#and yes I double tagged it fluff ON PURPOSE

[miserycanary]

MY MILITARY POOKIES ᡣ𐭩

pairings: König, Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Price & fem!reader

synopsis: how they'd react to you calling them 'pookie'

tags: pure fluff (as an apology for the angst) 

| König - oblivious, betrayed

“Pookie, could you please get that jar for me?”  Silence, no answer. You turn just to be met with König’s furrowed eyebrows and a tilt of his head. “What?” you chuckled, backing up as he approached you. His arms circle your waist and his face buries itself on the crook of your neck. He says something. His lips move against your ticklish skin, making you giggle. “What are you saying?” He peers from where he’s hiding, sulking and pouting. 

“Who’s Pookie?” 

Realization hits you and you burst into laughter, clutching your stomach and doubling over, further confusing König. “O-oh, my g-god! You think... You think pookie is a name?” you asked, between laughter. “B-babe, it’s a petname!” you finally clear up. With a sigh of relief, König slumps his whole body onto you making you bump into the counter. “Woah, big guy,” you groan out. Placing his hands under your thighs, he effortlessly lifts you and places a kiss on your lips. “It’s ugly. I like Liebe more,” he mutters, making you giggle louder. “Okay, meine Leibe,” you mumble, kissing back and wrapping your arm around his neck and your legs around his waist. 

| Simon - disgusted but loves you too much

With Simon, it was genuinely a mistake.

“Love, where’s the scissors?” “It’s in the kitchen, pookie,” you answer, looking up from your phone and motioning toward the kitchen island. When you notice nothing moving, you look at him and immediately laugh after seeing his disgusted face. “What’s with your face?” you exclaim, holding your phone and snapping a picture. “Don’t ever call me pookie again,” he gruffs, rolling his eyes.

Days after that, you decided to try it again— on purpose this time. “Pookie, can we go on a picnic this Saturday?” you plead with a pout. Simon looks at you incredulously, standing up and walking away without answering you (you guys still went on a picnic). 

“Pookie, please,” you try again. This time, he only let 2 seconds pass before sighing and giving you whatever you wanted. After two more times after calling him that, he now answers without realizing it. You chuckle after noticing that he doesn’t even protest anymore. 

“So, you like pookie now?” you tease him one random afternoon, laying on his chest while he relaxes on the couch. “No, I don’t.” You only roll your eyes at Si's obvious lie, tracing shapes on his chest.

“It doesn’t seem that way.” “I don’t like the name pookie; I love you enough to put up with that ugly thing,” he grumbles, making you blush and pepper his face with kisses. “Aw, Si! You big softie.”

| Price - not even fazed, used to your unusual antics

“Pookieee,” you whine, pressing your cheek against his. “Yes, sweetheart? What’s wrong?” he answers, grabbing you by the waist and situating your figure so that you’re straddling his thighs. “I want lasagna,” you pout, licking a spot on Price's neck and sucking. 

“It’s 2:34 AM, my love,” he sighs, looking down on you with adoration. You stay quiet, still giving him neck kisses while your hands go underneath his shirt and wrap themselves around his waist. He chuckles at your childish attitude, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “You spoiled baby. Go get ready,” Price mumbles against your skin. With a squeal, you hop off his lap and run to get changed, making him shake his head with a soft smile. 

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱: felt bad for all the angst, so here you guys are. A bit OOC König but yeah. Also, taglists are open if you want to be tagged in future posts. 

dividers by @cafekitsune

Please reblog!! Ask is open!

⟢ taglist is open!! Comment if you want to be tagged in the next posts.

check out my other works in the masterlist: ୭!

[httpsserene]

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 '𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐰𝐨 | 𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐜𝐬. 𝟓𝟓 & 𝐥𝐧. 𝟒

summary: have you worked every shift possible for a chance of running into carlos and lando? yes. are you mad that you have a month of summer left and you still haven’t stumbled upon them? yes.

content warning: 18+. mdni. explicit sexual content. plot with porn. summer fling/vacation romance. fluff. light angst. light angst with a happy ending. banter. attempt at humor. explicit language. for extended tags, open in ao3.

pairing: poly! carlos sainz jr x lando norris x phd-student! fem!black!reader

word count: 18k words. (new record!)

from, serene: i am extremely proud of what i created. i hope it was worth waiting for, and i can't wait for the next episode !!! my next upload might be an alex albon smau series, for those that requested it. pls pls pls, send me asks and leave comments on this if you'd like! i'd love to hear your thoughts on sip of sunshine, and how it's building so far xxx thank you so much, my loves :) (50 more followers until 3k :o)

this has also been uploaded on my AO3 for anybody who finds it easier to read a fic of this length on there (looking out for those on mobile x)

⌕ prev | join taglist | feedback & requests | upcoming chapters | table of contents | sip of sunshine | next ↻

Studying for a doctorate does not directly correlate to a person’s brilliance. If you were smart, you wouldn’t have returned to the golf club for another summer with the sole hope of reuniting with the two stunningly fine men you shared a ten-minute conversation with. However, you chose to beat intelligence in a foot race, and here you are: driving the same beverage cart while sweating off your sunscreen for the fifth year in a row; furthermore, you have not crossed paths with Carlos and Lando once in the two months you’ve been working.

It’s difficult to believe that Lando had told the truth when he mentioned that they’ve been attending Club La Moraleja consistently for the past four years. You want to believe him, but the evidence against him is overwhelming. You’ve worked every possible shift this season, at every possible time, on every possible course, without a single spotting of the duo from the beginning of June. 

It’s August. If you allow yourself to think maniacally, you would infer that they’re avoiding you on purpose.

Previously, you were under the assumption that they were obviously flirting with you. The sexual innuendos, double-entendres, calling you a “sip of sunshine,” and the eighty euro tip Carlos left you (which had to be a mistake)—from which you deduced that they were making a move on you. You would even say that their instance in convincing you to return to the green was the smoking gun you needed to seal their fate in the case of you catching their interest. 

Nonetheless, they are nowhere to be found. 

You cope by entertaining the aspect of you suffering from heat stroke or heat exhaustion, and you created Carlos and Lando as a figment of your delusions during your compromised mental state. On the other hand, there’s also a chance that they took your joking threat—of never returning if you had to put up with their subpar pick-up lines—seriously. You didn’t consider that they would misunderstand your teasing banter but, you haven’t seen them a single time this summer.  

It’s unsettling. You’ve never been this disappointed about men not taking the clear hint. 

Obviously, you’d be relieved if any of the sleazy, rude, and archaic golfers stopped bothering you after their first attempt. But, Carlos and Lando? They’re the exact opposite of the men you described. They’re young, polite, funny, charming, and attractive. It’s not outlandish for you to say that there was some budding chemistry between you three.

It’s regrettably characteristic of you to develop crushes on men you haven’t shared more than one conversation with. Too bad you’re never going to see them again. And, screw them! Who do they think they are? It’s not like they’re anybody special—they probably delighted in filling your mind with false hope. 

The next time you see them, you’re running them over with the bev cart. All gas, no breaks.

The motor whirs loudly as you drive over a hill to the last hole of Course Four—and, you’ll be damned.

“Well, look at you! You stayed!”

You can’t tell if this is the universe blessing you or sending you a curse in disguise. 

Lando’s words ring in your ears as your brain fails to compute the sight of him and Carlos smiling at you from across the green, down in a bunker. 

Lando’s…matured beautifully, over the year you haven’t seen him. He was attractive before, but as you direct the cart closer, you can tell he’s grown into himself. There’s a broadness to his shoulders, a sharpness to his eyes, and a hollowness to his cheekbones that certainly makes it impossible for anybody to deny that he’s beautiful. 

Carlos is angeringly more handsome than he was before, somehow. You blame it on the backwards cap and his stupidly wide, warm, beautiful, brown eyes. You cut the engine off, scratching fiendishly at the back of your neck to dispel your thoughts about his nose and lips, how you would pay to see his brown eyes darkened between your thighs.

“Obviously,” you state dryly, roughly tucking the curls that slipped from your ponytail behind your ear, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Their grins falter at your biting tone and they glance at each other in surprise at your irritated response. They climb out of the bunker and walk to meet you at the side of the cart. You’ve turned your back to them, hearing their footsteps approach but you continue to mindlessly organize any cups that shifted out of place as you drove.

“It was just an observation,” the Brit continues, you can hear him still smiling around his words, “A conversation starter, I guess.”

You put on an impassive expression before turning around and staring at the two with your arms crossed, “Mm. Who’s the one who’s bad enough at golf to land in the bunker? Wait—don’t tell me! You’re both probably stuck in the sand trap.” 

Lando’s mouth audibly drops open with an insulted gasp and Carlos’s brow furrows in confusion.

You wave a dismissive hand through the air before they can reply, “What do you want to drink?”

“Uh…What?” Carlos fumbles, lost at your deviation.

“What, ‘what?’” You snap, annoyed at his feigned innocence, like he’s unaware that they lead you on for the entirety of a summer that they just appeared in, “What do you want to drink? As in a refreshment? ¿Una bebida? I know you’re familiar with ordering from the cart as I served you last year—and since you both have been coming here for five years!” [A drink?]

The two stare at you in blatant terror as your voice echoes in the air. Their stunned silence at your “unfounded” anger only serves to exasperate you further.

“Make it quick,” your voice trembles infuriatingly, “What would you like to drink?”

“Did we do something wrong? If we upset you, we have no idea what we did,” Carlos rambles pleadingly. You almost buy it.

“Yeah, what’s with the attitude?” Lando gracefully ruins their chances of being acquitted, “We haven’t seen you in nearly a year; What could we have done wrong?”

“Attitude—are you serious!?” You scoff, insulted at the very idea, before continuing mockingly “Whatever—it’s a beer and a lime mocktail, right? Or, would you prefer a sip of sunshine?”

The men don’t have a chance to edit their orders as you sharply throw open the beer cooler, all three of you flinching as the lid slams into the cart and the bottles and cans clamoring together worryingly. You don’t let the fear of damaged property interrupt your fury as you brandish the beer towards Carlos, snatching your hand away as soon as his closes around the neck of the bottle. 

He murmurs his thanks in his native tongue but the curl of his accent—no matter how alluring it sounds—incenses you further, and you huffily turn your back towards them as you craft Lando’s drink.

The thought of them being truthful about their confusion about your annoyance flares in your mind as you shovel ice into the plastic cup. It’s possible that there has been some miscommunication…but, that would be embarrassing for you to admit. You’ve already acted incredibly rude and like a total brat to them—to customers, at that! Ohmygod, you’ve let your personal emotions affect your work; they could report you to your manager and have you fired. 

Your breath stutters as your overcome with a chill that feels like you’ve dumped ice down your own shirt. The drink is quickly assembled, and you find yourself wishing for a painless death as you fasten an orange slice as garnish on the rim of the cup instead of a lime. A slice of sunshine, if you will.

Meekly, this time around, you offer the cup to Lando. He looks increasingly disturbed at the sudden switch of your demeanor. You watch the Brit glance at his companion, his look clearly communicating that he’s checking if Carlos agrees that you’ve lost your mind, most likely.

The Spaniard must have agreed because Lando giggles nervously, the sound glaringly revealing his discomfort, “You didn’t poison my drink, did you?”

Your brain starts to self-destruct in embarrassment. Carlos hides his face in his free hand, but the sound of pain that escapes him at the ill-timed joke is clear. To be fair, Lando looked like he regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth, but the damage was done. 

Your cheeks burn furiously, you’re simultaneously angry and disappointed in yourself. How could you allow yourself to become overrun by your emotions on the clock? It’s unprofessional and uncharacteristic of you. 

You excuse yourself shakily, “I-I am so sorry. Perdóname. I was rude to you both for no reason. I apologize sincerely for my behavior. Do not worry about paying, your drinks are on me. I hope you both enjoy yourself on the green—Buenas tardes.” [Forgive me; Good afternoon.]

Carlos and Lando are silent as you scamper into the driver’s seat, tail figuratively tucked between your legs. The ride back to the clubhouse is silent as you berate yourself for your stupidity. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to forget the way you ruined your chances with them. You already know your subconscious will play this on repeat every time you try to sleep. The cart beeps as you reverse into its assigned spot. Isabel, one of the fellow cart girls—and your best friend—waves at you with a smile as she walks over towards you. She must be the next on shift.

“You look like you’ve just been fired,” Isa’s smile has transformed into a look of concern, “¿Estás bien?” [Are you okay?]

Grabbing your belongings, you slide out of the driver's seat with a haunted look in your eyes. “You remember the two guys I told you about? From last summer? I think I just scared them away.”

“No,” Isa exhales in denial, pulling you into a hug, “There’s no way. What happened?”

“I yelled at them and insulted them for being bad at golf,” you mumble, yelping sharply as she  communicates her displeasure by slapping at your arm, “I was mad at them, okay! They were pretending to be innocent, like they had no clue they avoided me for the entire summer! They’re going to complain to the Club and get me fired because I was unprofessional and rude!”

“Ay! You don’t know that! You still served them, and apologized right?” Isa brightens further when you mention you served them for free, she ignores your pout as you rub your hand against the stinging skin of your bicep, “Then, it’s probably nothing. If they do complain, this is your first complaint ever. You won’t get fired—you will just have to wash the carts for the rest of the summer.”

You fall to your knees on the hot concrete in despair and Isa snorts at your dramatics, bending to pluck the cart keys from your pocket. 

“I’m just going to quit, inmediamente!” [Immediately!]

“If you quit, I quit,” Isa reminds you, “And, out of the two of us, I need this job. I’m broke. So, you can’t quit, unless you want me to suffer.”

“I would take care of you,” you beg, “I have my office job back in the States. You could marry me and get a green card! Let me quit!”

Isa cackles at the concept, “You hate your office job. Anyway, quitting won’t save you from your colleagues here. Don’t forget we’re all going out tomorrow night! You can’t escape this time, you promised me.”

You groan in indignation, “Is it a crime to not like clubbing every night?”

“¡Sí, lo es!,” She frowns, “It’s clubbing every night in Madrid! And, I need moral support if I have to watch Lucas flirt with Sofia. I don’t know what he sees in her.” [Yes, it is!]

Grumbling fitfully, you wish her a good shift before dragging yourself into the Clubhouse. You’re still quitting. There’s not a chance in hell that you’re coming back next summer—there is nothing worth staying for anymore. Sorry, Isa.

Out of all the shifts you’ve worked, the 8 A.M. to 3 P.M. is your least favorite. You blink blearily as you hang up your belongings in the same locker you chose four years ago, fighting the urge to rub at your eyes, with the thought of not smearing your mascara. Pinning your nametag on your pressed shirt is muscle memory, and you slide on a club-branded visor to protect your face because the UV index is concerningly high today. 

You pause to stare at the photos pinned to the inside of your locker door—they date from your very first summer till now, with familiar faces and some you haven’t seen in a while. It’s heartwarming. You haven’t posted a single one of these photos in here; your friends do it on their own (the password to your locker is apparently community knowledge—you could change it, but then you’d stop collecting them), taping Polaroids from moments on the course to shenanigans off the course to nights out in the city, with captions and notes written on the back. 

The sense of belonging and community you found here is why it was so difficult to come to a decision about leaving this place and its people behind. Your lips tilt up at a photo of you and the cart team covering your boss’s car in sticky notes two summers ago—he made you all collect the stray golf balls from the putting green that night in retaliation. And, he laughed deeply as the sprinklers drenched all of you, which is another few snapshots commemorated in your locker. 

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to leave.

“Mami,” Lilia, the receptionist on duty this morning, calls you from the locker room door, “The two really hot Formula One drivers are asking for you?”

You shoot a look of confusion her way, “huh—why me? I don’t know them?”

“Umm, yes you do?” Lilia mirrors your bafflement, “They say you’ve served them before. And that they want to apologize for something?”

“¿Qué?”

“I don’t know! I’m just repeating what they told me—” The brunette woman cuts herself short, and her eyes narrow after a moment, “Hey, if they’re bothering you, I’ll get them banned. I didn’t tell them that you were here, I just said I’d check to see if you had come in. Did they bother you? Don’t lie to me! I’ll call security and get them gone!”

