it's inspiring that they're out in public "like that" - referring to their arm. This also happens to me all the time, and you can't tell me some snooty orlesean or tevinter noble wouldn't make those back-handed compliments, lol. You also can't convince me that any version of the inquisitor would just accept that

I hope none of the chatacters are used as inspiration porn ("don't you worry Rook! I can still pull my own weight on the team despite being an amputee, you just have to give me a chance to prove myself!")

At least one of the chatacter's stories of how they lost their limb is left untold in game (we don't always need to know how it happened if it's not relevent to the plot).

Like I said, these aren't predictions, just my hopes. I wouldn't hold my breath for any of these to be honest (bioware has not been the best in term of disability rep in the past) but A lot of them wouldn't be hard to implement and could take the representation from hardly even acknowledging their disability to something actually pretty decent disability rep-wise. It's also pretty rare to have so many characters with the same kind of disability in the cast of such a mainstream piece of media, and I really, really hope they do something with that because you can have a lot of fun with that.

[xeas]

Can you please do a Norton and fool's gold with a reader where the reader has cinnamoroll personality (cinnamoroll is from sanrio)

MIND OVER MATTER IS MAGIC!

🍍 IN WHICH: drabbles (seperately) of Norton Campbell and Fool's Gold with a reader who is like cinnamoroll from sanrio (basically, shy yet sweet who will also help out their friends whenever they can)

🥥 NOTE FROM XEA!: thank you so much for your request! i love writing for norton but im wary my fools gold may ooc...haha...

🫧CONTENT WARNINGS: pre-established relationship, Norton may appear overprotective, mc may appear to be 'pure and innocent' in a fashion that may be perceived as corny to some readers. reader is referred to as "doll" in Norton's section, "babyface" in Fools Gold's. Seer is mentioned and Grave keeper is implied in Fools Gold section. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

NORTON CAMPBELL; The Prospector

NORTON swears up and down he's done nothing worthy of him deserving you.

The way your thumb grazes his knuckles in a comforting manner--whether to soothe your own nerves or his is unsure-- but the expression of innocence coated on your face both makes his heart sink to his stomach and gives him butterflies.

You have the eyes of someone who has gazed at few possible traumatic scenarios and the skin of one who not been lashed by the harsh truths of the world. He squishes down his feeling of envy when he feels he's going too far down the rabbit hole of his thoughts.

But now, as he bandages up your wound from the cold Night Watch, he can't help but realize how that weighs you down. It wasn't supposed to be you with the gash in your thigh it was supposed to be the teammate you wasted no time saving. You took a hit for them, and for what? So they could have a futile 5 seconds to run as fast as they could only for the harsh winter wind to yank them back to the hunter? You we're such a fool, having so much faith in these people.

But that's what led you two to become such a power couple. You gave him a chance.

"Norton-"

"Hush up, doll." And you do just that.

He looks angry and you feel nervous because of it.

"I'm sorry for getting injured." You mumble quietly. You don't expect a 'Its fine' or a 'Its not your fault' because this was a rookie mistake and you by no means are a rookie.

He remains silent, finishing up dressing your wound. His gloved hands go to hold your thighs as you sit in some corner of burned down building in the Arms Factory.

"Don't do that again." He states. Its not up for debate and you silently nod, moving to give his forehead a kiss as you steady yourself to get up and work on getting out of here.

NORTON CAMPBELL; Fools Gold (Hunter Identity)

"Hm, shame. Really."

Fools Gold let out a teasing laugh as he shoved you into a chair. He leaned on the wall behind it as you glared up at him. Fools gold clicked his tongue (does he even have one??) and fake pouted, most likely mocking you.

"D'aw, don't look at me like that, Babyface. You wouldn't be like this if you didn't sacrifice yourself for that silly little seer."

At least he was brutally honest.

Your muscles are screaming at you and you can feel them throbbing after you spent the last 2 minutes running and jumping and rolling to get away from him.

He traces your jawline with his pickaxe, you can feel your face heat up as Fools Gold lets out a wheezing chuckle. "All bark huh?"

You try to stutter out a response not until you see the ground beside you break. This was going to take a while.

୨🐙୧ ‧ 𝙃𝘼𝙑𝙀 𝘼𝙉 𝘼𝙈𝘼𝙕𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝘿𝘼𝙔! ⋆ ˚｡

🌺 𝙓𝙊𝙓𝙊,

XEA!

[yuri-is-online]

hey so can I have a scenario with Azul where he has a s/o and that s/o and him get along really well but this s/o also isn’t afraid to just be blunt and upfront with him about stuff? Their first meeting is him and the tweels doing something bad to this s/o, really bad, not like an annoyance. and they threaten to boil the three of them, actually being scary and meaning it. They’re being held back by their friends. S/o also scared people who aren’t their friends in the back though. After the bad first meeting, the second meeting goes better cuz they kind of try not to push s/o buttons, s/o is way nicer and ends up partnering up by the teachers orders with Azul and s/o comments on Azul being really smart and is super genuinely sweet and really smart themselves. They make a pretty good team working together? Does he and tweels ever apologise? If so s/o is like “It’s ok. Im sorry for saying I’d cook you. Realised a while ago that was messed up”? How do you think Azul would go about a relationship like this?

Hey so my requests are closed right now, so while I won't write out a full scenario I will answer the question I think you are asking?

I always write my reader as Yuu, so some degree of bad first impression is always going to be present. The scenario in Book 3 is something very bad and not just a mild annoyance; I don't think Azul likes being seen as the bad guy? But to a certain extent threats (even ones like being boiled alive) aren't really special to him because he hears them so often. I think he tunes them out when they come from someone like Yuu/the prefect because he does not see you as an actual threat. He takes someone like Leona more seriously because as a fellow Dorm Leader and a Prince, he has the sort of clout to hurt Azul's operation and reputation. The twins are a bit different, I could see them being a mix of amused and irritated with such an insult. After Azul's overblot it leans more towards amusement as they decide they like the initiative Yuu showed in out smarting them (not that they intend to let it happen again.) I really doubt there is much Yuu could do to make the twins not want to press their buttons, Jade in the most recent event mulls over the logistics of fucking with Malleus and Floyd quite literally presses a button Leona tells him not to.

Azul sees romantic love as something to capitalize on, I don't think he's thought terribly much about falling in love himself. If he stopped to think about it, there's a decent chance he might be afraid of it. He is the child of divorced parents, and he does not seem to have much of a relationship with his biological father. His relationship with his mother and step-father is good, at least from what he tells us, but he is not comfortable talking about or labeling his relationships in an emotional sense. He doesn't even refer to the twins as his friends even though that is very much what they are to him. When it comes to romantic relationships, it doesn't really matter what the person is like; there is going to be a lot of denial on Azul's part that what he feels is romantic love. He might very well deny it to the point of losing out on a relationship and deny that he is in pain until the day he dies.

Something I turn over in my head a lot is Azul's line when you upgrade his vignette/episode level. He tells you that someone as compassionate as you will be taken advantage of, and when that happens you should come see him. That's sort of how I approach writing him with a significant other. He wishes to take advantage of that person's kindness and monopolize their compliments, but at the same time he is deeply suspicious of attempts to take advantage of him and so plays down all attempts at the end of the chapter to compliment him. He would go about a relationship like the one you describe the same way he would go about any relationship: slowly and in denial about the appropriate label until he is forced to break.

[gigisriley]

wait people say charpim is toxic or that they wouldn't work out as a healthy relationship??? im so confused is this just angst being grafted onto them or is there a valid argument to be made here?

Im new to the smiling friends fanbase btw and mostly am a lurker that seldom comes by to see fan content lel

first off, WARGGGHHH thank you for the ask i’m literally SO excited to answer!!!

rambling below the cut!!

i’m in two camps on this one. I think charpim in its CURRENT state definitely wouldn’t work. BUT Pim is definitely the kind of person who has the capacity to help Charlie. Pim is a very affectionate guy, and he’s open, honest and sincere. Hle’s very genuine, compassionate and beyond kind. In other words, he’s *exactly* what Charlie needs. Pim can make him better.

Charlie isn’t a bad guy. He’s far from it, actually. His whole job revolves around making people smile, even if his goal is a paycheck and not that fuzzy feeling you get in your chest when you make someone’s day better.

But he’s a very flawed guy. In Charlie goes to Hell and Doesn’t Come Back, I remember reading somewhere that Micheal and Zach wanted to originally make Charlie vape in the beginning, but the studio wouldn’t let them. So they settled on energy drinks. Thats why The Devil says “I can quit my addicted vices whenever I want”- this is supposed to be a moment of realization for Charlie. He can see himself in The Devil in that moment.

In Erm, The Boss Finds Love? Charlie literally gets shitfaced at the wedding. Even as he walks into the break room the next day, he says “I can’t keep doing this. Something’s gotta change, brother.” in reference to his hangover. He’s unhappy with where he is, and he recognizes there is a problem. But he doesn’t do anything to fix that. In the alien episode, both him AND Pim get shitfaced.

Charlie also instigates fights. In both Charlie Dies and Doesn’t Come back and the alien episode, Charlie’s the one to stir the pot. When they go looking for a tree to chop down, Pim keeps a level head and calm voice. Charlie’s the one who raises his voice and takes the axe to the tree. Charlie instigates thus fights with the dudebro aliens, literally egging them on. He’s so caught up in this that he literally elbows Pim in the face.

Plus, you never want to get into a relationship with someone under the notion that you can “fix” them. More often than not, people don’t change. It takes a MAJOR life event or some kind of trauma for someone to change. And Charlie, in the face of LITERALLY being given a second chance, continues to drink, instigate fights, and give in to his addictive vices.

In his current state, Charlie would definitely be the ‘toxic’ one in the relationship. He’d instigate fights, come home drunk out of his gourd, and he’d hurt Pim emotionally. Whether or not he’d hurt him on purpose is up for debate. Pim would overexert himself trying to keep them together, and fall apart. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

Charlie needs to change if they’re going to work. He needs to get better. THATS why I think they wouldn’t work, at least not yet.

At the end of the day they’re just silly little guys in a cartoon about Friends Who Smile so i’m probably reading WAY too much into a guy who looks like a peep. But oh well. To be cringe is to be free.

(ID LOVE to talk more about this—- if anyone has any comments on this or disagrees, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know in the notes. i like talking about my silly little pink and yellow middle aged men)

[carlsangel]

MATCH UPS ARE BACK

THE WALKING DEAD

STATUS: CLOSED

i’m opening match ups back up for all twd characters!!!! so anyone who hasn’t gotten one can get a chance if they’d like!!! (i won’t write another for someone who’s already received one.)

so you could always go back and look at my original post (here) for this but i’m making a new one, just because i have some new stuff i’m adding.

REQUIREMENTS: for a match up i ask that you are following my blog!! also i WILL NOT be writing for anons, im sorry!!!