“What, no! I don’t know them, or even know what Formula One is! I haven’t had a bad interaction or served any drivers—oh.” Your stomach sinks as your eyes shut woefully, “I fucked up.”

Lilia threatens to get them banned again when she sees the bronze skin of your face lose its luster. You tell her to let them know you’ll be out in a moment and to not threaten them. You step to the full-length mirror to check your appearance and adjust your uniform. Centering yourself with a few deep breaths, you turn the door handle and make your way out to the reception desk.

The squeaking of your sneakers on the tile floor only adds to your anticipation. A small part of you hopes that Carlos and Lando aren’t the Formula One drivers asking for you, and that this is all some misunderstanding. You feel your soul die inside of you as your eyes meet theirs. Their expressions look determined and apologetic, and your palms feel sweaty as you come to terms with them preparing to file a formal complaint. 

Lilia clears her throat abruptly from where she’s pretending to organize membership files. You see a blush bloom on Carlos and Lando’s cheeks as they realize that they’ve been staring at you without saying anything for longer than what’s politely appropriate, but you beat them to the chase.

“Buenos días. U-umm,” you anxiously scratch at the nape of your neck, “…Is this about yesterday? Or the tip you left last summer? It was too generous to not be an accident. It’s past our refund period, but I can reach out to the manager on duty to see if we can work something out.” [Good morning.]

“I gave you eighty euros on purpose,” Carlos states without doubt, and you feel Lilia’s stare piercing your side profile.

“Oh.”

“I wanted to speak to you about yesterday—”

You cut in, “Yesterday was my fault! I think I misunderstood you both and I overreacted. It was nothing personal—”

Lando clasps his hands together, interrupting you with an imploring tone, “It was personal, though. Which is fine, I think we deserved it. Especially if there was a misunderstanding on our part. We would’ve communicated with you clearer if we were sure that you were on the same page as us. We would appreciate it if you would allow us to make it up to you.”

Lilia kicks your ankle underneath the desk, doing enough freaking out for the both of you as you struggle to keep your face calm.

“I feel like I’m still the one at fault for the miscommunication. But—how were you planning to…smooth things over, I guess?” You ask.

“Allow us to take you to dinner tonight, and explain,” Carlos finishes, weaponizing those eyes of his, helped by Lando softening his own at you desperately for a chance.

“Oh—um, I would love to, really, but I already have plans tonight—,” You’re getting tired of being interrupted, but Lilia is quick to clear your schedule.

“No!” The raven-haired woman jumps up from her seat, slapping her hand on the counter forcefully, causing the three of you to jump. “She’s free tonight!” She smiles scaringly wide at Carlos and Lando.

Lilia turns to you and her smile and voice quiets to something genuine, “I will explain to the others about why you could not make it. Isa will understand as long as you remember to keep us both updated, yes?”

You roll your eyes, resigned , “Yes.”

You’re surprised at the tentative happiness growing in the boys’ appearances, “I guess I can do dinner tonight. What’s the plan?”

Phone numbers are exchanged and they agree to pick you up from your house at seven. They linger through their goodbyes, clearly not wanting to end the conversation. It’s flattering that they're willingly exposing their obsession with you so soon. You shoo them away with the reminder of seeing each other tonight and the fact that you are, in fact, on the clock. Lilia slaps you on the arm repeatedly as you watch them exit through the front doors with a dreamy sigh.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Lilia lets out a scream of excitement and pulls you into a hug, the two of you jumping up and down overwhelmed with joy. You’re caught by your boss Marco, who takes one glance before he turns around to head back into his office, forcing the two of you into hysterical giggles. 

You pull back from her, and you can’t quiet the large grin dancing on your lips, “I have no idea what to wear!”

Carlos texted you twenty minutes ago alerting you that they’re on the way to pick you up. Lando added that they can’t wait to see you a minute later. You were ready thirty minutes before they started heading your way. Ten minutes ago you decided to change your entire outfit. You settled on a linen cropped tank and matching maxi skirt with a pair of sandals. You fiddle with your accessories endlessly, and you do the same with a few stray curls that refuse to sit where you want them.

Grabbing your purse and phone, you rush out of your room and down the stairs to find your parents in the kitchen adding the finishing touches to their own dinner.

“¡Mija—qué bonita!” your mom gasps, wiping her hands on a towel before she pulls you closer to look at you, “Where have you been hiding this outfit?” [My daughter, how beautiful she is!]

“Má, I’ve had it for a while,” you subject yourself to her cooing and prodding as she spins you around, looking at your dad for help, who only offers you a shrug, “—I just have not had anywhere to wear it.”

“Hm? Then, what’s so special about tonight? I thought you were clubbing with your friends, no?” You avoid meeting her prying eyes, pretending to find interest in what’s simmering on the stove.

“Eh, why is there a Ferrari outside of my house?” your dad asks, drawing your attention to the front window. The sleek black convertible is parked by the curb, and your phone buzzes in your hands. Lando has informed you of their arrival, and you quickly tell them you’ll be right out to avoid them coming to the door. You don’t know if they’re “meet the parents” caliber yet, Ferrari or not.

“Don’t worry about it, Papà. I’ll text you when I’m on my way back tonight,” you press kisses to both of your parents’ cheeks, “Save some food for me to take to work tomorrow, please?”

Your mom pinches your ear, “Ay! You are going on a date? Finally! Is he handsome on top of being rich? A Ferrari is okay as long as he is as beautiful as the car, you know?”

Your dad makes a noise of complaint as he follows you both towards the door, “A Ferrari is more than okay as long as he respects you and treats you well. And, if he buys me a Ferrari too—ask him for me.” 

You fuss at them, flustered but smug as you ignore your dad’s request, and you turn to smirk at your mom, “Papà, I plan to find outfit they treat me well tonight. Mamá. They’re both gorgeous.”

Your dad blinks in confusion as your mom crows in delight, “¡Mija! I knew I raised you properly! ¡Vas, vas! Have fun and you have to tell me everything when you get back, yes?” [My girl!; Go, go!]

“Sí, Mamá. ¡Muchos besos, te quiero!” You slip out of the door, the sound of your mother explaining that you’ve garnered the interest of two men to your father fading behind you as you walk to the car. [Yes, mom. Kisses, I love you!]

Carlos and Lando are waiting for you on the curb, the engine purring lowly behind them. Your gait slows as you near, and the Spaniard reaches out to press his lips to the back of your hand fleetingly. 

They’ve dressed well; Lando in a light gray, short-sleeved, collared, v-neck that rests untucked over white chinos and a pair of gray sneakers to match. He’s sprinkled with bracelets, a few of them decorate his toned forearms on both wrists, and there’s a singular silver chain peeking from the cut of his shirt. Carlos is dressed similarly with the white chinos, yet he’s chosen a light blue button-up with the first few buttons undone, and a pair of dress shoes. His outfit is complimented by a dazzling watch. 

You murmur a greeting to both men, unable to hold eye contact with either of them for long. It’s one thing to fantasize that you have a chance with men clearly out of your league, and it’s another thing to have to muster up the confidence to speak to them outside of your uniform. 

Lando impatiently shifts on his feet as the older man keeps hold of your hand for longer than necessary. When you’re released, Lando takes it a step further and pulls you into a hug, his body heated and solid against yours. A shiver runs down your spine when his hand rests on the exposed skin of the small of your back. You hum, pleased as you inhale the velvety scent of his cologne, missing the closeness as he pulls away from you a beat later.

You step back, your heart thudding as you quip, “I didn’t know we were on hugging terms already.”

“I’m sorry,” Lando flushes easily, and Carlos chuckles, “I should’ve asked if it was okay.”

“I liked it,” you smile at him, pretending as if your heart isn’t pounding forcefully from the brief embrace, “I-I mean, it was fine, don’t worry.”

The Brit hums at your response, his eyes drifting along your form before meeting yours again with a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. His blush recedes as yours strengthens, now apparent on your darker skin. 

“Lovely house,” he withdraws, and you’re thankful he avoided commenting on the evident flush he invoked with nothing more than a hug and a pass of his eyes.

“Thank you, my parents bought it and moved here after I started university,” you explain needlessly, “They’re pretty great. They were the ones who made me apply for the position at La Moraleja. So, really, it’s them you have to credit with us meeting, I suppose.”

“We also have to thank them for having a beautiful daughter,” Carlos alleges smoothly.

You fluster, “I-I’ll pass the message along. Both of you are very handsome, but I think you guys hear that often.”.

“Don’t worry. It sounds sweeter coming from you,” Lando edits his point with an impish grin, “—and from Carlos too, sometimes.”

“Don’t be a brat, Lando,” the Spaniard’s voice is light as he entertains the younger, “Unfortunately, I think we will be late if we continue to stand here and flirt in the street,” Carlos says, and his eyes shift to look past you and at your house, “—And, I think your dad might come outside and kill us. Which would not be very pleasant, in my opinion.”

You spin around, chagrined at the sight of your dad watching the three of you with a harsh stare. 

“Yes! Let’s get going, I would hate to be late. Ignore him, please.” Lando waves at your dad anyways, endearing himself to you further, “And, you won’t have to worry about being murdered as long as you get him a Ferrari.”

The two men startle into laughter at that, and you hold your hands up candidly, “What? His words, not mine!”

You didn’t account for the oddness of one of you sitting in the backseat, but Lando assigns himself to the back, claiming that you have “passenger princess” rights. 

The wind ruffles through your curls aimlessly as Carlos drives towards your destination. The ride is filled with endless chatter and flirting. A smile is constantly on your face as the three of you speak through topics easily. There’s not a single time you feel like an outsider, even though it’s clear how familiar they are with each other. 

The restaurant you find yourself in isn’t screaming its extravagance at you, which is surprising. While it’s dimly lit, and you can hear live music thrumming through the air from somewhere deeper inside over the lively chatter—it feels like a classic restaurant, intimate and comfortable. Like somewhere you could go for a nice dinner often.

The hostess straightens upwards with recognition when she spots Carlos and she greets the three of you good naturedly before disappearing to check if your table is ready. 

The Spaniard notices the surprise on your face, “My family and I have dined here since I was young. You have never come here before? ”

You shake your head, “I’m a little jealous, if I’m being honest,” Carlos tilts his head, listening, “I’m mad I didn’t discover this place sooner. The atmosphere is amazing!”

The hostess returns, gesturing for you all to follow after her and Lando grasps your hand to catch your attention as you walk, “If you think the vibe is amazing, just wait until you try the food.”

The table is not in direct sight of anyone besides the kitchen, clearly a spot meant for privacy. Your hidden behind a half wall and a screen overgrown with plants, and the volume of the restaurant seems quieter through the barrier. You lean back in your chair as the three of you wrap up the discussion about yesterday’s conflict.

“I feel incredibly stupid now,” you chuckle, embarrassed. The brown skin of your face burns hot. You focus on the empty wine glass in front of you, avoiding their eyes plainly.

“No,” Carlos’s voice is stern, the serious tone shocking you into looking at him, “Do not be rude to yourself—you are not stupid.”

You stare, dumbfounded, reeling as you process the manner in which he shut down your negative self-talk. If his words totally dissolved your mortification over your immature reaction to seeing them again, you might have thought harder about how that was kind of hot of him to do.

“Aren’t you studying for a PhD?” Lando asks rhetorically, “I think that literally means you’re not stupid.”

You scoff lightly—feeling humored instead of humiliated—at how easily he swept away the tension with a light-hearted comment. The Brit doesn’t know how many people have enlightened you with the knowledge that common sense is, unfortunately, uncommon in post-grad. But, you’ll let his words wash away your self-deprecation lest this turns into an unsolicited therapy session instead of a date an apology dinner.

“Fine. I’m not stupid—but, you can’t deny that it wasn’t a little dumb of me to assume that you guys had lied to me about visiting the golf club every year. And, it was a little more dumb of me to make my decision about working here for another season just because there was a chance that I could see you guys—never mind.” Your teeth clack together forcefully as you slam your mouth shut.

The duo straighten up at the sudden end to your sentence, brains quickly filling in the blanks for them. Lando’s poorly attempting to hide his satisfied smile behind his hand and Carlos’s eyes are bright with understanding. You’ve learned your lesson about making hasty assumptions but you don’t think it’s foolish to deduce this means that they’re actually interested in you too, this time around.

“Ah. Well, we should not have assumed that you knew we were Formula One drivers, which maybe was obvious from how you spoke to us,” Carlos shrugs his shoulders, leveling the blame, “And, I think it’s sweet that you were hoping to run into us again.”

“Mmm,” you hum nervously, “I think it’s delusional.”

One of their shoes knocks against yours underneath the table and you jump in surprise. Carlos’s chest shakes with a silent laugh and his eyebrow raises at you pressingly.

“We should’ve asked for your number last summer,” Lando adds nonchalantly. 

You rattle at his boldness, and you’re given a moment to ponder that as the waiter stops to pour you and Carlos a glass of white wine (Lando refused). You take a brief sip, humming pleasantly at the light and easy flavor, the live music and easy conversation floating through the air providing you a reprieve from your immersion in the two men. 

Your attention is recaptured as you watch Carlos offer Lando a chance to taste from his glass. 

Earlier, the Brit had told you he dislikes the taste of most alcohols when the waiter stepped away to grab the bottle Carlos requested. Yet, Lando accepts, not without making his distaste apparent with an adorable frown. He takes the tiniest sip possible with a look of apprehension and recoils from the glass as he swallows, his nose scrunching in disgust as he shakes his head to further sell his distate. 

Carlos rolls his eyes and laughs, revealing to you how used he is to Lando’s dramatics. He raises a hand to rub at the short hair on the nape of the younger’s neck in comfort.

The look on your face must be cloyingly sweet if the light dust of pink that rises to the Brit’s cheeks when he realizes you’ve watched the entire interaction, is meaningful. Carlos’s eyes become intense when he spots how Lando curls into himself shyly under your eyes. The Spaniard whispers, his volume low enough for only Lando to hear and you wish you knew exactly what was said, because it deepens the tint of his cheeks to a furious red. 

You figure you’ll save him from his torment by bringing up the important stuff.

“So, you only have a month of summer vacation,” you start, fingers fiddling with the edge of a fan-folded napkin, “Which is in August. That’s…so short. My fall semester starts the first week of September.”

Silence falls as they digest the underlying meaning of your sentence. Is it in everyone’s best interest to start something that has to end so soon? Is it in your best interest to risk catching feelings for two athletes (celebrity-athletes, at that) during the last month of your break? 

“A month is a long time,” the younger man starts, his blue-green eyes intent, “We’ll just have to make the most out of it, right? I want to get to know you more, and I have a feeling that the three of us will have a fun time together—If you want to give it a try.”

“A ‘fun time’? Like—like a fling?” Your expression remains indifferent as you ask. You need them to clarify what they want out of this without revealing your emotions. It’s only proper for you to prevent any future miscommunication or misunderstanding about this; you learned from your earlier mistake.

Lando’s earnest gaze has lost some of its shine, and Carlos’s eyes now seem guarded.

“Calling it a fling is harsh,” the Spaniard responds, “It’s more of a summer romance, no?”

Your laugh isn’t genuine, but they don’t know you well enough to discern that, “Alright, I’ll give our ‘summer romance’ a chance. Using a synonym doesn’t change the definition, you know?” 

Lando cocks his head at you, staring deeply. It feels like he’s trying to puzzle you out, and you stare back in feigned confusion.

“It’s nothing,” He relaxes, leaning back in his chair and moving Carlos’s glass out of the way as he sees the waiter nearing the table with your appetizers, “I just find it odd that you called yourself stupid earlier.” You don’t know what to make of that, but it’s forgotten as the starters are devoured and the conversation shifts into them getting to know you and vice versa.