WHAT TO EXPECT: so i’ll be adding a bit more this time!! you will get your twd match, the usual 3-4 headcanons and a small drabble that also comes with a banner to fit the vibe, but i’ll also go a little more in depth. i’ll tell you how i think you would’ve met your match as well as a runner up and random facts about your relationship.

WHAT TO SEND: PLEASE SPECIFY WHAT GENDER MATCH UP YOURE LOOKING FOR! i do ask that you try to be super super descriptive on your personality AT LEAST, i really need stuff to work with. tell me your physical description (things like your eyes or hair, anything you want focused on in the drabble. you can send photo refs if you’re comfortable, picrews, art, wtv).

you can send your personality types or zodiac signs, your favorite things, your love language, literally anything that defines you as a person i can work with. if you give me short and undetailed descriptions, it wont be easy for me to match you with someone and it may be inaccurate and will take longer for me to write.

NOTICE!!!: i will not be writing any smut for these match ups, everything will be safe for work. i won’t write for anons because i don’t reply to asks regarding match ups, i feel weird putting people’s information out there. if you send me a reference photo, it won’t be posted as every time i write a match up, after it’s completed and posted, i delete the ask from my inbox.

go ham but not too ham cuz i’ll cry. they won’t be posted one by one i hope, instead it’ll be all written and then i’ll post them over the course of a certain amount of time, probably a week. ok i love you bye!!!

[theoldoor]

topaz day bc i love her sm dont u dare say a word about her shes my sister, girl, bestfriend, etc… aventurine likers who doesn’t appreciate her isnt a real aventurine liker bc if u truly liked him YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT SHE’S HIS FOIL. SHE FOILS HIS CHARACTER. AND SHE HERSELF IS ALSO A GOOD REP OF GROOMING VICTIM.

shes the best friend, shes the gal who supports i love her so much and yet she’s seen as nothing within the fandom… its either “omg i hate avenpaz” or talking down on her bc she devotes herself to the IPC like damn ofc she would SHES BEING MANIPULATED TO SHUT YO BUMASS UP. if youre gonna be a gooner or a hater at least hate critically. understand before you hate. hate with knowledge.

SHE’S THE FOIL TO AVENTURINE. JUST LIKE HOW RUAN MEI IS THE FOIL TO DR RATIO.

I feel like she and aventurine being the younger people + under jade’s care is intentional for them to highlight each other’s characters. (even their primary colors are reversed broo… cuz like, aventurine is green and inverted color of green is red and that’s topaz).

im going to go on an analysis ramble here, im not rereading anything ok PUTTING MY LIT STUDENT BRAIN TO WORK HERE

Topaz in a gem itself symbolizes strength, wisdom and calming influence and throughout the story we can see her as a character who was reliable and calculated considering her conservative approaches to the challenges she faced in the quest.

This is a juxtaposition well played by hoyoverse to highlight their decision-making processes - which is a foundation for their character. Aventurine is a gambler. His life philosophy is well known with his iconic quote of “high-stakes, high-rewards”. In contrast, Topaz represents a more calculated approach, even voice line during combat was “low-risk, high reward”.

Aventurine’s appearance and demeanor are misleading. Even his smiles serves as nothing more than a mask to fool others. And his Avgin eyes contributes more to this enigmatic nature - such colorful eyes, yet so dull and devoid of life. Much like hiding a complex hidden world under his “brazen bravado” attitude and flashy outfits. This creates an ironic contrast between how he appears and the “extraordinarily faint self beneath.”

Conversely, Topaz is straightforward and transparent. As seen with her attitude in her quest in Jarilo-IV. She wasn’t afraid to tell her tale of her planet, she was willing to talk it out and came to a calculated conclusion. Topaz’s character is also seen as affectionate and caring, as she was willing to take such a huge price for the people of Jarilo IV - of being demoted even and her care for her little pets in her splash art (+numby). Her strength lies in her compassion and clarity, providing a stark contrast to Aventurine’s deceptive nature - making her a trustworthy figure that emphasizes the irony of Aventurine’s masked intentions.

NOW ONTO THE PART I WANT TO TALK ABOUT

THEIR REACTION TO THEIR PAST.

Aventurine’s past as a slave and his resulting inferiority complex drove him to prove his worth through constant risk-taking. To be fate’s test dummy. To be thrown and tested around. To seek validation from risks. His need to control his fate, yet at the same time threaten it and challenge the blessing reveals a deep-seated desire to overcome his history - to let go yet he’s still stuck because his life is bound to his curse. Although one could argue that the IPC “saved his life”, he would still bite. His life is of no value anyways - he was just a pawn. Such as how Jade would still refer to him as “Aventurine” and not Kakavasha, even though knowing that it was his real name. He was nothing but a coin to the slots. A chance to see if they can reap the rewards.

Topaz, however, focused on building strength and validation from the efforts she puts out as seen with her and the IPC. Her project with Jarilo IV has caused her some distress, even during the Penacony quest as she was still bothered about it. But the moment Jade affirmed her, it soothed her almost immediately. She needed to prove herself to the people who “saved her planet”, to thank them as they gave her her life value. Jade, however, referred to Topaz with her real name, Jelena. Seemingly almost as if she valued her as Jelena, a person, and not a pawn on a board.

Topaz serves as a foil to Aventurine by embodying traits that contrast sharply with Aventurine’s risk-taking and enigmatic nature.

IF YOURE GONNA HATE, UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU HATE FIRST.

Fenrir and Topaz would get along. I wrote him to be Aventurine’s foil after all, they have a lot in common. Even their designs are similar with the color red and bows and the waist belt lol. They’re so best friend coded.

Fenrir would hang around for Numby and Numby is awfully fond of the man. Sometimes Topaz would think that Fenrir is a secret warp trotter because how tf did you write a whole study on language of warp trotter. And also, they both like shiny things. So hell yeah.

I have nothing to say they’re just so best friends.

[st4rgzer]

Can you write a about the reader loving Matt sm but knowing he doesn’t like her back. Liek don’t have a super happy ending but also don’t have a super sad one. Do it inspired by me and …

UNREQUITED (matt sturniolo)

summary: the reader experiences some unresponsive feelings from a special someone

genre: angst

cw: taylor swift references maybe…? Is that a warning? Other than that I really don’t think theres much

a/n: as always, @iha8you ‘s request, ly, also dw you’ll get him🙏

This winter had been hell for me, it was always my favorite holiday, the cool air, snow, when it rained and I got to stay home playing boardgames with my mum, or I finally got to read that book that had been collecting dust on my shelf for ages now that it was dark and rainy. No, none of it this year. Every time I hung out with him I held my breath, in fear I’ll do something wrong, take too much space, become too much of a liability. Its stupid, just stupid, I’m his best friend, known him since i was 16 years old, but he seemed so much more older, and wiser.I belittle myself next to him, instead of just letting go, I take a mental note of every little gesture he does that correlates in any way to me, every choice of words, I save them to then divulge them later. It’s draining, not knowing if its just all in your head. If you’ve got it wrong…

“y/n? Hellooo, are you there” i snapped out of my meditative state.I was cross legged on my bedroom floor with two of my closest friends, I didnt even remember what we were talking about anymore.

“yeah sorry i was just distracted” I sighed tying my hair back into a low ponytail and resting my hands on my knees

“we were talking about Matt? Y’know you actually have a chance with him, did you see the way he talked to you earlier?” My friends were only feeding into my delusions, the other nodded in agreement. Even if he did actually see me like that, i dont know what i would do, we’ve been friends since highschool, everything would just be too weird and messy, it wouldn’t be right, no, not with me, not with him.

“No, guys, stop, you’re all just talking nonsense and it just makes everything worse” I groaned, placing my head between my hands.

“C’mon, who could ever leave you?” She says giggling, looking over at my other friend, it wasn’t funny, not in that moment at least. I felt despaired, I know it’s obvious I like him, maybe no one actually takes it seriously when i throw in some extra compliments once in a while of some flirty remarks, but I never try to hide it, except the real thing of course. I know my love should be celebrated, I shouldn’t settle for someone who just tolerates it, but I keep going back to the same thing, always, no matter how many people I see, no matter how many excuses I make to not hang out, its like a moth to a flame, I know im bound to get burnt, trust me. My friends keep convincing me, I feel petty having to listen to them try and make me feel better. Sometimes I come close to actually getting serious then I just think its a waste of time, he just always assumes im fine when my eye contact becomes non existent and my words get mixed up, I dont think he notices it at least, I dont think he ever notices. I guess this means im just doomed, It doesn’t matter how many times my friends reassure me, how many “glances” i pick up from him, Im never going to be one of his main concerns, unrequited. Im always just dimly lit, just enough. I should start trying to accept, settle, “always the bridesmaid, never the bride”.

a/n: this is kind of sht i wrote this at 1:00am, I’ll write more with requests🙏😊😊

[soullessjack]

"tell me on anon what you wouldn’t off anon"

i think dean was straight up abusive towards jack and while there is room for redemption to be explored, in canon, the show did not give him any sort of redemption. in other words in my eyes "canon" dean winchester is an abuser (but canon is unimportant anyways so whatever)

im scared of saying this and getting stoned to death

no need to comment you can just post this without saying anything if you want

- 🏴‍☠️

no no you’re right and you should say it, however I disagree that Dean was completely abusive and that there was never any canon redemption.

firstly I think there’s a slight difference in someone being abusive vs being an abuser;

abuse (or abusive behavior/tendencies) can happen accidentally, unintentionally, especially if it’s resulted from trauma (like Dean’s). you can be completely unaware that something you’ve done or said is abusive, especially because being abusive can be as simple as yelling or hitting someone, or treating them unfairly (like jack). people who have abusive tendencies or behaviors are capable of regretting it and wanting/trying to change…whereas an abuser is wholly aware, intentional and remorseless about their actions. they know what they are doing, they know it’s immoral/inhumane and they just don’t care—either because they feel entitled or justified in some way, or even if they don’t.

Dean has repeatedly shown plenty of regret, guilt and blatant self hatred for his abusive tendencies and how they affect the people around him. It’s one of the most important parts of his character, being the crux of his self worth and why he can’t accept that people (Cas) genuinely care about him or consider him a good person. When he refers to himself as “daddy’s blunt instrument” or “poison,” it isn’t just about being a hunter whose life constantly risks other peoples inescapably, it’s also about the violent nature that’s instilled into Dean constantly by John and how both of those things either isolates him from getting close to anyone else, or drives away people who do get close. That’s why there’s no light at the end of the tunnel for Dean, why he’s so resigned to dying bloody. It’s all he thinks he can ever have or really deserve.