The older man with them at the golf course last year was Carlos’s father, who is a two-time Rally World Champion. You’re surprised to learn that they’ve only been dating for around a year. Lando says he developed a crush on Carlos when they were teammates at Mclaren, but he was afraid of ruining their relationship and potentially, his career, if he confessed–so he kept quiet. Carlos didn’t realize he was romantically interested in Lando until he signed his contract with Ferrari. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” you interrupt, “If you guys have only been together for a year, did you get together before or after you saw me at the golf course for the first time?”

“A year and three months,” the Spaniard corrects with a serene smile, “Our anniversary was in May.”

The Brit continues for him, “—Which means we started dating about three months before we saw you. Give or take a few weeks.”

You gave a low whistle of surprise—three months into their relationship and they were on the same page about chasing after you. Since then, they had several serious conversations about adding a third to their relationship but hadn’t found or looked for anybody they’d consider to try with. Besides you.

Obviously, they like playing golf; Lando is abysmal, and Carlos is not bad at it. Carlos has two sisters, Lando has a brother and two sisters. Both of them are middle children. Lando is a picky eater, and hates fish and seafood. Carlos will eat anything Lando doesn’t. Lando founded a company with his best friend. Carlos is a Real Madrid fanatic. Lando occasionally streams on Twitch. Carlos enjoys surfing and cycling.

“I’m sorry for saying that you guys sucked at golf yesterday,” you apologize sheepishly.

“It’s okay,” the Brit says, unperturbed, “I do suck at golf. I just wasn’t expecting to hear it come from you.”

“I suck less at golf,” the older man states, “But, if I was good, I would not have been in the sand pit in the first place, no?”

They visit Spain often because family is important to Carlos. Lando’s loved like another son by Carlos’s family and Carlos is loved the same by Lando’s family. Lando is needy. Carlos likes being needed. Carlos is mildly possessive. Lando is too self-critical. Carlos makes the best pancakes. Lando wants to build a beautiful vintage car collection.

They want to see you again. You enjoyed dinner more than you thought was possible. 

They defrosted your nerves and allowed your personality to shine through. It helps that they were actively listening as you complained and gushed over your studies, told anecdotes of the shenanigans you and the others got up to on the golf course, and spoke about your future outlooks. They didn’t mind your lack of knowledge about Formula One and explained the sport in detail to you. They were determined to figure out what made you mad, what made you happy, what made you laugh, what made you shy—and, what made you go pink.

It didn’t take them long to discern that staring at your lips is the trick. When they made that discovery, they weaponized it the entire night. While one of them played with the rings on your fingers or tucked a curl behind your ear, the other managed to fluster you by letting their eyes wander for a few seconds before meeting yours again with increasing intensity. You experienced heart failure several times, and had to ask them to repeat themselves more frequently thanks to their psychological warfare.

Your heart feels like it may cease to function again as they walk you to your doorstep. The lights inside the house are off, you returned later than you thought you would. Your parents left the porch light on for you and it casts an amber warmth. Carlos and Lando don’t invite themselves into your space as you dig your house keys out of your purse, ever the polite men. The sound of your keys jingling harmonizes with your triumphant hum as you pull them out. 

You face the boys, placing your hand on the doorknob behind you, waiting for them to speak. 

“Are we forgiven for unintentionally leading you to believe that we led you on and wasted your time?” Lando blurts out.

You knock your head back against the doorframe, abashed, shutting your eyes to dispel the HD playback your brain gifts you with. “If you both agree to never bring it up again, I’ll forgive you.”

“I suddenly do not know what we’re talking about,” Carlos nods seriously, and Lando echoes the sentiment.

You release the doorknob and take the few steps towards them. As you expected, their eyes simultaneously drift to stare at your mouth. You lightly place a hand on Carlos’s shoulder before leaning up and brushing your lips across his cheek in the lightest ghost of a kiss, before moving to Lando and doing the same.

You carefully backpedal to the door turning to insert your key into the lock, before you look back at them. Your heart flutters at the sight of Carlos, who’s frozen, standing all wide-eyed and pressing his fingers to his cheek like he’s unsure if he imagined the kiss. Lando however, looks hungry. His eyes are the darkest you’ve seen tonight, and they’re locked on how you teasingly flick your tongue across your bottom lip.

“While we may only have a month to spend together—it doesn’t mean I’m easy. I, at least!—need a second date before I let you do anything more than stare at my lips and hold my hand. It might take three dates before I even let you kiss my cheek,” you tease with a joking shrug of your shoulders.

“It’s a good thing that you have my phone number,” the lock clicks open, and you push the door open, “If you don’t use it to set up another date, I think I’ll have no choice but to never forgive you guys.”

“We’ll be using it,” Carlos asserts, recovered from the daze you left him in.

“Hm, good. Text me when you get home.” You step in your entryway, waving your fingers at the two of them leisurely, “Buenas noches.” [Goodnight.]

They mimic your goodbye and you shut the door, clicking the lock. You nosily peek through the peephole to spy on their reactions. Carlos tugs Lando into a bear hug, their wide smiles hidden as they press into each other and the sharpest pitch squeal you’ve heard from Lando travels through the front door. You cover your own giggle with a hand as you watch the two of them kiss and almost skip down your driveway back to the car. You press your back to the door with a deep sigh, a lovestruck smile painting your face while you lay limp to let your heartbeat slow to a normal speed.

The hallway light flicks on and you shriek as your mom stares at you with a deranged smile on her lips, “Tell me everything!”

“Mamá! What are you doing up? It’s late!” You exclaim, straightening upwards with your hands on your hips, failing at distracting her from how you were weak in the knees a couple of seconds ago. “It’s okay, mija! I’ll start a fresh pot of coffee for us and you can tell me all about your date!” She rushes forward, grabbing your hand to pull you into the kitchen.

Ironically, the second date ends up being late night mini golf. Even better, you destroy them at it. It wasn’t an easy feat, they made plenty of attempts to sabotage and distract you; whether it was yelling, spooking, poking, or prodding at you as you readied your putt, but it wasn’t enough to give them a chance of catching up. 

You figure more of your mistakes were from being unable to stop laughing as the two performed atrociously. Carlos ended up polluting every water feature with golf balls and Lando couldn’t manage to finish a single hole in under 8 strokes—the highest par was 6. You patted Lando on the back consolingly, telling him to find comfort in the fact that they’re equally terrible at putt-putt golf.

The two seemed surprised at your finesse with a club, almost like they’d forgotten you work on a golf course. You may not be a caddy, but you’ve had plenty of time to work on perfecting your technique. You did well enough to place sixth on the leaderboard, the employees said that Carlos’ score might be the worst they’ve ever seen.

With their egos severely bruised, you convinced them to soothe the loss over with ice cream at a neighboring parlor. Lando was satisfied with plain vanilla and Carlos with a scoop of dulce de leche. You elected for cookies and cream, but found yourself being fed their flavors as well. 

The sugary treats were delicious. Watching them stare at your lips pursed around a spoonful of ice cream was far more delectable. Lando broke the fourth time you managed to dot a bit of vanilla above your upper lip. He choked on a whine before leaning into your space. He hesitated a hair’s width away from your lips, his shuddering exhales mixing with yours, his eyes searching for approval. Your eyes fluttered shut and Lando closed the gap. 

His lips were soft and chilled, a result of the ice cream. Warmth blossomed in your chest as you leaned into the kiss, the taste of vanilla lingering in the embrace. His hand raised to cradle your cheek as your lips brushed together languidly, the sound of your heart racing within your chest fading out as you become absorbed by the kiss. 

Lando pulls away, falling back into his seat with his chest heaving. You stare after him with wide eyes, jolting out of it when you notice you’ve dropped your spoon into your lap, Carlos’s dulce de leche ice cream spilling onto your thigh. 

“Do I get to lick this off your thigh since Lando got to kiss it off your lips?” Carlos asks, his tone half genuine, half facetious.

You kick at his ankle underneath the booth and he throws his hands up placatingly. 

“Wait–,” you anxiously flit your eyes around the parlor, “—you shouldn’t have kissed me here Lando. Out in public? Aren’t people going to recognize—”

“We’ve been the only people in here for the past thirty minutes or so,” Lando interrupts, gathering the near-empty dishes and balled-up napkins, “They’ve also been closed for twenty minutes. When you went to the bathroom when we came in, Carlos and I signed something for the owner who was more than happy to keep things quiet for his second favorite Spanish Formula One driver.”

“Second favorite?” Carlos furrows his eyebrows at his boyfriend, his umber eyes adorably confused.

“Mate,” the Brit scoffs, “I might be in love with you ‘n all but we're not going to act like Fernando isn’t the best thing that came out of Spain, besides churros.”

The unfavored Spaniard holds his hand to his chest in betrayal before his eyes narrow and he moves to assault Lando with a pinch to his chest. While you’d love to continue watching this disguised act of foreplay, you would rather be a participant than a voyeur.

“¡Cabrónes!” The two freeze, heads snapping to look at you as your voice cuts through the catfight.

“I think the owner would be even happier if you licked the ice cream off my thigh outside of his parlor so he could finally lock up, sí?”

How Lando kisses with a desperate hunger, Carlos kisses with a ravaging heat. Like he wants to roast your nerve endings with every brush of his lips against yours.

The fiery press of his mouth stokes the arousal building in your navel. His hand tangles in your hair as he directs the tilt of your head. A stuttered whimper slips from your mouth into his as your tongues glide together, a buzzing sensation tingling down your spine as his other hand squeezes your waist tightly.

He walks you backward towards the bed, his lips devouring yours as you wrap your arms around his neck, attempting to pull your bodies even closer than they are. You stumble, gasping when his hand palms your ass and it’s the first time your lips have separated since Carlos claimed them in the hallway.  He tumbles into you as his feet stumble around yours, the darkness of the bedroom not bettering the situation. He nearly sends you both to the floor instead of the plush mattress if not for Lando catching your body and a hand firmly pressed to Carlos’s chest to hold him upright, expletives falling from your mouths until balance is restored.

You rest your forehead on the older man’s collarbone as you abruptly giggle at being so kiss drunk you forgot how to backpedal. The two drivers have no choice but to laugh at the sound of your amusement, Lando cackling and Carlos’s chest shaking with his laughter. 

“I’m not against fucking on the floor,” Lando voices, the sound of his grin loud enough for you to visualize, “But—can we at least have our first time with you on this extremely comfortable bed?”

“First time?” You raise a brow jokingly, nonchalantly pulling your shirt over your head and letting it fall to the floor, “That implies you’re thinking there’s gonna be a second.”

The Spaniard steps away to click the nightstand lamp on, the room partially bathed in warm yellow light. Your eyes adjust seamlessly to the low lighting, allowing you to revel in the sight of him appreciating your exposed skin, even when covered with a plain black bra—you’ve never been more thankful to be wearing a matching pair of panties.

The younger man unclasps the latch of the garment, dragging the straps down your arms, goosebumps rising in the wake of his fingertips, and the bra lands atop your shirt. You feel his breath cascade heatedly along your left shoulder before his lips purse delicately against the brown skin. 

He nips closer to the crook of your neck, lowly murmuring, “I know we’ll be having you for more than a third time.”

Surely feeling left out, Carlos unzips your skirt, tugging it down your hips and offering a hand for you to hold as you step free of it, “Many more times. But for tonight,” the older man pauses, toying with the band of your panties, looking at you with a smirk, “We must settle on saving the floor for round two. After we have caused you to ruin the sheets.”

Internally, you scream in elation. Two men eager to fuck you stupid, for the rest of your summer—you pray they’re not bluffing. You can’t remember the last time you’ve had sex good enough for a repeat performance. Externally, you shimmy out of your panties and tug at the hem of Carlos’ button-up once you’re bare. 

“If you want me to ruin your sheets, I’m pretty sure that requires you both to be less clothed.”

Lando’s free of everything but his briefs in a handful of seconds while Carlos struggles to unbutton his shirt. The younger pulls you into bed, guiding you to lay on your back as he holds himself over you, dipping to kiss you messily, unafraid to let his moans knit with yours. By the time the older man has lost his clothes and joined the two of you on the bed, the Brit’s focus has traveled down the length of your neck to your chest. Reddened marks bloom on your bronzed skin, mottled across your decolletage in a pattern only known as desire. 

He laves his tongue against a pebbled nipple, his teeth scraping the sensitive bud, delighting in the way your body arches upwards into his mouth. Your hand pulls tightly at brunette curls, his resulting whimper at the burn of his scalp muffled around your breast, his eyes screwing shut. You loosen your grasp, unable to determine if that was a positive reaction and you’re pleased to see his eyes fly open, his gaze demanding more. His large hand envelopes your wrist, attempting to have you further mess up his hair, but the motion is halted when Carlos cocks Lando’s head backward with an unrelenting fist. 

The younger man shudders, his eyes rolling at the rough treatment. He rises to lessen the pressure of his boyfriend’s grasp, settling into a kneel between your legs with Carlos pressed to his back. The burn of his scalp subsides when the hold weakens, the tension leaving the younger man in a breath and his head droops back on a broad shoulder.

The Spaniard captivates your attention as he presses a kiss to Lando’s jaw, moving the same hand that was in his boyfriend’s hair to splay against his abdomen, a finger dipping to poke at his bellybutton, causing Lando to jolt with a whine. Carlos coos, calming the man with a rub of hand along his torso.  

“Don’t let him fool you. He likes a bit of pain,” Carlos tweaks Lando’s nipple demonstratively, letting the sight of the younger man’s arousal jumping underneath his briefs accompanied by a strangled moan speak for itself. “He’s a brat, even if he likes to pretend otherwise. A little sting is enough to remind him how to act…most times. Right, Landito?”

The man moves to hide his face in Carlos’s neck as if it’ll hide the sight of him nodding in confirmation. It doesn’t help that the meek “yes” he breathes into the muscle isn’t muffled at all.

“And because he wants to be good,” Carlos continues, pulling at Lando’s waistband and releasing it to snap against flushed, pink skin, “He’s going to keep himself busy with you while I see if I can still taste the dulce on your thigh. Is that okay with you?”

You gulp, anticipatory. “M-more than okay.”

The younger man's eyes are all pupil, ringed with stormy-colored irises as he’s lowered by your side. You were contemplating teasing him about his brat complex—but the haze of his eyes causes you to reconsider.

The gap of his teeth remains adorable even as he bites his lips, the plush skin reddened and raw from where he’s already scraped the skin off. Prolonged eye contact from him seems impossible—his gaze flits away from yours after a handful of seconds. He struggles to decide where to look, happening upon your lips, zoning out with a yearning pout. Lando is clueless to the effect of his fixation; he reignites the redness on your cheeks and the skipping of your heartbeat.

Frightened by Carlos’s spit-slicked lips brushing along the bone of your ankle, you twitch, breaking Lando’s trance. 

The Brit’s blush deepens when he notices you’ve been watching him stare without saying a word. He muffles a mortified whimper into a pillow, smushing his face so deeply into the fabric you worry he may strangle himself. You glance at Carlos for assistance and the man only nods in the younger’s direction, continuing to drag his mouth up your legs, pausing to suckle the skin of your thighs and smirking when he feels the muscles flex underneath his lips.

“Lando, chico,” you croon, petting a hand through the curls at the crown of his head, “Look at me.”

He peeks an eye at you shyly, turning to face you fully, reassured at the enamored look you cover him with.

“Besamé,” you murmur, knowing it’s something Lando’s heard plenty of times from the man nestled between your legs. [Kiss me.] 

The younger understood, rushing to press his lips to yours filthly. The frantic energy is winsome, your chest tightening at the sounds of him whining and mewling needily into your mouth. He licks into your mouth insistently, his attention devoted to tasting the remaining sweetness of ice cream on your tongue. From below, Carlos hums as his tongue polishes off the remaining stickiness on your bronzed skin.

The sounds they rip from you are muffled by the younger man, but the grunt of annoyance Carlos makes as the lingering dulce de leche flavoring of your thigh disappears is clear. He drags his tongue against your labia in one firm stroke, your abdomen undulating at the unexpected attention to your cunt. He smacks his lips, savoring, before a moan rumbles through his chest.

“Better than the ice cream,” he announces, the brown of his iris darkened with greed. 