When Jack is dying in 14x07, Dean physically cannot stand to see it. He’s angry that Jack is dying so young and so out of nowhere; he thinks it’s unfair and wrong, point blank. But above all else, (as Sam says) Dean canonically has never forgotten or forgiven himself for how he had treated Jack, even though by this point in time they’ve already had a good relationship for the past two years. He’s angry and upset that Jack is dying, but he’s also upset because he still thinks, after all this time, that he’s never been able to fully make up for what he did, and now he’s lost any chance to with Jack’s limited time. That’s why Dean decides to take him on the road trip; that’s why he says “Who would’ve thought being around me (the person who treated you terribly at one point) would make you (the person who didn’t deserve it) sentimental?”

When Dean leaves Jack’s room for the last time and wounds up being absent for his death, he’s even more upset about it, and later brings it up to take a dig at Sam for thinking he didn’t do enough for Jack because, by Dean’s own admission, Sam had always been the one to do more. “At least you were there for him [because I wasn’t, and I see that as another failure on top of everything else I did to him before].” And then, after the three of them get hammered in Jack’s memory, Dean turns to Cas and asks, “we did everything we could, right?” There’s a lot more in 14x07 but I’ll leave it alone for now, and move onto the redemption part of what you said.

I know I said I disagreed, but really it’s only partially; instead I believe that the show simply didn’t give enough time for a complete redemption (save me spn revival wish fulfillments, spn revival wish fulfillments save me). The end of S14 is basically the destruction of the Team Free Will 2.0 found family unit, not just between Dean and Cas, but also between Dean and Sam, and Jack and the three of them. And I think the reason there’s so much more emphasis on Dean’s relationship with Jack (+ why the family unit falling apart is specifically centered on it) is specifically because of how they started; Dean was initially the only one to be distrustful of Jack and mistreat him as a result, whereas Sam and Cas were willing to see Jack with more humanity and goodness, and when Jack proved that he was good that was the crux of Dean’s guilt going forward; his distrust was wrong and misguided, and the abuse he put Jack through because of it was even more wrong and undeserved.

But then after Mary’s death, the three of them have no idea what to think. They’re more reluctant than Bobby is to admit that Jack could have simply had his evil bone activated after losing his soul/eating Michael’s grace, but they aren’t excluding the idea either. The question up in the air now is: “Was Dean right all along? Were we wrong for trusting Jack and thinking he was good? Is all of this our fault?” (and going back to 14x07, the basic ‘framework’ of Dean’s dynamic with Jack is basically ‘I was wrong about you being evil and now that I love you I want to be keep being wrong about you being evil’ and ‘I want you to be wrong about me being evil too, especially now that you love me and I love you’).

Sam, Dean, Cas and Jack are all presented with the worst case scenario that had always been hanging over Jack’s entire existence. None of them want to believe it after growing so close to him (and vice versa), but they’re not given much else to consider. Mary’s death was one thing, one horrible tragic wound reopening, but they knew it was an accident and they knew Jack had tried to fix it. It isn’t until Duma got her claws into Jack and ordered him to kill nonbelievers that TFW finally decides they have to do something final about Jack, and Dean resumes his militant Kill All Monsters behavior. He’s dissociating into the blunt instrument mindset to protect himself from the grief of losing his mother and potentially losing his son. He can’t even bear to consider Jack his son anymore, both because of Mary and the task of killing him, so Jack becomes “just another monster,” in his dissociative mind. His son wouldn’t have killed Mary or tortured Nick or murdered people randomly because his son was a good person, and his son does not deserve to die, but whatever identical monster has inexplicably replaced Jack would certainly do that and certainly does deserve to die.

Dean’s “poison” is rooted in the fact that his coping mechanisms are intertwined with abusive tendencies and behaviors. He pushes people away if he thinks he doesn’t deserve their respect or love, and he buries any emotional attachment to them because he knows it’s his greatest weakness. That’s why he couldn’t bring himself to shoot Jack, regardless of the grief he felt for Mary or how much he tried to see Jack as a monster that wasn’t really his son. When Jack knelt down, said “I understand. I know what I’ve done. And you were right all along. I am a monster,” and then waited for the gun to go off, that’s what snapped Dean out of it. That’s what got him to see that this was still his son—that and the road trip from 14x07 flashing before his eyes. The grief he feels for Mary’s death is still painful and will be for a long time, but he won’t let it cloud him from seeing that his son is still there and still a good person who deserves the chance to make it right and be forgiven.

That militant dissociation comes back again following Jack’s death and Chuck’s retaliation/reveal that they’ve been nothing but a bunch of lowbrow Truman Burbanks to an unfeeling deity their entire lives. The most recent Destivorce is because Dean has constantly been pushing Cas away and severing their ties to cope with the situation. It’s bad throughout all of S15, but it’s especially worse towards the end when Dean is rampant on Jack’s suicide bomb plan happening for a chance at freedom. I’ve seen a LOT of people say that Dean’s love is conditional because of this, but it really…isn’t.

If Dean never cared about Jack, he’d never take time out of his life to spend some final moments with him, or share a specific father/son memory with him to indirectly communicate that he does see Jack as a son, but ultimately doesn’t feel like he deserves to be a father. If he truly felt that Jack “wasn’t family,” he wouldn’t have shown any of the concern for Jack that he did after Jack detonated in the Empty (frantically demanding to know if he’s alive and to bring him back); he wouldn’t have tried to apologize to Jack for hearing it, and he wouldn’t have *checks transcript* reacted in mild horror at Jack agreeing with what he said (and personally, if I’m insulting someone, I would want them to feel the same way that I feel).