Lando frees your lips to look at his boyfriend pleadingly, and you take the time to breathe. He left you lightheaded as he kissed every ounce of oxygen from your lungs.

“ ‘wanna taste, ” Lando begs, and Carlos pulls up to meld their lips together, and you're briefly hypnotized by the muscles of his arms contracting through the movement.

The most reedy whine escapes the curly-haired man as Carlos shares the taste of your arousal with him. Your head is filled with the sound of blood rushing through your ears, buffering at the sight of the two men feasting on your essence—what were you thinking when you agreed to be a summer romance? You’re never going to be able to recover from this, and they haven’t even fucked you yet.

They separate, Lando’s chest heaving as he licks along his lips in search of any faint traces of your taste. Carlos resituates himself between your thighs, his voice carrying a firm edge, “Wait your turn, cariño. Keep being good for me—for us, yes?”

The younger man seems small as he nods, appearing a little empty-headed at the command, but he obeys. Turning back to peck your lips sweetly, Lando trails downward to leave a few marks of his own along the column of your neck.

You grab his jaw lightly, “No marks—,” the light in his eyes dulls slightly, “—that high up.” He brightens and lowers his mouth to your collarbone, nipping at your skin, energized by your nails scratching along his scalp.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp as Carlos joins in. He laps between your folds sloppily, his nose knocking your clit with every bob pf his head. The hand that isn’t buried in brunette curls fists in Carlos’s locks of hair, holding him steady while he prods at your entrance with the tip of his tongue.

Your brain buzzes, toes curling as the older man eats you out, the sounds of him enjoying his meal reverberating through the air, harmonizing with your cries and Lando’s snuffles as he toys with your nipples.

Carlos presses a finger inside, thrusting shallowly against your fluttering walls and his mouth purses around your bud, the suckle of his lips puppeteering your spine into arching and your hips into bucking. His stubble scratches your thighs, the scrape searing but adding to your gratification.

He curls upwards, dragging roughly through the clenching of your cunt, adding a second finger that your walls swallow voraciously. The ache of the stretch is calmed quickly by the ample leaking of your arousal and the constant attention of a tongue on your clit as Carlos steadfastly hunts for your sweet spot.

Your mewls are ragged, forced from your lungs with every press of his fingers. Your eyes flutter as pleasure singes your skin, you find the strength to hold them open as you lock gazes with the man between your legs. His eyes are characteristically wide, but they scream his commitment to making you scream.

There’s no fighting. Your head falls back when his fingers graze near that pleasure point and your eyes screw shut when he perfects the angle and massages your sweet spot with his fingertips. 

A shrill shriek leaves your lips as the penetration becomes unrelenting. He constantly presses on the button that has your thighs tightening around his head, but the temptation of taking his final breath between your legs has him doubling down, suckling at your clit forcefully as he prods a third finger inside of you.

Lando chokes, crying out loudly as your hand yanks at his curls, his hips jumping to grind along your hip, his briefs damp from where he’s been leaking. Carlos’s laugh as he watches his boyfriend desperately hump in search of friction, vibrates around your swollen bud, forcing out a squeal nearly loud enough to drown out the sound of your slick squelching around his fingers.

Abruptly, he pulls away. His digits slip from your walls, your entrance left to pucker hungrily around air. Carlos’s stare is loud as he fights the urge to press inside of you again.

The lack of stimulation is maddening. You free your hold on Lando, and he collapses onto you, body pinning yours to the bed—his weight steadying as you restrain your anger at the sudden halt.

You blink deliriously at the sight of Carlos tearing a condom wrapper open with his teeth. The slowing rhythm of your heart speeds up as you revel at the image of his hand rolling the condom down his hardened length, flushed and throbbing with arousal. 

It’s daunting. It’s been a long time since you’ve last had sex. At some point, you decided to prioritize protecting your peace rather than dealing with men who aren’t going to do anything other than ruin your PH and fail to make you cum. It doesn’t help that Carlos is well-endowed; you need to come to terms that you’re going to have a limp after this.

Lando sits upwards to watch his boyfriend drag his length through your folds, moaning in unison with you as Carlos’s tip brushes along your pulsing clit. The Spaniard grunts at the heated slide before resting at the gape of your entrance, but he looks up to you for your go ahead. 

“I-it’s been a while,” you admit tensely, covering your eyes with the back of your hand as anxiety builds in your navel.

“How long is ‘a while?’” Carlos asks, without a single hint of judgment. Lando pulls your hand off your face tenderly, revealing their compassionate expressions.

“You remember how I joked about not kissing you guys until a second date?” You toy with Lando’s fingers distractedly, and they confirm their recollection, “Well—there hasn’t been anybody that’s made it past a second date in a long time.”

“Carlos is gentle,” Lando reassures you, halting your play with his fingers to hold your hand comfortingly, “I promise. And he listens very well, and pays attention, and goes at your pace. If he doesn’t, I’ll beat his ass.”

You giggle at that, your nerves fading as Carlos yelps at the threat. This exact kind of behavior is the kind you can see yourself falling in love with.

“Ay! Yes—Lando has permission to knock some sense into me if I hurt you,” Carlos jokes, pausing momentarily before his tone becomes hopeful, “And, we would really like to be the ones who make it to a third date—I’ll follow your pace, I swear.”

The knot in your stomach tightens for another reason besides arousal.

“I believe you,” you murmur, relaxing back into the bed, raising your’s and Lando’s joined hands to press a kiss to his wrist. Lando hums sweetly at you, laying at your side again, his free hand cradling your waist, thumb brushing calmingly on your rich brown skin. 

Carlos breaches you softly—gently, as Lando said he would. The three fingers he stretched you with was a safe play. If it were only two, you would be feeling a sharp pain instead of an ache. The burn is delicious, your inhale stutters as the head of his cock pops into you.

“Joder,” Carlos curses, his jaw clenched tightly, his grip tight on your thighs, as he inches deeper. His eyes trace your complexion attentively for any sign that it’s too much. “Relax, mi corázon—let me in.”

The sweet endearment encourages you to pant through a tiny whimper. Lando’s hand pets along your navel as he sweeps a kiss across your brow bone.

“‘s big isn’t he?” He murmurs, voice breathy, “Fuck—it’s gonna be worth it when he’s all the way inside you, yeah? Stretching you out just right, touching spots you didn’t know existed. It hurts a little, I know, love. But, it hurts so good, doesn’t it? I don’t know how that fits inside me every time I take it, but it’s worth it.”

You whimper fitfully—you want to watch Carlos make him take it.

The discomfort twisting your brows lightens slightly, and Carlos pulls out before he sinks another inch in. The shallow stroke sends an appealing rush of sharp pleasure skittering up your spine and it pools at the back of your head.

A real moan is forced from your chest, and your eyes open to see Lando tucking a curl behind your ear, smiling knowingly.

“Yeah, that felt good didn’t it, baby?” You can’t solely credit the burst of pleasure behind your eyes to Carlos’s barely there thrusts as he works deeper. The praise and pet names Lando seems keen to utilize should be accounted for as well. The Brit presses down on your navel with an astoundingly large palm.

His lips graze your ear as he whispers, “Don’t you wanna feel him here? All deep inside of you?” He pauses briefly, letting your imagination work before continuing. “I feel him there when he fucks me. Like he’s making room for himself, yeah? Gonna open up for him? For me? Gonna let yourself feel good, sunshine?”

Carlos’s hips meet the backs of your thighs as he bottoms out.

Choked gasps leave you and Carlos. Your skin alight, your pores flaring raw. His calloused hands rub over your hips and thighs, one settling where Lando’s was previously holding at your waist and the other amply squeezing the curve of your ass.

Behind your closed eyes, you see the white flare of heat zinging through every nerve ending, your body overstimulated at receiving pleasure in the highest, unfiltered form. Lando was right—it feels like he made room for himself. The weight of him is searing, your walls fluttering frantically as they adjust.

Your most conscious thought is realizing why orgasms are referred to as “little deaths.” Because, if him fucking into you for the first time is this good? Cumming around him has to feel akin to ascending to heaven.

The younger man turns your head towards him with a gentle nudge of your cheek. His eyes peer into you searchingly. You don’t know what he’s trying to find. You’re more concerned with coaxing him into another kiss.

You raise up with an unsteady arm, toppling forward to press your lips to his, but you miss and land near the corner of his mouth. At your disappointed grown, Lando moves to kiss you chastely, before he looks at Carlos.

The older man’s eyes are silken as they dance between you and his boyfriend. It takes Lando tugging him forward with a hand on his bicep for him to understand that you’re pining for a kiss from him as well.

The Spaniard catches the strangled mewl you make with his lips, the change in angle as he hovers over you amplifying the pressure of him within you tenfold. Delicately, he leads the dance of tongues, using the lip lock to distract you from the barely there roll of his hips.

It works, the nervous tension that had gathered in your core unraveling completely at the sensual rock. The grinds remain tender as he gradually works you up to weightier strokes and a quicker rhythm.

Your lips uncouple when your head lulls backwards, a drawn-out purr rolling underneath your chest. With your knees bending to cradle Carlos’s hips, you cast lidded eyes to the Spaniard, bathing underneath his appreciative gaze and the blissful twist to his brows as he rolls into you.

“Carlitos, fóllame,” you murmur, watching his eyes widen in surprise, “I said it’s been a long time, not that I’m going to break.” [Fuck me.]

Lando grins beside you, quieting his laughter by pressing his face into your hair. The older man flusters, a red flush spreading across his chest, and he reminds you that he’d promised to be gentle.

His dedication to his word is attractive and you’re thankful he followed through. You tell him as such, but not without another teasing jab, “Thank you for being gentle. However, I think continuing to be gentle when I ask for more might decrease your chances at a third date.”

Lando jerks upwards to gape at the two of you, frazzled, “That’s not even funny! Babe—do better!”

The brown-eyed man doesn’t entertain either of you with a verbal response.

A bitten-off shout is punched from your chest as his hips slam into you with vigor, your vision crossing as the older man settles into a hard pace. His cock threatens to slip out of you with every stroke out and your body jolts with every ruthless thrust inside, the maddening force turning your mind syrupy with arousal and lightning-hot pleasure.

Endless praise is voiced by Carlos between every rough grunting pant he releases. Your brain is filled with seductive words; bien chica, so tight, you sound so pretty, you can take it. 

You can only hope he hears your gratitude through your repeated moans. You dig your nails into his muscled back as he grazes your sweet spot every couple of thrusts. The sharp pain only has Carlos’s hips stuttering for a moment. He growls, his grip turns bruising as he fucks into you with abandon. Your lungs burn and your legs shake. You squirm beneath him fruitlessly, attempting to buck away from the overwhelming grind, but you're pinned underneath his body weight. Your escape attempt is noticed by both men.

Lando tuts, pressing you down into the mattress with an arm around your waist to prevent any future attempt of you shifting. “Don’t run from it, sunshine.”

Carlos laughs sardonically, and you squeal as shame crawls along your synapses at the noise. He changes the angle of his thrusts to bully that spongy spot inside of you relentlessly, “It’s not too much, no? I thought you said you didn’t want me to be gentle?”

Your body curls in distress, mouth-parted wide at the excruciating attention paid to your most nirvanic point . You try to squeeze your walls tighter around him, to afflict a hint of the unbearable pleasure he’s wreaked upon you. Your shocked to discover that he’s fucked you open so well that your cunt can’t do much more than take what he gives you.

Your wetness squelches with his motions, a thin layer of sweat accumulates on your skin and steams the air around you. The scent of sex and aftertaste of ice cream permeates your mind as your orgasm peaks. 

It bursts through you, the intensity slamming through you like a train. Your body falls limp as the pleasure overrides your control, the unrestrained screams of their names are piercing as the waves brutally crash over you. 

Carlos slams his lips to yours, your teeth clacking together painfully and you can only pant into his mouth as he messily kisses you through your orgasm and steamrolls into his own with his strongest pounding thrusts.

Spanish curses are hidden by your mouth as he lays into you, like he’s not quite done molding you to his shape. He fucks you both through it, the vigor of his grinds wearing as the spurts of his spend slows within the condom. 

His arms buckle, pushing an umphf from your chest as he falls onto you. The heaviness is grounding and you wrap your arms around him, shuddering through the aftershocks.

Lando shifts needily at your side, but doesn’t speak. He pulls the arm on your waist from underneath his Carlos’s torso and drags a finger along the reddened scores your nails carved into his boyfriend’s back, with a look in your eyes you can’t place. Is it envy? Quietly, you contemplate the ache you feel between your legs. 

“Get naked, cariño,” you rasp, finding a second wind at the younger man doing as you asked, “It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t get a turn, too.”

Carlos nuzzles deeper into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, his lips and eyelashes tickling your cooling skin. He misses the sight of his boyfriend wildly flinging his briefs to an unknown corner of the bedroom.

Sitting on his haunches, the Brit’s reaches to grab his cock. It’s leaking and (concerningly) redder than the skin of his cheeks from the lack of attention paid to it. He yanks his hand back as if slapped, and digs his nails into the meat of his thighs.

Oh, you think, is it too much for him or is he not supposed to touch?

You reach to close your palm around his poor, dripping length, only managing a single, loose stroke when a pained hiss is ripped from Lando’s teeth. His hips jerk back, freeing himself from barely there hold of your hand. The toned muscles of his abdomen jump as his cock flares and a stream of precum dribbles from his swollen tip.

“Fu-uck,” he shakes, “— ‘can’t. Too sensitive, ‘ll cum.”

The green and blue pools of his eyes are wet with moisture, and his chest—dotted with moles and patches of flushed skin—trembles with every inhale. The man laying on your chest shifts to trail his eyes over Lando’s form. The corner of his lips tilts into a smirk as his boyfriend attempts to hide his arousal behind a hand.

“Sol,” Carlos says to you as his eyes remain piercing into the Brit, “You should ride him—if you are able to, of course.” [Sunshine/Sun]

“Uhh…” you stutter, your attention bouncing between the two as you refrain from answering. 

The numbness settling within your cunt can be ignored if it means you get to have the younger man underneath you. Except, it looks like he’s about to cry, and you don’t want to pressure him into agreeing with your answer if he honestly can’t handle it. The teary-eyed man whimpers thinly, splaying himself on his back next to you, looking past you to meet Carlos’s eyes meekly, his voice tiny as he responds, “—won’t last.”

The Spaniard pulls out of you slowly, murmuring apologies and kissing your cheekbone when your brow twinges in discomfort. He helps you straddle the younger man’s hips, careful to support you as your legs haven’t stopped quivering.

His hand drifts between your pelvises, dragging a nail along the underside of Lando’s cock and you can’t deny the buzz of electricity that sings in your gut at the younger man’s wounded cry. The tears spill over his waterline, though he’s squeezed his eyes shut to try to stop them from falling. Carlos tuts at the man patronizingly.

“Too much, Landito?” Carlos pouts at him, “It is fine if you cannot take it. If you don’t want to cum tonight that’s—“

Lando’s eyelids spring open, looking at Carlos desperately as he babbles, “No,no,no,no—‘wanna cum. Please, ‘los.”

The seconds Carlos spends rolling protection over Lando’s cock are filled with choked gasps as the younger man cries, overwhelmed at the lightest touch of fingertips. You lower around his cock smoothly, walls clenching around him greedily, vision tunneling on the soundless bliss of his expression when your ass meets his skin.

You hum at the fullness, your mind settling at how right it feels. The first circle of your hips has Lando’s hands clawing at your hips, adding his own marks on your skin to compliment his boyfriend’s. He wriggles, overwhelmed, but bucks to meet your rolling body regardless.

He’s flushed from head to waist, fresh tears painting tracks of salt down his face before they drip off his jawline to splash on the bed sheets. Your pace remains tantric, and you don’t move more than an inch upwards to avoid testing his limits. The suckling, hot, drag is more than enough for him, if the pulsing of his cock is any telling. Your own sensitivity begins to bite at the base of your spine, your brain exhausted at the feeling of Lando pressing into the rawness that Carlos carved out.