Additionally, If Dean’s love is conditional, particularly on the basis of how useful someone is to him, then he wouldn’t have been expecting Jack to come back home with them or considering buying him actual gifts (a flat screen TV and a recliner, specifically for his room in the Bunker I might add) for saving the world.

Out of all the problems S15 had, I think the pacing was the absolute worst. Too many plots and one-off characters and plot devices squeezed into a short amount of episodes; too much focus put into filler instead of plot progression, etc etc. But what it absolutely missed out on was granting any of the characters any proper closure. I think that’s why Dean’s conflict with Jack feels so unresolved and unredeemed. Dean gets mean -> Dean feels bad -> Dean gets nice again, but that’s about it. For now I tend to view his dynamic with Jack as them being two sides of the same coin: Dean feels like he doesn’t deserve to be a father figure to Jack after everything he did, and Jack feels like he doesn’t deserve to be a part of their family as a son after everything he did.

[llyfrenfys]

i must admit i know nothing of welsh history or language. im reclaiming learning the irish language bc i know the history of it and bc i think it's essential to protect native languages of various places. but as someone who doesn't know welsh history, i see "its not like welsh people were beaten for speaking it" and i recoil in a sense of distaste. because while i may not know the history, i very much doubt no one ever in the world has been beaten for speaking welsh, that's a pretty huge assumption to make even if a language isn't being legally oppressed (assuming thats what op really meant). but also, i just loathe the idea that only minority languages are worth saving or caring about if they're being beaten out of people. genocide happens in many ways and only some of them are actually active violence/assault, most are subversive, and purposefully so

idk if i should even be speaking on this bc i dont know the history of welsh but i feel like you literally dont need to know the history behind it to see something very wrong with "speakers of a minority language should shut up if they're not actively being killed for it"

Sorry I took so long in getting to this ask (post anon is referring to) but yeah- that post was gobsmacking to me as a Welsh speaker. I've studied language loss and revitalisation and I can name several endangered languages in which children (and adults) were beaten and abused for speaking their native tongue. For example, we covered the Tlingit language in Alaska (one of the few North American languages I've studied) which is subject to a revival- some Tlingit wanted to learn the language, while others (usually older people) had an aversion to the language. One man said that whenever he speaks Tlingit he can taste soap because he was punished as a boy for speaking Tlingit by having a bar of soap put in his mouth. Language loss via abuse is real and prevalent in many, many endangered languages. The audacity to assume Welsh is somehow immune to that was astounding.

But even if Welsh *was* immune to that somehow (it wasn't) you're right in that we should care about the decline of a language even if it doesn't involve overt suppression. More surreptitious kinds of linguistic genocide lie within the state apparatus. For example, when Wales was merged into the Kingdom of England (see: the Laws in Wales Acts 1535 and 1542) the language of the legal system in Wales was changed to English-only, depriving monolingual Welsh speakers (Welsh was spoken in pretty much every part of Wales at this point) of legal services. This meant that Welsh speakers were effectively pressured indirectly to learn English in order to have a chance at any legal services in court. Over time, the privileging of English over Welsh created a pressure to abandon Welsh in favour of English, because there were 'more opportunities' in English than in Welsh.

Similarly, the true Treachery of the Blue Books wasn't that the British Government in 1847 had ordered a review into Welsh schools and found that too many people were speaking Welsh- but that Welsh-speaking parents began to forbid their children from learning Welsh and supported the findings of the inquiry because they too had felt that pressure of English-language supremacy. Believing that there's more opportunities in English than in Welsh. It's an unfortunate legacy and attitude which still persists today- and none of the Commissioners of the Blue Book Inquiry shed any blood in doing so. But the impact was nonetheless dire. It's also a self-creating cycle: There are no opportunities in Welsh -> People learn English instead of Welsh for opportunities -> There's fewer Welsh speakers to create more opportunities in Welsh ->There are no opportunities in Welsh.

But yeah, I have no idea what the OP of that other post was thinking but it was offensively ignorant in any case. I'm glad though that Welsh's struggles are seen by others at least, in this day and age.

[beanghostprincess]

In reference to a previous ask you replied to, I'm so glad to find somebody else who thinks Garp is a shitty awful parent. He was so awful to Luffy but I keep seeing people going "oh he was such a good guardian".

I hate that trope in anime where you have a parent who tries to train their kid to be strong, but instead of doing it in any even slightly good way, they just beat and try to murder their kid and then the anime tries to pull the stupid "and the near constant death made me stronger, and that's why I love him." It's like NO, that man abused you and you need help.

(this is why Tekken is so good. Heihachi does the same to Kasuya, but instead of Kasuya loving his dad for dropping him off a cliff, Kasuya almost dies, makes a deal with a devil, spends the entire series waging literal war against Heihachi and trying to kill him)

You know who was a good guardian who actually properly and lovingly trained their child to be stronger? Kyros. The way Soldier-san cared for a trained Rebecca is the absolute peak of the parent-training-their-child trope because he actually did care for Rebecca and trained her to fight but made it clear that he wouldn't hold back in fighting because her opponents wouldn't either. (I'm also not done with Dressrosa yet, but im getting there).

Yeah. I have..... Some issues with Garp. Not as a character because I do love the way he's written and I think he's extremely complex (and also enjoy his scenes because, look, he's hilarious and his bond with Koby and Helmeppo makes me sob). He's just a shitty guardian. And hey, that doesn't mean he doesn't love his kids, but, uh, yeah. Love doesn't always fix everything. You can't "raise" a kid however you want and excuse it with love. Garp isn't a bad, horrible person for the mistakes he made, but he is not a good parent. He should've known better. I think he's facing the consequences of his actions right now in the manga and he did suffer most of them already after Marineford, so I usually don't talk that much about him. The man is tired. Not justifying what he did, but you know, at least he is aware of his mistakes and he is not actively being a horrible person.