The Spaniard must notice the way the two of you are tiring of chasing euphoria. Lando’s grinds weaken as the precipice of ecstasy is dangled in front of him, hoarse sobs racking through him as he fails to reach it on his own. Carlos splays his hand across Lando’s throat. The Brit’s whimpers pleadingly, and his mouth parts roundly as his boyfriend applies a light pressure to the sides of his neck. 

Lando shakes apart underneath you with uneven thrusts, his helpless gasps echoing through the room as you continue the grind of your hips to coax him through the bliss of release. He bodily restricts your movements when you edge him towards too-much, pulling you off of him with a single hand underneath your thigh. 

Your knees buckle, pitching over to lie face down next to the British man, who mewls sharply as Carlos pulls the soiled condom off. The heat of the Spaniard disappears, the sheets ruffling as he leaves the bed, causing Lando to make a noise of confusion.

“Water, mi amor,” Carlos chuckles, and you’re happy your face is hidden as you can’t contain your expression of envy at the endearment. He maneuvers Lando’s arms to curl around you, “I am getting us water. I will be quick.”

The younger man, as fucked-out as he is, uses a surprising amount of force to pull you into his chest as he buries his nose in your frazzled nest of hair. He uses his other hand to pull your leg around his hip and hums happily when your bodies press together without an ounce of space to spare. He squeezes you tightly, your dejected frown disappearing as you bask in his embrace, uncaring of the layer of sweat pooling on your cooling skin and the stickiness of your thighs.

There’s three cups with straws in Carlos’s hands as he rejoins the two of you on the bed. He sets one on the nightstand and holds the other two while you and Lando untangle your limbs. Once Carlos is satisfied by the slow sips you two take, he slinks into the bathroom and returns with a warm, soaked cloth to wipe the grime from everyone’s bodies. 

He’s careful about the press of the rag, paying attention to every muscle that tenses in sensitivity and tries to do the job as painless as possible. He nods in content once finished, scooping his glass up to rehydrate himself as well.

Lando bites at the metal straw, the gap of his teeth ridiculously cute even as his eyes brighten with mischief, “So…five minutes and we go again?”

“¡Que te jodan!” You cast a look of disbelief at him, “Lando you just cried through an entire orgasm and you want to go again? Already?” [Fuck you!]

The Brit shrugs loftily, slurping through the last bit of water in his cup and toothily smiling as he blinks at you in feigned innocence. His softened length twitches to attention, and you rest your head in your hand, shutting your eyes briefly for strength.

“Oh, what the hell,” you mumble, before clearing your throat, speaking louder, “I need like 15 minutes—or, until I can feel my legs again. Whichever comes first.”

Carlos collects the empty cup from Lando and sets it on the nightstand with his own. “Would you like to watch him fall apart around me while you wait?”

You choke on the sip of water in your mouth, coughing desperately to clear your throat as your eyes water from the burn. The worried look in the Spaniard’s eyes has an amused tinge to it, even as he pats you on the back in aid—you have a feeling he timed his question with your swallow on purpose.

“That’s a stupid question,” you croak, strangled, “Of course, I want to watch.”

You snuffle against a warmed patch of skin annoyed. The heat of sunlight paints your face golden, and you shift to burrow further into the warmth of limbs around you to drowsily slip back into sleep. You find yourself nodding off, but your ears become alert to the sounds of birds calling and chirping outside. 

Your body reacts before your brain as you fly upwards into a seated position. Shit! You have to go to work!

A pained whimper is exhaled as your lower body aches, sore from last night’s activities. The tangle of tanned arms fall limply around your waist at your change in position, the snores of the two men beside you uninterrupted. You carefully pry their arms away, and slip from the bed, digging through the pile of clothes on the floor, grinding your teeth at the numbness of your legs underneath you.

You dress yourself quickly, closing your eyes in thanks for Carlos forcing you into the shower before you passed out. Hopping across the bedroom to tug your skirt up, you stumble into the bathroom to examine the state you're in, pulling your shirt over your head all the while. 

Your curls are a mess, but that can be fixed at work. Lando respected your wishes of keeping his marks below the collar, but you can spot a few of the bruises on your thighs that their fingertips left. 

You curse briefly, unsure if you have a skirt long enough that would hide the mottled skin before remembering that you have a pair of biker shorts that you can slide on underneath that will get the job done. Pressing a thumb into the shape of Carlos’s thumb, you shiver at the glance of pain that sparks up your spine, swallowing tightly as you recall how it was left there.

With a shake of your head to expel the unseemly thoughts, you turn the faucet on to splash water on  your face. You need to call an Uber to get to work. Rushing out of the en-suite, you frantically search for your phone, trying to remain silent to avoid waking up the boys tucked in that ridiculously plush mattress.

“¿Qué estas buscando?” You screech frightfully at the rough timber of Carlos’ voice, spinning around to look at him. [What are you looking for?]

He’s preciously ruffled; his hair sticks up wildly, the comforter draped around his waist as he leans upwards, the planes of his tanned skin sharp in the morning hours, his eyes squinted in your direction under the brightness of the room—the curtains are wide open. 

Did you have sex—illuminated with a single lamp—with the curtains wide open? That’s a problem to fixate over later, you need your phone.

“Have you seen my phone? I can’t find it,” you straighten your shirt, your volume quieting near the end of your sentence as Lando shifts in the bed with a displeased pout that softens when he settles.

“I plugged it in here for you,” Carlos whispers, rolling to take it off the charger, flashing the marks your nails etched into his back. 

He lifts himself out of bed with a rough groan, your mouth drying as you watch him walk to you, clad in a pair of boxers that leave little (it’s not little at all, actually) to the imagination. Carlos’s hand cushions your cheek as he brushes his lips on yours softly, the delicate rhythm washing away your concerns about being late. 

Your lips break apart with a soft pop and he laughs at the discontented sigh you exhale, offering a languid press of lips to your forehead in apology. You reluctantly take the phone from his hand, your eyes bugging out as you realize that you needed to leave five minutes ago to have plenty of time to fix your appearance before you clock in.

“¡Puta madre!” you exclaim, “I’m fucked. I’m going to be so late ‘cause I have to wait for an car.”

“ —Wait for a car?” Carlos’s eyebrows twist in confusion, scratching at his stubble, “Where are you going? You are not staying?”

You throw him a soft look, turning away to figure out where your socks disappeared to, “I’m late for work, Carlitos. I can’t stay—even though I really want to.”

Carlos ah’s in understanding, assisting you in the search for your socks, his voice still croaky with disuse as he talks, “I can drive you? We are only twenty minutes away if you follow the road laws.”

You huff a laugh at his insinuation, tugging your socks on and patting at his arm softly, before gesturing to Lando in the bed, “You don’t have to. I don’t want to inconvenience you, you should be in bed with him. It’s my fault for not having my alarm properly set.”

Carlos shakes his head, rooting through his dresser for a pair of sweatpants that he pulls on, “You are not inconveniencing me. It would be rude if I let you be late to work after last night. I’m not that kind of man. Neither of us are.”

You give in as you watch him pull a plain white tee over his head—he’s too sweet for a fleeting romance. He ambles over to Lando, brushing the unruly curls off his forehead and pressing a kiss to his temple. He tucks the blankets around his boyfriend and a lick of jealousy blooms in your subconscious before you pluck it. 

Carlos grabs his own phone off another charger and stands, speaking to you warmly, “Your shoes and purse are downstairs, yes? There’s some protein bars in the kitchen pantry, grab as many as you want. I should have treated you to a proper breakfast but you do not have the time. I’m going to use the bathroom quickly, if that’s okay?”

You nod, and Carlos quietly shuts the bathroom door behind him. You breathe deeply at the situation you’ve found yourself in, and you scramble to send a quick text to the group chat telling them to cover for you and promising to cover a shift for anybody who does in the future. 

Your phone buzzes almost instantly after with an influx of messages and you click the screen off. They’re probably freaking out at the uncharacteristic vagueness of your whereabouts, but you put off responding to press your own kiss to Lando’s temple before heading downstairs, tenderly stepping to minimize the unsteadiness of your walk.

You appreciate the decor you didn’t get to see last night, the vacation home vibes blatant as you walk through; a modern twist of Spanish style decor. There’s even a fireplace you spot on your way past a sitting room.

You lace up your sneakers, grabbing your purse from the console table in the entryway before searching for the kitchen to grab a protein bar to hold you over until your lunch break. The kitchen is artful, modern in the sense of the new appliances but the colors and details of the tiled walls, clutter, and cabinets gives it a soul. It feels lived in.

You dryly swallow an ibuprofen—you always carry a few in your purse—hoping it will relieve your soreness before work. You open the pantry door, finding an assortment of protein bars and taking your time to read the labels as you hear a door open which means Carlos is heading down. You grab two bars that fit your taste and softly shut the door, unwrapping one to take a bite of now.

“Ah, I knew I would see you again,” Carlos Sr. smiles at you from the kitchen entry, chuckling at the way you jump and nearly drop the bars in your hands, “I will not lie to you, I thought it would be at the golf club and not here.”

Your lips part and seal as you search for a polite answer, but he continues speaking.

“Let me tell you a secret,” he clasps his hands delightfully, “Did my son tell you that he’s been asking me about you every time I am on the course? Papá, did you see her? Papá, when are you going back to Madrid? Aye, they’re smitten over you, mija?”

“¿En serio?” you relax at his mellow tone, enlightened by the new information. [Really?]

“¡Sí!” The older man exclaims, passing by you to start a pot of coffee, “To be honest, I thought you were out of their league last summer,” you laugh, knowing it’s definitely the other way around, “—Honestly!” He insists, turning to face you as the coffee starts to drip.

“I mean, you are in university, getting a further degree,” he shakes his head in respect of your commitment, “Those two just drive in circles for a living! I couldn’t even convince my son to drive rally like I did, ese cabrón.” [That bastard.]

You laugh a little harder at the jab on his own son, muffling it behind a hand, and he continues, “—And, when they told me they did not get your number! Ay! I was so mad at them. I told them to drop everything and go after you, but by the time they made their way up there you were already gone.”

You feel like shit about your outburst on the green. Your expression shutters, and he pats at your shoulder in comfort, “Oh. I-I didn’t know—“

“How could you?” He hums in question, “It is not your fault, if that’s what you are—“

“Mi sol, have you seen my wallet—” Carlos Jr. steps into the kitchen, words cutting off as he balks at the sight of his father, and he shouts, “Papá! ¿Qué hace aquí?” [My sunshine; Dad! What are you doing here?]

“¿Qué estoy haciendo en la casa que compré?” His dad fires back, amused at his son’s stunned question. [What am I doing in the house I bought?]

Carlos blinks at his dad before turning to you, slipping his hand into yours and tugging you out of the kitchen softly, “Let’s go; you’re going to be late, no?”

Sr. chortles as he grabs a mug from the cabinet, “¡Mijo! Hiding a woman from me?! It is okay, Lando will tell me everything. That is why he’s my favorite son!”

Carlos throws his head back with an exasperated groan, but it doesn’t hide the redness of his ears from his father’s teasing.

You stifle your smile, squeezing his hand pacifyingly, “Your wallet is in the bowl at the front. Um, if it’s possible,” you tuck a curl behind your ear shyly, “Do you have another car besides the Ferrari? I love it, but I cannot show up stepping out of that.”

Carlos snorts, shoving his wallet into his pocket and leading you to the garage, “Is a Porsche fine?”

“It’ll work.”

He gets you there in thirteen minutes, slowing the car to a crawl as you direct him to the employee entrance. You grab your purse, awkwardly pausing as you pop the door open. 

You face him with a sheepish grin, “Thank you for the ride. Tell Lando I said good morning.”

Carlos drags his eyes over your form languidly, before he nods imperceptibly, “Do you have enough time to get ready?”

“You’ve made up a few extra minutes for me with your skilled driving on the way here,” Carlos huffs a laugh at that, “So, I should be okay.”

The two of you fall back into silence, unsure of what else to say. You take the leap of faith this time around, it’s the most you can do after learning the way they tried to catch you before you left last summer.

“It wouldn’t be overstepping if I kissed you, right?”

“Ven aquí,” Carlos exhales, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning over the console to meet you halfway. [Come here.]

His lips are swollen and textured from your’s and Lando’s combined attention, but the kiss is the sweetest and most tender one you’ve ever experienced. The soft exhale of breath from his nose stokes the butterflies in your stomach, who flutter awake as adoration pumps through your veins. The two of you part, eyes fluttering open to stare softly. He settles back into his seat, looking at your lips longingly, his line of sight broken as you exit the vehicle.

You clear your throat, “Um, I’ll text you guys when I get home later, okay? Adiós, te qu—hasta luego.” [Bye, I l—see you later.]

You shut the door and speed walk into the building before he could say anything about how you nearly exposed how down bad you are already. You hope he doesn’t bring it up, for the sake of your mental stability. The moment you step into the employee locker room, you're accosted by your friends, Isa, Lucas, and Stephanie. 

“Damn,” Lucas snaps, “I was really hoping you’d be late. I need my shift on Tuesday covered.”

You shrug, sliding past the girls to walk to your locker. “Sucks to suck.”

“¡Oye, pequeña!” Isa and Stephanie box you in at your locker as you grab your spare uniform and sport shorts, Isa stresses, “You cannot, walk in here and act like nothing happened! You show up wearing the outfit I picked out for you yesterday? Your hair is a mess! You sent the vaguest text about possibly showing up late? And, you get dropped off in a Porsche!?” [Hey, girly(i guess, idrk how to explain it)!]

Stephanie’s eyes blow wide and you rest your head into the cool metal of your locker door as she bursts, “Girl—did you get laid?!”

“Thank you for that, Steph,” you bite out, turning to look at them with the politest grimace you can muster, “Now, everyone will know exactly what I got up to last night because Lucas—,” you point behind you with a thumb, speaking loudly to drive your words in, “—Is physically incapable of keeping his mouth shut.”

He raises his hands up and backs out of the locker room with a devious smile. 

Turning to Isa, you shake your head, “I do not know why you like him. He’s such a chismosa.” [Gossip.]

She rolls her eyes at you, following you as you make your way into the bathroom, “It’s not a bad thing. He tells me all of the gossip I miss out on–why are there bruises on your thigh—holy fuck! He must have big hands. Which means he has a big—”

“Okay!” You screech, running into a stall and locking the door shut behind you, “I will tell you and the girls every single detail as soon as we finish today!”

She makes a triumphant noise, her steps fading as she exits the restroom, “You better! Or, I’ll force you to listen to me wax poetic about Lucas’s eyes for hours!”

Scoffing, you tug your shirt over your head and yell back, “You already do that anyways!”

The slicked-back ponytail you gelled your hair into, has already sprung flyaways since you didn’t have enough time to set your hair with a wrap before you had to drive out onto the course. You’re almost three hours into your shift, and the sun feels like it’s at its strongest even though you have a few more hours of it burning hotter. Only twenty minutes until lunch, you remind yourself, then you can fix your hair and cool down in the restaurant's walk-in freezer.

You’ve just finished serving a bachelor party, a group of ten men who didn’t give you a hard time. You talked loosely with them, engaging in small talk because connections are everything and you never know who you might run into on the green.

Like Carlos and Lando, case in point.

The groom-to-be actually met his fiancé here. She was a bartender in the clubhouse about seven years ago, and on complete chance she ended up being the one to serve him. He was starry-eyed as he explained to you that he fell in love with her as soon as he saw her. He ordered an unbelievably expensive amount of drinks for him and his boys (the same group of men in the bachelor party), and when she slid the bill over to him, he said, “For this price, you could’ve bought me for the night.”

You called bullshit, and he looked at his friends who backed up his words; they all heard it when he said it. You watched as he took a sip from his beer bottle with a reverent shake of his head, “Now, we’re getting married next week. On August 12th, or 8/12. Which was the price of the tab that night, $812.”

You made a joke about him needing to strengthen his self-esteem if he would consider selling his body for a measly $800, and to attend an A.A. meeting because that’s a ridiculous amount of money to spend on drinks that leave your system quicker than you ingested them. 