The trope you mention bothers me so so much. I have no idea about Tekken but, you know, I get it. I hate when the writing ends up justifying that behavior when it comes to parenting.

Kyros my beloved, btw. I absolutely love him. He did so so good with Rebecca... I hope you enjoy the rest of the arc!!! The pacing is really meh but the amount of Doffy and Law we get (and a very specific Usopp scene that is one of my favorites from the whole show) and the awesome backstories make it worth it. Friendly reminder that right after Dressrosa comes Zou and then Whole Cake Island. And I say this because WCI is my favorite arc and if I don't mention this every time I have the chance I die.

[rxttenfish]

Omg what DOES Aaravi do as a monster slayer?

the short answer is that it varies with how much of my own stuff im willing to bring in, im afraid

mostly im waffling back and forth on this point right now because if i was a little closer to monster prom canon i might be able to have more fun with it and include a wider variety of situations and it wouldnt be such a downer as it would be in the other case...

mostly, the thing that monster slayers are in the redesign universe is a hate group, plain and simple. a particularly violent and nasty one too, at that - they're focused primarily out of human-majority societies and cultures that have much smaller minorities of other sophonts and/or that contact with those sophonts is new and recent, hence why there's such a strong sorting between "humans" and "monsters". "monsters" isn't a real category in any sense of the word, it's just a social marker for an out-group that is seen as particularly dangerous and frightening and, thus, "not normal". this is also why it doesn't really specify between monsters that are sophonts and monsters that are just normal animals...

primarily this hate group arose out of existing environmental/hunting groups, semi similar to things like forest rangers, and has even common ancestry with witches (or, one of the definitions of "witch"... witch can refer to a human with some innate workable magic, witch can refer to anyone who works with/studies magic as a job, or witch can refer to a supernatural concept/creature which is basically just the trope we have of the witch, as any malignant supernatural person who uses that supernatural prowess for evil. this is different from magic, because magic in this universe is just... another Thing That Exists, not necessarily any different from, say, engineering as a job or study, and belief in the impossible and supernatural is of course going to exist unrelated to that).

as in, there's a fairly universal need in most communities to be able to manage magic somehow. usually there's wildlife or plants that have their own innate pools of workable magic, and those need to be treated and handled differently as a different form of danger in the world, or there's magical aquifers locally, which means that all of that magic is just available as free energy to be used by anyone who has the chance to grab it, and if workable pools of magic aren't regularly maintained to recycle the magic that makes it up, then it can build up wild magic and tends to explode particularly dangerously... so you need someone who has learned how to deal with all of that, and so you get the origins of witches, and the origins of other people specializing to deal in magic and magic-heavy things, and from that you get people specialized in hunting or otherwise managing animals that utilize magic in their biology in some way.

(which, to be fair, nearly everything on this alternate earth is, in some way. magic really is just... free energy for anyone who can grab a little of it, and most life will be able to at least do a little bit of that. humans are a prime example, since even non-innate magic users will still hold and maintain very small pools of magic internally, utilized primarily for metabolism and to offer a slight boost to the immune system and other such things. this is even what souls and ghosts are - just the pools of magic inside of a person that can get shaken loose through particularly traumatic events, although the systems that lead to ghosts are poorly understood (and also different from a soul, the animating supernatural concept... theres a lot of confusing terminology in this universe, and i do that on purpose). it's just that species that either live in or around magical aquifers or are uniquely adapted for it that are magic specialists, where it makes up a much larger part of their biology, and who cannot live without that magic. a human without magic might just be slightly immunocompromised, a demon without magic is dead!)

this is where you get monster slayers, though. because they were a specific movement within this larger group of people who focus on magical life, where they particularly focused on the danger posed by magic specialist wildlife during a time when nonhuman sophonts were being introduced to and "challenging" the dominant culture where they came from, and ended up connecting the two. it's a purposefully very messy grouping without a lot in common other than this specific group targeting them, and their primary goals might be similar to creating and enforcing a human-only community devoid of large, dangerous wildlife around that area that could possibly injure someone. the fact that this also ends up targeting a lot of disabled humans (vampires, zombies, etc, they're just humans who have a specific magic-derived "virus". there's very few benefits to this, it really is just a disability) isn't seen as a problem either in their eyes, mostly because they're also often stereotyped as being dangerous or endangering other people by their sheer presence, so they get sorted in with the other targeted groups as well.

there's also a lot of people and things that we have in real life that would get labelled "monsters" in this specific line of belief, even if i haven't gone into that as much, mostly because i worry that people will think that because i'm writing aaravi as sympathetic that i'm supporting her beliefs or the beliefs of monster slayers too - or that, again, i'm still just in the awkward middle ground where i'm not sure how much i want to go into this and REALLY kill the mood.