The men crowed in laughter at your ribbing of the groom-to-be, but you did seriously congratulate him on his engagement and wished him a long, happy marriage.

And currently, you’ve parked your cart for a few minutes to get over the urge you feel to cry. You're jealous of a woman you’ve never met before because she gets to love a man who’s devoting the rest of his life to her. She gets to marry him, and you’ve agreed to be nothing more than a summer romance to the men you could see yourself falling in love with.

You thank the universe for allowing you to cross paths with the groom-to-be. It reminded you of your place with the Formula One drivers and it’s a temporary one.

Your walkie-talkie crackles with the sound of your name and you sniffle deeply, blinking your eyes quickly to rid the moisture. 

“What’s up?” You chirp cheerily into the voice box, waiting for a response.

“By chance, are you missing your earrings? Over.” It’s Ryan, he takes his radio messages seriously. You tug at your earlobes, and damn, you feel naked.

“I am. Did I leave them in the dressing room?”

“You have to say ‘over’ at the end of your messages, you know that. Over.”

“Ryan...” you hold the line open to annoy him a little bit before you give in, “Did I leave them in the dressing room? O-v-e-r, over.”

“I was going to be nice to you but you lost that chance. Over.” 

You snort, intrigued to hear how he’s going to ‘retaliate.’ The two of you started here at the same time and Ryan has become like a little brother to you, against your will. 

“I just wanted to let you know that two objectively handsome men turned in your earrings to the front desk,” you shout in surprise, firing up the golf cart and slamming the pedal down to head back to the clubhouse, “Hmm…I think they said you left them at their house last night. Overrrrr.” He draws the ‘over’ out teasingly and the walkie-talkie squeals with static and screams of surprise from the other employees on the channel.

“TWO? YOU FREAK!!!” Lucas.

Incoherent screaming. Isa.

“Nobody here can call me a slut anymore!” Rob.

“Is that why you couldn’t sit comfortably at the morning meeting?!” Sofia.

Ryan’s voice crackles through, “Oh! I forgot to mention—don’t worry about stealing food from the restaurant for lunch; they dropped off a meal for you. Over.”

The walkie-talkie explodes with noise and you turn the volume to zero. You’re reporting them all to HR.

You tune out the jeers in the break room as you devour a croquetade jamón and chase it with a spoonful of rice. You send a photo of the food with a thumbs-up in the frame, to Carlos and Lando. You type out your thanks for the jewelry return and lunch. There’s no hesitation as you press send on message inquiring about when the third date is going to happen.

The third date is private cooking lesson where you’re coached through making a few classic Spanish tapas. Lando immersed too deeply and only responded to ‘Chef Lando’ during the class. Carlos ate all of the chorizo he was supposed to use on his flatbread. You terrify the actual chef with your less than savory cutting technique. Your torn apart on their fingers that night, as they take turns coaxing you over the cliff.

You decrease the amount hours you’re able to work at the golf course. You’re only on the schedule during the middle of the week–Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday—leaving you with a four day weekend to frolic around Madrid with your boyfr—with Carlos and Lando.

The fourth date is dinner and a show. It’s your first time watching a ballet, and your lucky enough to be watching the performance at Teatro Real, one of the most prestigious opera houses in Europe. It’s also the first time you get railed in a women’s bathroom stall at Teatro Real, one of the most prestigious opera houses in Europe.

Lando pants raggedly as he fucks into you from behind, “Ah—shit, sunshine, you’re so tight.”

Your moan is muffled around Carlos’s cock and he hisses at the vibration, knocking his head against the stall door loudy. 

When Lando climaxes, he whimpers out a, “te quiero.” You pretend to miss it as you concentrate on sucking Carlos to completion. Carlos licks his spend from your tongue, babbling his te quiero’s into your mouth. You don’t say it back. [Te quiero means I love you, but it’s more casual, less serious in nature.]

The fifth date is pottery and you ride Carlos’s face to the image of Lando’s hands coning down his clay on the wheel. The sixth date is driving around the outskirts of Madrd’s city limits and passing the phone around to queue a song to play as you three switch between talking and enjoying the tunes. 

The seventh date is painting the mugs you made; you made two, one for Carlos and one for Lando—they each made you one as well. You’ve painted Carlos’s as a lemon and Lando’s as an orange—and homage to the sip of sunshine line they pulled on you. Lando painted a field of sunflowers for you. Carlos painted a sun with rays spilling from it, the words ‘my sunshine’ scripted into the middle of the sun.

Somewhere between the fifth and seventh date, they became comfortable with saying te quiero  to you outside of sex. 

It’s said as you serve them drinks on the course, as they drop you of at home after dates, as they cuddle with you without wanting more, as they wake you up between them in the morning. 

You give in somewhere beewen the sixth and seventh date. But, you only allow yourself to say te quiero during or after sex.

And, you stifle your sobs of anguish into your pillow at home, dreading the day you return to school and they return to racing.

Your dad enjoys the mobile car show of priceless automobiles that appear in his driveway to pick you up. Your mom eagerly awaits your renditions of your dates every night and you’re careful to edit around the explicit parts. 

The dates progress to you spending your four days off at their  Carlos Sr. 's vacation home, packing a bag with your necessities so you don’t have to risk wasting time away from them by stopping at your house. They take the time to explain to you just how much of a goat Lewis Hamilton is. Lando helps with your wash day, soaking up your tidbits of advice for his own curls. Carlos lets you soundboard ideas for your dissertation off of him without complaining, iterjecting every once in a while with a viewpoint you hadn’t considered. 

Your craving for intimacy is satiated. They twirl you around in the kitchen to Spanish ballads they sing terribly at the top of their lungs. They terrorize you on the green, choosing increasingly difficult cocktails for you to make so you have to spend more time with them instead of doing your job. You and Carlos terrorize Lando with a football games of keep away. You and Lando terrorize Carlos by hiding his shirts from him so he has to walk around topless. They don’t terrorize you in retaliation—if you don’t count their constant te quiero’s as terrorizing acts.They pick you up at some ridiculous hours when you’ve gone clubbing with your friends; making sure you chug a glass of water, helping you rinse off in the shower and moisturizing your skin before dressing you in their clothes, doing your skincare for you before putting you to bed. 

They drag their feet through helping you repack your belongings on the morning of your last day in Spain. You let Lando get away with tugging garments out of your bag every time you turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you see Carlos assist him by stuffing it at the bottom of the pile of clothes that doesn’t seem to shrink.

Eventually, they give up. Their eyes trace your form as you do your last walkaround to make sure you haven’t left anything behind. Your check ends at the front door, grabbing your keys from the bowl on the entryway table.

You sigh heavily, “Well, don’t just stand there.”

They gravitate towards you, hugging you tightly and peppering an endless amount of bittersweet kisses along any patch of skin they can reach. Lando hunches down to hide his face in your neck, and Carlos rests his forehead against yours.

“¡Chicos, calmaté!” Your giggly exclamation sounds watery, “I am coming back next year, remember?”

“That’s too longgg,” Lando complains into your neck, his voice sounding as pitiful as yours. You step backwards to cradle his face between your hands. His cheeks are ruddy and his eyes are dejected even as he smiles shakily under your touch.

“Date us.” Carlos blurts out desperately, “Ay, perdóname—May we date you, please?” [Forgive me.]

You gape at the older man, struggling to ascertain what he’s asked of you. 

Stumbling gracelessly, your hands fall from Lando’s face, who makes a hurt noise at the loss. “Date me? I thought you both said this was just a fling?”

The Brit twists his hands together at your words, his face saddening further as he corrects you, “Summer romance—fling is too harsh.”

“Too casual?” You shout, “I thought this was supposed to be casual! I felt like shit whenever I didn’t say te quiero back! I wanted more the moment we sat down at that restaurant a month ago, but I thought I couldn’t have it because that’s not what we agreed on!”

“You want more?” Carlos clarifies, his tone optimistic. 

“¡Cabrón!”  You laugh, hurtling forward to throw your arms around his neck. Relieved tears spill over your waterline, soaking into the Spaniard’s shirt. “I’m damn near in love with you guys–yes,yes,yes, I want more.”

Lando glows, blubbering incoherently with happiness and you shush him with your lips.

“I wish you had asked me days ago,” you sniffle cutely, smiling crookedly as you continue, “—’cause I really do have to leave, or I won’t have enough time to pack my things into my suitcases at home.”

You groan as you find yourself with an armful of two Formula One drivers bemoaning the unfairness of being separated from you even though they just got you.

“Mis amores, escúchame—you had me the entire time,” you coo, “We all know how phones work. We can communicate speedily with texts, and video calls, and send voice messages, and even regular calls. If we’re doing this we have to have a serious talk about it when I land in the States, yeah? Long distance is difficult, but I’m willing to put in the effort to make it work, if you two do the same.” [My loves, listen to me.]

“Phone sex isn’t the worst thing in the world,” Lando quips, smiling as he watches you and Carlos chortle at the unexpected comment.

The laughter ringing through the air fizzles out. You bite your lip, shaking your head slightly as their stares fixate on your mouth. They haven’t managed to stop ogling at your lips over the course of the month.

“Te quiero,” you state. Lando repeats it back instantly, Carlos kisses you before doing the same.

You pick up your bag from the floor, “Promise me that you’ll do your best to make this relationship work.”

Their confirmations are swift, even taking turns crossing their pinkies with yours and with themselves. Your heart sings with love. They walk you to your car. Carlos takes the bag from your hand and places it in your backseat, Lando holds your door open, making sure you don’t hit your head as you sit in the driver’s seat. 

He shuts the door smoothly, and you roll down the window to exchange your last goodbyes. 

“See you next summer.”

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[weirdsht]

Disillusioned 11 . Nothing More, Nothing Less (4)

a/n: double update this week because i got a perfect score on my all-or-nothing oral quiz last night hehe. also, this was supposed to be 2 installments only but I keep making things longer than when I first storyboarded lol

tags: feelings in progress, trying to break out from an abusive mentality, crying, fluff, remember that healing is not instant and takes time

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Constructive criticisms and any kind of interaction are more than welcome

Requests are currently closed but my ask are still open (read pinned)

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Everyone dispersed to do their own thing when they got back home. Of course, they did this after they made sure that _____ was inside their room and properly resting.

The healer complied with everyone’s wishes, how could they not when Choi Han was practically guarding the door? However, they were starting to feel restless and bored. Back at their old home, they were never told to rest for this long.

It was the opposite actually.

Everyone back there wanted them to get back in action as soon as possible. It doesn’t matter how bad they feel, _____ is expected to get back to work after 5 hours max.

Knock

Knock 

“Cale-nim asked if you feel well enough to join him for dinner.”

Good thing Choi Han gave _____ an agenda before they die of restlessness.

“Please tell the young master I’ll join him.”

The swordmaster inspected the healer first before nodding. Looks like _____ passed Choi Han’s detector and is deemed well enough to have dinner in Cale’s room.

It was an invitation for dinner but the Medicus knows that its real purpose is so that Cale can have a serious chat with them.

_____ already knows their fault.

In Cale and everyone else’s eyes, they acted recklessly. It’s _____’s mistake that they didn’t inform Cale that could handle that much. Then in turn because of that miscommunication, some things were hindered and they lost manpower for a short while.

To put it another way, _____ hindered everyone’s work.

For that, they were sorry. They didn’t mean to be deadweight that had to be carried around.

_____ told themself that they’ll tell Cale they won’t repeat the same mistake when they have dinner.

…things didn’t go as planned.

When the healer tried to explain that they certainly could handle more than what they did in the Whipper Kingdom Cale only sighed. Then when they tried to say sorry Cale frowned.

That’s never a good sign.

But _____ can’t think of what else they did wrong.

It didn’t help that the children averaging 8 years old also have the same expression.

“You know that I’m trash right?”

“Huh? Uhm yes, I do.”

_____ knew the rumours that labelled Cale as trash, but they didn’t know why it mattered right now.

“Right and as you know someone trash is selfish.”

The healer has no idea where this is going. In the first place, Cale was far from selfish. He may be opportunistic and a little manipulative but everything he did was for the betterment of others.

“Because I’m selfish I don’t care whatever happens to other people. My priority will always be me and my people first.”

_____ still has no idea where this is going.

“That means you, you rascal.”

Cale poked _____’s forehead, straightening the lines of confusion that had formed.

“You’re one of my people. You have been since that day you agreed to leave the City of Life with me.

Meaning, you are my priority. Meaning, I will not tolerate such dangerous and self-sacrificial actions from you.”

On looked at Cale as if he had no right to talk but the redhead didn’t notice it.

“And so in the future, I hope you can promise to never do anything that will harm you again. I don’t need promises of you doing better, I just want to know that you won’t get hurt this severely from healing other people...”

Plop

Plop

Cale who had more to say stopped speaking.

How could he not when he saw _____’s tears?

The same _____ who had a neutral expression after almost dying.

The same _____ who just nodded and moved on after realizing their family had abandoned them.

The same _____ who still had a poker face despite shaking from their nightmares.

That same _____ is now crying.

And it looks like they didn’t even notice they were crying.

_____ only noticed their tears when they picked up the two kittens that had been pawing their arm. After they did, the two took it upon themself to paw away the tears streaming down their face.

It seemed to have the opposite effect though.

Not only did it not stop the healer’s tears it actually made them cry more.

_____ couldn't stop the tears from flowing no matter how hard they tried. After a few seconds of trying they gave up and asked Cale a question instead.

"Cale-sunbae are you never mad at me? You never yell or punish me even though I keep messing up and is essentially useless to your group of experts..." 

Cale feels as though he is gonna have a heart attack from all the surprises because of _____. 

Are they being serious? 

How could Cale get mad at them or think of them as useless when their abilities are so useful? 

Just the amount of money they've saved from using fewer potions because they have a great healer was already amazing. Then there's the ancient power that makes them a living detector. Because of that ability, everyone found it easier to navigate the plants and monsters inside the Forest of Darkness.

How could someone amazing be deemed useless?

This was certainly because of the trash that adopted them.

Cale is going to make sure he fucks them up sooner or later.

But for now, the young master is going to make sure _____ understands their worth.

“I don’t take in useless people. I only take in people that can pay for their meals.”

The redhead used his personal handkerchief to dry the healer's tears.

As he did _____ could feel that warm and fuzzy feeling they felt back at the Whipper Kingdom come back. However, they ignored it in favour of listening to Cale’s words.

“Remember, I personally asked you to join me, to join us. Have you ever seen me make the wrong judgement?”

Cale is definitely tooting his own horn.

But hey if it makes _____ understand.

And it looks like it did because _____ shook their head no. Then they stayed silent as they stared at Cale’s handkerchief. As if they were absorbing the weight of his words.

Cale deemed it enough for now. He knows that _____ will have a hard time reversing everything they’ve learned. It won't be easy, but Cale is willing to go at _____’s pace.

Later that night Choi Han knocked on Cale’s door to report something.

When the swordmaster entered the room the first thing he noticed was how none of the children were with Cale.

“They’re in _____’s room. They said something about making sure that _____ doesn’t cry again.”

Was Cale’s short answer when asked.

“_____-nim cried?”

Choi Han couldn’t believe it. Just what did his Cale-nim say to someone as expressionless as _____ that it made them cry…

“Check on them yourself if you don’t believe me.”

That’s exactly what Choi Han did after he finished his report.

Don’t get him wrong, it wasn’t because he didn’t trust Cale’s words. It’s more because he wanted to see if the healer was doing better now.

The black-haired man knocked on the door and Raon answered by opening it using mana.

It’s dark in the room but Choi Han has no problems seeing everything. As he scans the room he sees the children averaging 8 years old lying down on _____’s bed. The two kittens are already asleep just like the healer, leaving the black dragon to be the only one awake.

Choi Han smiled at the sight. The children didn’t look any different aside from the fact they were sleeping on _____’s bed instead of Cale’s. At the same time, it looks like _____ themself is sleeping peacefully.

The swordmaster checked everything one more time to make sure he didn’t miss anything before closing the door to let the four get their well-deserved rest.

[geesegooseblog]

The Flower Dance - Harvey x Farmer

Chapter 1 : A Thoughtful Gift

Tags: n/a

A/N: hello my loves! It’s been a long time between stories, but in typical me-fashion I have two assignments due and haven’t touched either of them, so have a Stardew Valley fluff fic! This is also my first foray into first person perspective, so any notes are much appreciated and, as always, if you would like a tag for the next chapter let me know!

CW: n/a

Word count: 1.8k

🌸🌸🌸

The quiet hum of the waiting room in Doctor Harvey's clinic was a sound I never thought I'd grow to like. I was often in the clinic for more severe injuries - a laceration from my sword or a broken bone from a dangerous encounter in the mines - but today it was sheer clumsiness that landed me here, holding a ziploc bag full of ice cubes against the back of my head. That's the last time I swing a pickaxe in the quarry without wearing a helmet.

"I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose," Maru mused, chuckling softly to herself as she sorted the paperwork she was filing behind the front desk. "What is it, like, the third time this week you're in here? If you wanted to see Harvey, you could just come in to say 'hi'. No need to injure yourself."

"Very funny." I responded sarcastically, my eyes fixated on the wall opposite me. Even though she was my closest friend in this town, Maru sure knew how to get on my nerves. "If it wasn't for my mishaps, where would Harvey get all of his work from? Annual checkups? I think not."

"Ooh, someone's getting flustered over there..." Maru chuckled again as she glanced over at me, fixing her glasses flush against her face a push against the bridge. She quickly changed the subject. "You gonna go to the Flower Dance tonight?"

I shifted slightly in my seat at the mention of the Flower Dance, an indicator that I had, in fact, been thinking about it. I had missed the last Flower Dance the year prior by staying back at the farm - large events like that had never been my strong suit. As the months approached to tonight's dance, however, I grew more and more fond of the idea of attending. With the renovation of the community centre, I knew for a fact that Mayor Lewis had planned a big celebration for this year's dance, shifting it from its normal morning start time to an evening event. I cleared my throat once and shifted my glance to Maru.

"... Maybe." I muttered, trying to play off my nerves coolly. That reaction only garnered a smirk from Maru, who spoke again.

"I know Harvey's gonna be there... maybe you can stop playing around and ask him. I know he'd like that."

"Maru, will you please keep your voice down?" I begged in a sharp whisper, shifting in my seat to face her. "I don't want Harvey to hear this."

Maru shrugged her shoulders, her smirk still plastered on her face. "Fine. Keep kidding yourself. Did you at least get my text?"

“Yes, I got the text.” I answered back quickly, my voice raising slightly from a whisper. “It’s in my bag, but it won’t be much of a surprise if he overhears us!”

As if on cue, the double doors beside Maru's desk opened, and an all too familiar voice spoke calmly to his patient.

"Now, like I said, George: if you have any concerns you'd like me to take a look at, I'm more than welcome to make a house visit next time."

The doctor came out through the doors pushing George in his wheelchair, Evelyn close behind the two of them.

"You're a good man, Harvey," Evelyn said kindly as she took over the handles of George's wheelchair. "We'll see you tonight."

I shared a quick smile with Evelyn as she took George through the clinic's front doors- George grumbled something to himself as they disappeared out the doors together. My gaze shifted to rest on the doctor, and I felt my cheeks grow warm as I saw him turn his attention to me. The way he looked in his white coat was nothing short of handsome, and the way his ginger hair was neatly groomed made it more so. Harvey looked over at me and sighed, taking the makeshift ice pack against my head into account as he put his hands into his pockets.

"Another accident?" He asked softly, although a hint of amusement could be heard in his voice. I gave a sheepish smile in return, feeling a little embarrassed at him seeing me like this.

"Come on back, I'll take a look at you." He said with a polite smile as he turned on his heel and headed back through the double doors. I grabbed my backpack from my feet and followed quickly behind him, catching a glance at Maru as I passed by. I watched her mouth the words 'ask him' as she gestured towards the doors, which was met with me gesturing a hand under my neck for her to cut it out. I followed quickly behind the doctor, the double doors closing behind us with a soft 'click'.

We made our way into his office. I set my bag down at the base of the small bed in the room and took my usual place right in the middle of the bed, my legs hanging off the side as I looked over at Harvey.

"What happened this time?" Harvey asked calmly with his back turned to me, grabbing some equipment from a drawer in his desk to check my vitals.

I lowered the bag of ice from my head and placed it gingerly next to me on the bed. "I was down in the quarry today. I guess I wasn't paying attention. I swung back a little too hard... hit the back of my head with the side of the pickaxe."

I heard Harvey chuckle softly to himself as he shook his head, the sound of his laugh made my cheeks grow warm.

"What am I going to do with you?" He asked as he sat down in his swivel chair, wheeling it over to me as he took out a small torchlight from his breast pocket. He shone the light in my eyes and made me look over the room in different directions, asking typical questions to ensure I wasn't too badly hurt; my name, the date, where I was, that sort of thing. After a few seconds, he smiled as he turned off the torchlight.

"Well, it's not a concussion," he started, his voice methodical yet kind. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: You need to be careful when you're working."

"I'm fine, Harvey," I replied softly. "I guess I've been... distracted."

Harvey smiled warmly. "I can understand that. It happens to the best of us. If you need any help with it though, you're more than welcome to talk to me about it."

The comment made me smile up at him. "Really? You’d do that?"

"Sure! You can always book an appointment for a consultation regarding your mental health, it's what I'm here for."

"... ah."

I sighed softly to myself, remembering where we were. I felt a nervous feeling growing in the pit of my chest, and I remembered what Maru had said earlier. My window to ask about tonight was here, and I knew I’d be kicking myself if I didn’t at least try. As Harvey turned back to his desk to scribble down some notes, I spoke up softly as I grabbed my backpack.

"I, uhm," I began nervously. "I hope you don't mind, but... I've brought you something."

Harvey's ears perked up, and he swivelled his chair around to look back at me, a surprised expression on his face.

"Oh? What is it?"

I rummaged around in my backpack, my fingers taking a few seconds to finally grab at a small bottle. I got my words out quickly, my nerves getting the better of me as I pulled out a small bottle of wine.

"Well, a little birdie may have told me that you like your wine. I had some grapes left over last summer from the harvest and I didn't know what to do with the excess so I..."

I presented the bottle to Harvey with a nervous smile. It had a small sticker on it with my handwriting, reading 'For the best doctor in Stardew Valley'.

"... I made you some."

Harvey's eyes widened in surprise as he saw the small bottle of wine in my hand, his smile widening in both delight and astonishment as he reached out and carefully took the bottle. He was touched, not having expected me to make such an effort.

"I'm... this is...." He trailed off as his voice caught in his throat, clearly at a loss for words. After a moment, he cleared his throat and smiled warmly. "You've made my day..."

I chuckled sheepishly as my gaze drifted to the floor, shuffling in my seat at his compliment.

"Nah... it's the least I can do," I insisted. "I'm in here almost weekly, I'm probably taking your attention away from your other patients when I come in."

"Nonsense," Harvey insisted. "This is wonderful. Thank you."

There was a comfortable silence between the two of us, and it took me a moment to snap back into my thoughts as I cleared my throat.

"Right, well... I best be off. Those crops won't water themselves."

I made my way off the bed, pacing quickly to the door. At that moment I remembered what Maru had said again. If I didn't take my chances and ask Harvey about tonight, my window would be closing. I stopped in my tracks and turned around to face him, leaning against the doorway as I tried to be casual.

"So... I heard Mayor Lewis talking about the Flower Dance happening tonight? The one that's happening down near Marnie's Ranch? Are you, uhm... are you gonna go?"

Harvey nodded once, a small knowing smile crossing his lips as I mentioned the dance. 

"Yes, I do believe I will be attending. The dance has been a tradition here in town for years. Have you picked out a dance partner?"

My eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the doctor. "Dance partner?"

Harvey nodded once more. "It's customary for the bachelorettes of the town to have a partner in mind when attending the dance. There's a 'singles only' dance after dinner where you have to pick someone out to dance with. It's meant to symbolise true admiration to be chosen..." Harvey cleared his throat once before continuing on softly. "Not that... I've ever really participated in it."

"You're kidding," I said, leaning against the doorway with my arms folded. "You've never been asked to the dance?"

He shook his head once. "Never. But, y'know..."

His glance drifted to the bottle of wine in his hand, a soft smile growing on his lips as he looked back up at me.

"I still hold out hope."

The implications of his words were not lost on me, and I felt my cheeks start to blush as I smiled down at him.

"I'll... keep that in mind when choosing my partner. See you tonight, Harvey."

"See you then."

With that, I turned on my heels and headed quickly out of his office, flinging my backpack over my shoulder as I raced down the hallway. I had a newfound confidence for the night that couldn't be matched, and I made sure to high-five Maru on my way out the front door for the tidbit on the wine.

[pouralaura]

reflection

a small helping of psychosexual fluff featuring my Tav (Eris) and the devil she knows.

Her hair is too long, yes – but perhaps the perfect length for this purpose. A murmured incantation coats her hand with sweet-smelling oil, and she slicks her short-but-unruly blue-grey locks back loosely in an imitation of Raphael’s own coiffure. His hissed exhale is audible, and she stifles a grin, softening it into a smirk so very much like the one he often wears.

“Do you like it?”

His jaw clenches and she watches a vein in his neck pulse.

“Yes.”

tags: femdom, roleplay, degradation, very light genderplay, oral sex, mention of pegging, the usual light foot stuff you know me for

Eris had worn her hair much longer when she was younger. Blue locks hung down past her shoulder blades at one time; she'd pull it up into a messy bun or plait it when active. Pain in the ass to maintain, honestly. On her twenty-seventh birthday she’d cut it into a wavy pixie. It suits her, she thinks. Easy, no fuss. Painless in the bath, too – long hair she’d have to tie up to use the boudoir’s vast, gaudy pool, but now she leans her head back comfortably against Raphael’s damp bicep, his arm laid out casually behind her, and doesn’t worry about getting her short hair wet. 

It's verging on too long, now, though. Tickles the nape of her neck in the worst way. Needs to be cut every two months or so, which is annoying, but at least it doesn’t take long to snip back into shape. She’ll do it when she returns to Baldur’s Gate tomorrow after finishing up her weekend stay at the House of Hope.

Eris pecks Raphael on the cheek – cherishing the ensuing slight upward quirk of his mouth – and climbs out of the pool, grabbing a soft towel from nearby to dry off. She’ll spend an hour or two curled up with a book while he lounges and casually carries out some revisioning work.

He pays her no mind as she busies herself with redressing, choosing to spread his other arm along the rim of the pool and lean his head back into a tasseled pillow, eyes closing in contentment. Satisfied as a cat; regal as a king.

Eris doesn't reach for her own tunic. Instead she pulls Raphael’s crisp, clean white shirt from the neat pile of their clothing on the plush chair next to the wardrobe and slides her arms into the sleeves, buttoning it up halfway and wearing nothing underneath. He likes this look on her, of course – what manner of man wouldn’t enjoy seeing his lover in his clothing? A mark of possession; a claim; a deed of ownership. Not that Raphael would ever assume to own her, of course; she’s long refused his offer to make her his consort, and estimates said offer isn’t up for review for at least another few years (lest he incur her wrath).

Something pushes her to pick up and don his doublet, too. With an ego the size of his, certainly he’ll delight in seeing both layers on her form. It's not just for him, either; Raphael’s overwhelming scent, sweet and smoldering, always stirs her – not that she's trying to be a fucking weirdo about it, but it is what it is – and she pulls the thick material closer, inhaling him.

The sloshing sounds of the water alert her to the man's presence nearing her, and Eris soon feels the heated press of his body at her back.

“Well, well. I have to commend you on your choice of attire.”

She leans her head back against his shoulder and smiles. “Perhaps you're rubbing off on me.”

“Oh, I have before, and I will again.” The double meaning in Raphael’s words is clear as he presses his naked hips against her rear and inclines his head to mouth at her neck, moving the high collars on the shirt and doublet out of the way. “I can be very persuasive.”

“Don’t I know it, with that sinful voice of yours. What was the line, again – oh, I remember –”

Eris turns in the devil’s arms to face him. 

“The mouse smiled brightly; it outfoxed the cat!” She pitches her voice a bit lower for the next line, remembering Raphael’s seductive, lilting delivery from their first meeting. “Then down came the claw; and that, love –” 

She leans in to kiss him lightly on the mouth, but he grips her hips with a bit more enthusiasm than she'd been expecting and groans softly at the press of her lips, opening his own underneath them. Eager tongue meets eager tongue and it's clear Eris’s earlier hypothesis on his opinion was well-founded.

“Ohhh,” she purrs as they part. “Do I make a fine enough Archdevil Supreme, devil mine?”

“Second only to the real thing,” he rumbles, sliding a hand beneath his unbuttoned white shirt inside the doublet she now wears to shamelessly grope at her breast.

“Haarlep will be terribly disappointed to hear that.”

“Haarlep isn't here. And what a gift that is.”

“Shall I continue, then? Model the rest of your handsome ensemble?”

“If you must,” he grouses, but his eyes are alight with interest. She knows that look very well.

Eris turns away from him as she slides his trousers on. Of slighter stature than her lover, she finds the waist too large and the legs too long, as expected – but a clean snap of Raphael’s fingers from behind her heralds a quick cinch around her hips and a loss of excess fabric around her ankles. (She’ll remember that the next time she needs something of hers hemmed.)

“How do I look?” she asks slyly, and turns back to find him flushed.

Ah. Well-founded, indeed. Terribly, terribly correct, she was. Marvelous.

“Put on your boots,” he demands. “Complete the picture.”

Eris does exactly that, stepping over to lean against the wardrobe behind her to pull each boot on rather than balance precariously on one foot – as the waves of arousal and tension emanating from him are palpable enough to nearly knock her over. When finished, she straightens and spreads her arms wide in an obscenely Raphael-like gesture of welcome.

“Well?”

For all the words the devil has at his disposal, all seem to fail him now. He still holds his head high, mighty like a king, but the deepening flush spreading down his neck and into the wiry hairs on his chest says more than any words would regardless. His cock had already been stirring against her when he’d pressed his hips to hers before; now it’s full and hard and heavy as he looks Eris up and down.

With forced steadiness, haughty tone more than a little patronizing despite his clear interest, he finally says, “It’s as if I’m looking in a mirror, my dear. Besides the obvious differences.”

Eris smiles, and now she's the one resembling the satisfied cat. “Perhaps another touch, I think –”

Her hair is too long, yes – but perhaps the perfect length for this purpose. A murmured incantation coats her hand with sweet-smelling oil, and she slicks her short-but-unruly blue-grey locks back loosely in an imitation of Raphael’s own coiffure. His hissed exhale is audible, and she stifles a grin, softening it into a smirk so very much like the one he often wears.

“Do you like it?”

His jaw clenches and she watches a vein in his neck pulse.

“Yes.”

Victory.

Eris steps lightly, purposefully over to the ornate bed. Her voice is low again when she speaks after a moment. Smooth. Just like his.

“Then, come here…little mouse.”

As if hypnotized, Raphael comes to her slowly and deliberately. His pretty cock bobs thickly between his legs, flushed nearly as red as his cheeks. Upon reaching her, the devil says nothing, filling the silence with his shallow breaths and hesitant eye contact. Eris reaches out to touch his face, brushing fingertips softly, dangerously over his handsome jawline.

“Tell me how you'll indulge me today.”

Her lover takes a deep breath before responding, only the slightest of wavers discernible in a tone rough with arousal.

“I am yours…Archdevil Supreme.”

Eris’s heart thuds in her chest. 

“Get on your knees.”

And he obeys.

Despite having only just donned Raphael’s attire, Eris lets him undress her again now, noting only the smallest of tremors in his strong, elegant hands. He begins with her boots, pulling each one off gently and placing it to the side. She’d foregone footwraps in the interest of simplicity, so her feet are bared to him quickly – true to form, he lifts each one to his face, breathing in and out, heavy cock beginning to leak between his thighs onto the ornate rug beneath him. Presses his open mouth to each arch in turn, moistening her skin and lapping up the condensing droplets, salty and heady.