(also, because it does kind of miff me when people write fantasy settings but provide some kind of distinction between real wildlife and fantasy monsters in a way that shouldn't actually exist in that fiction. lions and tigers and bears should be considered just as dangerous and frightening as any speculative creatures you put in your work, especially when there's not any one unique feature that tidily separates the world into "animals" and "wildlife". hell this is even what i try to get at with my merfolk, since they really aren't any different from humans, as just another naturally formed sapient animal species.)

and, to be clear, i WANT this to be upsetting. it shouldn't be something comfortable or easy to talk about, let alone witness. it's something that also has to be seen and judged and understood in order to understand aaravi herself, just as much as how you can't understand miranda unless you understand what it actually means for her to be a genocidal monarch who expresses ultimate control over anyone who happens to be under her and is willing to do anything to maintain control in the groups of her equals. for both of them, they're supposed to equally be representative of those who suffer by and under the system they are a part of (aaravi is not allowed to leave the monster slayers even if she wanted to, her being discovered as half-human would mean her potentially being targeted and killed and her family potentially also targeted for association, having her entire self worth tied to her ability to lose her own personhood and perpetuate violence that no one else is capable of or wants to do, or else be blamed as the reason why innocent people get hurt and killed), while also actively perpetuating it (both have a vitriolic hatred of anyone who either "can't do their job correctly" or "isn't hard enough to withstand the pressures of their job", aaravi especially targets and is quick to punish other slayers to try and cover her also being "part monster", she upholds and feels incredibly defensive over her family name and how great her family was at being slayers, she hunts and kills a lot of other people just for them not being human that makes them even more guarded and scared of humans and more likely to retaliate in order to try and keep themselves safe, which also means its harder for anyone else to stop being a monster slayer because even more taboo gets connected to them or being one).

a prime example is actually her grandma, who is still around. aaravi's from a line of monster slayers, which is to say her family was already in this hate group, they were born into it, and aaravi was just the latest in the long line of it all. her mom did work on trying to get out, did meet aaravi's dad and left to where no one else in the group knew where she was, where she could try to start anew and they wouldn't be able to find her, to have a family with someone who she had been taught to view as nothing but dangerous and frightening and not someone to be trusted... and then he turned out to be a garden variety asshole who just... left. never really was very interested in aaravi or salil, got bored with aaravi's mom once she tried settling down after getting out, didn't really do much to support her in trying to remake her life from a brand new foundation, and just left one day without a note or saying anything or anything at all, really.

all of which served as mundane trauma that pushed aaravi's mom back into the monster slayers even harder. it just confirmed a lot of old beliefs that she had burned into her mind after not really helping her to undo or confront them, and she had very little else left to go back to, and she had two kids now that if anyone else learned were the result of her having a tyst with a monster would get hurt and killed as much as she would, serving as a representation of the mistake that had just been confirmed in her mind as such.

it's why it came down on salil so much harder than aaravi, and why aaravi looking so nearly human is so important for the way the story functions. aaravi got pushed harder and harder to both try and make up for her mother's mistake, pushed to become another monster slayer and pushed even harder to be a GOOD one that would be great enough to make up for all that her mother had done while still living up to the legacy that her mom could only think of herself as having ruined, to shove all her monster parts into a deep dark little box that she would never tell anyone else about, who was told over and over how dangerous it was and what would happen if this got out. but salil... salil is much more obviously inhuman, much more obviously something that she can't hide or obscure, and so salil kind of...

well, already their mom was reverting hard onto "all monsters are dangerous and cannot be trusted and NONE of them are EVER going to be good, only lie about it to hurt you even worse", and there was a lot harder... fear, from her, that he picked up on. really, both of them picked up on it, and still aaravi doesn't know and is terrified of the possibility that their mom was scared of them, or thought that they would hurt her, or even outright hated them for being monsters. and because salil was much more obvious about it, a lot more got targeted and felt by salil, a lot more their mom tried a lot less with him, a lot more she just tried to hide him in the house and not tell anyone about him or that he existed. its why when he ran away one night, it was very easy for her to come to the conclusion that he had been found and killed by monsters, and it was very easy for that belief to be passed onto aaravi.

it's also why aaravi's grandma has such a... particular situation. she was also such a prominent monster slayer within that community and group for so long, and so many of the leaders within the community think back fondly of her, but its this very same reason that she can't talk about the amount of doubt she's also felt about it, the mounting regrets and guilt that has built up, the knowledge of what happened to her daughter and to her grandkids, and the knowledge that she can't really DO anything to help it either, even AS someone who holds such an esteemed position and even BECAUSE of it. she's effectively just built up more and more distance from the community over time, isolated herself more and more from these old friends of hers, gone quietly silent in her old age, but its also why shes never been able to fully shake it, and why that connection STILL exists and shes STILL expected to uphold it when it does. she's older than she used to be, more vulnerable, and she has a granddaughter who doesn't have a mom or a dad anymore to look after her, who is at least part of what monster slayers want to exterminate, and there's a lot at stake here that she just can't make herself risk.

so, yeah... i hope this provides a little bit of clarity as to what aaravi in the full redesign verse being a monster hunter MEANS and what she does, because it's not... very pretty, really.

if i write it, i'll likely end up focusing more on the animal side of it, least of all because i can't see aaravi taking miranda on a hunt for a person, but also because it adds in more layers of aaravi feeling disingenuous and doubting herself. she feels like she's lying to miranda, making it more palatable, more acceptable, than it really is, not showing her the full thing and letting herself be judged as is, but also aaravi is ABSOLUTELY not prepared for that conversation and doesn't know how to breach the subject of "i'm basically a serial killer for hire" with miranda, and is equally as scared by the thought of what if miranda actually DOESN'T have a problem with that and doesn't react. but it's also just close enough to still hit that uncomfortable realm with aaravi, just close enough to killing a person that she keeps seeing herself in the eyes of the wildlife, doesn't know which end of the gun she's more scared of being on and doesn't know how to handle any of it.