But as much as Eris loves to watch him fall apart underneath her heel, now’s not the time. She flexes her foot in his grasp, pushes her sole against his striking nose just hard enough that his head falls back. Sneers.

“There are better uses for your mouth, I think, than chasing your own sick cravings. Perhaps we ought to stuff it with cock.”

She’s not harnessed up right now; isn’t equipped with her pretty polished leather phallus her dangerous darling often desires so dearly; but this isn’t about fucking him. It’s about him worshiping her – as him. A narcissist’s fantasy. A perverse, masturbatory scene. The very flavor of deviance her handsome devil adores.

(She'll put her lovely faux cock down his throat another time, though.)

“Continue undressing me, and then we’ll discuss the terms of our agreement.”

Raphael scrambles to heed her request, unbuttoning his own trousers and pulling them eagerly down over the curves of Eris’s hips. Helps her step out of them so she’s wearing nothing below the waist. So he can see her pretty pink sex.

Bared, she studies him. His eyes are wide, pupils blown as he stares back. Hands clenched into tight fists on his knees. Beautiful cock so hard, so wanting, so desirous of himself and of her in tandem.

“Open.”

Eris slides two fingers onto Raphael’s tongue, pressing further and further back into his throat as he moans around them. Slips the other hand underneath his chin; makes him look up at her while she leisurely explores the inside of his wet mouth.

“A devil’s plaything, aren’t you? So obedient for me, sweet mouse.”

She leans back against the bed and brings her fingertips to her dripping slit, parting her delicate lips for him to see. Traces around her entrance with his saliva, thick between her digits.

“Suck me, girl.”

His mouth is between her legs faster than she can blink. So willing and pliant and needy and serving.

She hoists a knee up onto the bed to give him easier access, and to see his every move more clearly. Watches him reach for his cock. Buries a hand in his hair and yanks his head back. He whines. It’s indecent.

“What makes you think you can attend to your own pleasure? Did I grant you permission?”

“No, Your Grace,” he breathes, face shiny with her slick. “Accept my apologies.”

“Pathetic,” she sneers. “Tell me you won’t touch your cock again.”

“I won't touch my cock again.”

Rare that she can get him to obey so easily. So eagerly. He brats for her, as she does for him. It's how they’ve operated from the beginning – he likes a challenge, likes a fight. 

But, up against himself (in a manner of speaking)? 

Different.

Fascinating.

“Get back to work.”

For Eris, there is nothing like watching her devil chase his indulgence. She thrives on being the one he chooses to delight in; for all the years he's lived, he says, there is no sweeter nectar than that which drips from her honeyed cunt. His self-possessed hunger is unforgiving, and what use would she have, anyway, for forgiveness?

The act of giving oral pleasure is, by nature, a generous thing. But this is not how Raphael usually approaches it. He usually eats at Eris greedily, harsh tongue licking and savoring deeply. Pushes her, overstimulates her to the point of ache, nearly to the point of pain. Usually clutches at her soft hips and pulls her closer still, holds her in place for a sloppy and rampant feast. Usually makes a selfless act into a selfish one, making her pleasure an afterthought even when she’s the one riding his face and he's groaning, whimpering in delight beneath her, trapped so willingly between her thighs.

But now – now, with his own sex-laced tone painting his blue cherry’s words; with his own affectation and mannerism adorning her every move – Raphael is reverent with every stroke of his wicked tongue.

And the comparison, the juxtaposition, is fucked up. There’s a sick sort of pleasure in her gut, a depraved thrill at being worthy of the highest worship only when she’s playing as him. It’s demeaning and debasing for both of them: for him to be so plainly an egomaniac; for her to feel – to be – less than him, less than how he sees himself.

They’re both terribly pathetic, aren’t they?

The thought makes her shiver as the tension builds low in her belly, spurred on by Raphael’s loud and unrestrained sucks and licks at her core. She won’t be long. 

(Never is. But then again, neither is he.)

“Don’t you dare come before I do.” Threat is evident in her tone. She doesn’t expect he’ll last, even with her warning. 

And he doesn’t. Last, that is. Raphael shudders and pauses his ministrations briefly to spill onto the rug between them with a low groan, lips framing a single word, and the sight of him giving in sends a hot throb of arousal through Eris’s every godsdamned nerve. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it though, because he drags two fingers through his release, through the fibers of the carpet, and brings them to join his mouth at the apex of her legs. Slides them inside, lifting a bare thigh with his other hand to rest on his shoulder for leverage, and looks worshipfully up at her with a mouthful of her cunt as he carries her the rest of the way to her end and she comes on his tongue with a soft cry.

She knows his feelings for her match hers for him. She’s not stupid. The two of them wouldn’t be as they are if anything were different.

The single word on his lips was her name – as it always is – and she’d be an idiot to acknowledge it. He – they both – are too proud to speak of love, too stubborn to admit pride as a greater weakness than emotion.

This is enough, though, she thinks, as they curl into bed after another quick dip in the bath, after what feels like a thousand kisses she presses to his mouth. Raphael with furrowed brow, a draft and quill pen on his lap, spectacles on the tip of his nose; Eris with that book she’d promised herself earlier, too-long hair mussed in her usual style tickling the devil’s bare skin where her head rests on his shoulder.

This is enough for them.

[skele-bunny]

Hi everyone! It was brought to my attention there's concerns about things I write and my writing language, so I wanted to address that!

I want to say first and foremost, I heavily encourage people communicating to me and criticism! I don't mind it at all, and I'm perfectly fine explaining certain things, or feedback about what I can change.

I honestly, genuinely appreciate these things being brought to my attention! I never intend to make people uncomfortable, and if there's a way to change and fix that, I'll do it.

The term "newborn".

So, I was informed that me using the term "newborn" for ghouls made some very uncomfortable especially in nsfw settings. I totally get that, and I hear you! I'll avoid using the term. I had begun using the title as it was not only a source thing for my system, but a way for me to associate new ghouls separately.

I may start using the term in the far future but strictly for fluff purposes, and it's 1000% retired from sexual situations starting now. Instead, I'll begin using "freshly/newly summoned." Or a long the lines.

Infantizing Phantom and Aurora.

I'm very aware I write Phantom in a "smaller" way, as my backstory for him includes being dumbed down and secluded from outside things. It was pointed out how he doesn't seem like an adult in certain situations, and I'll now start to mature that mentality up. I take full acknowledgement on how I write Phantom, but it was never intended to make him act/speak like a child or give the implications he was anything but an adult. But I assure, my language revolving around him will start changing.

As for Aurora, that was completely unintentional. I can understand how it may come across as that, and I'll start taking greater care to see my language revolving around them both in situations.

Fetishizing Rape.

I am a dead dove writer, I've made that extremely clear in both my bio and pinned message. However, I have never meant for any of my Ghost writings to come across as this. The only time you may see me going near that would be with my DD fandoms of Boyfriend to Death/The Price of Flesh, that will only and strictly be posted to my AO3. That is the only, only time.

I do write implications and descriptions of sexual assault, yes, but each one I've made sure to tag/trigger warn as much as possible. These instances are never for fetishizing purposes and only explanations of the past, trauma healing, and in other forms of past tense. If I ever write active SA, it won't be in graphic detail, vague, and warned as much as possible.

Majority of these stories are dedicated to "good endings" of the abuser being killed and the survivor continuing to live on in their own peace, which is catered to my own self and how I want to perceive healing. There's been a few times I've written side "endings" where this doesn't happen, and it's strictly for writing purposes and never delved deep into description. Like a one and done situation, and not what I take as my own canon.

I really hope I was able to clear a majority of these things and explain my thought process. I did not purposely intend for any of these to come across wrongly or as fetishizing purposes. I assure that my terminology and writing habits will be double checked and changed to accommodate to make sure these incidents don't happen again.

If you feel like I need to adjust something or explain, I heavily encourage communicating to me wether as an anon or messages! I am always open to feedback, and I want to make my writing space comfortable for everyone to read and interact with. 🩷

[wwenhlimagines]

Corn Maze/Haunted House with hook ?

Fall Fluff Prompts

Growing up in the midwest, you always found October to be one of the best months to hang out with your friends. There was so much more to do than any other time of year, and you enjoyed every bit of it. One part that your boyfriend Hook didn't quite understand your fascination with was the corn mazes. Being from New York, he wasn't used to going to some random corn field at night and trying to find the way out for fun. However, you were so excited to go to one, so he happily took you to one.

He drove the rental car to a corn maze near the next Dynamite location, and you both got out with your hoodies, jeans, and comfy shoes on. He apparently didn't do his research well enough to know this one was a haunted corn maze. You saw the sign, and you smiled to yourself, hoping he didn't catch on until you were already into the maze far enough.

The wind was starting to make it a bit chilly, so you cuddled into Hook's side as you started walking into the maze. "Don't worry, baby, it's just corn, right?"

You try to stifle your giggle by making it sound like a shiver. "Yes, but it's chilly out here. I need you to keep me warm."

He smiles and wraps his arm around you, and bear hugs you from behind. "I can definitely help with that. Maybe we get lost in here on purpose for a bit, and I can really warm you up."

You see some slight movement ahead of you and prepare yourself for Hook's reaction. Suddenly, you hear the chainsaw, and the person dressed up as a zombie jumps out in front of you. Hook's grip on you tightens as he jumps back slightly, and a high-pitched squeak blares in your ear.

You start laughing so hard you double over as Hook holds your waist, still trying to catch his breath from the jump scare. "What the fuck? I thought this shit was just a maze of fucking corn."

You turn around and hold his face in your hands. "You didn't see the sign that said Haunted Corn Maze, did you?"

He groans and throws his head back in frustration. "Fuck, I wouldn't have brought you here if I saw that."

You kissed his neck as you hugged him and tried not to laugh. "As long as you keep me warm, I will protect you from the scary bad guys."

He groans but kisses your forehead, "Fine, but this never gets out to the lads. They will torture me if they find out."

You kiss his lips and nod before turning back around, leading him through the rest of the maze. You both jumped at a few places, but overall, you had fun, and Hook survived his first corn maze adventure. "So, are we making this an annual tradition now?"

Hook glared at you as you settled back into the car. "Why the hell do you find this shit fun? Is getting lost and scared in the middle of a corn field the only fun thing to do in the midwest?"

"No, but it is definitely the most exciting part of the year. Next year, we can stick with pumpkin patches and hay rides if you want to enjoy the non spooky stuff."

"You are lucky I love you so damn much. Otherwise, I would have left your ass out there."

"You wouldn't dare to leave a damsel in distress."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... can we just go back to the hotel and warm each other up like I suggested?"

Your hand squeezed his thigh as you kissed him. "What are you waiting for?"

His head snapped to the road as you drove away from the corn maze and towards the warm bed waiting for you both to return.

Tags: @730hook @99hook @hookswifeeyy @hooksredrum @hooks-martin @legit9thlunaticwarrior @plentyoffandoms @im-just-a-mississippi-girl

[noxxytocin]

20 Questions for Fic Writers Tag ✍️

Thank you for the tag @myokk 🫰✨ This looks fun!

How many works do you have on AO3? 4 public and 1 anon!

What's your total AO3 word count? 18,969 words (public)

What fandoms do you write for? For now, I'm focused on Hogwarts Legacy. But I do have some pretty intense ships in other shows, like Stranger Things, so I might dip my quill into those at some point.

Top five fics by kudos? My most popular fic by kudos is Bury. It’s quite amusing because I knocked it out in one night after a few drinks and some seriously intense feelings. It’s my least polished piece, which just goes to show that AO3 readers are all about those spicy, quick reads and I love that, haha.

Do you respond to comments? Absolutely! Every comment notification makes my heart a bit brighter, so I reply to them with as much warmth as I put into my fics.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I don't think any of my stories end on an angsty note—I'm more of a fluff enthusiast.

What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Perhaps, Insomnium.

Do you get hate on fics? I don't believe I receive enough attention for that to be a concern. However, I do review all comments before they are posted for this very reason, so that I may block any unwanted individuals, if necessary.

Do you write smut? Yes, but in a very delicate, poetic manner. Smut, to me, possesses a certain elegance.

Craziest crossover? None.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not to my knowledge, though I do believe I have inspired some writings. I don’t particularly mind if I encounter similar works after mine has been published. Writing is meant to be an inspiring endeavor, and that is precisely the purpose of inspiration.

Have you ever had a fic translated? I have a close, French mutual who helps me double-check my French in my fanfics, and I know a decent amount.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Well, my husband provides me with a great many ideas for the fics I’ve written, so I would certainly count his contributions. He is an excellent beta reader!

All time favorite ship? I couldn't possibly choose that...I have so many ships. I don't believe I have a favorite; they all occupy equal space in my mind.

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? None, I am confident that I will finish all of mine in time. I've just been busy!

What are your writing strengths? Transforming risqué themes into romantic fluff is my specialty. I can take a rather smutty idea and turn it into tooth-rotting fluff. It’s more of a curse than a strength, really, haha...I also enjoy crafting dialogue and capturing the canonical personalities of characters. When writing Sebinis, I make a point of watching extensive videos of their lines to accurately capture their mannerisms and language.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? It’s fine as long as it is executed properly. A minor mistake is forgivable, but it genuinely irritates me when I encounter French in other fics that is clearly incorrect, especially when the writer or beta says that French is their first language, yet this is not evident in their sentences. My French beta mutual has even remarked, “Yeah, no, they're lying” It drives me mad, as I am certain this beta is deceiving the poor author, and yet I cannot address it myself. It is not my place, and I am well aware that it would only result in the individual defensively justifying their lies. Hopefully they will find out eventually...

First fandom you wrote in? First ever?....hmm....I am honestly not sure...maybe (cringe) homestuck??? But that was in 2011 or 2012, hahaha...

Favorite fic you've written? One that I am currently doing for Sebinis...but I can't share because it's for an anon writing fest!

Surprise - no 20th question! 🫴✨ Tagging: @luminousecho @the-invisibility-bloke @shyinsunlight @steve-black-hl @moltenwrites @the-golden-comet @the-letterbox-archives @mirdeli @esolean @gaunts-angel @jamiemoonymark @crime-in-progress

[themagnustournament]

Hello, Jon. Apologies for the deception.

I am pleased to announce The Magnus Tournament, the ultimate smackdown to find out the Best Episode Ever!

The Magnus Tournament is set to begin on

March 24, 2023

So mark your calendars, we are celebrating the 7 year anniversary of MAG001 with the kickoff!!

Some rules and other general information:

This blog is run by @whyispickingausernamesohard. You may remember me from that time I made a spreadsheet to put TMA in chronological (and alphabetical) order.

ALL 200 episodes are included. Yes, this is going to be an incredibly long tournament. Round 1 has 72 matches alone. I am not including fluff episodes, Q&As, or Rusty Fears episodes.

This will be a double elimination bracket! Yes, that will make this even longer. But, I think it's more fun this way and we can find a True Second Place. (I am also using the results of this tournament to help seed a secret future bracket so I want the extra data)

The bracket is already seeded. I have used a super-secret formula to determine the "rankings" of episodes for seeding purposes. All this means is that there will not be any preliminary polls, but if people have issues with how I've seeded, I'm open to switching some placements around.

Propaganda is fully welcome and encouraged, just be nice and have fun about it. I don't want to deal with heated threats in the comments. Stay silly.

This post will be reblogged with the bracket information as images, or you can find the bracket here.

With all that said, I will be taking some pre-tournament advice. (In the last option, that would look like posting nine week-long polls on March 24, posting the next nine matches on the 25th, and so on. This would take about two weeks to get through Round One, for example.)

[mymiraclebox]

If you were to rename some canon kwamis, how would you name them??

One part of me says I wouldn't change anything because I have grown to love the canon kwamis and couldn't imagine them as anything else.

The other part of me says I WOULD CHANGE SASS' NAME TO HISS BECAUSE HE'S NOT SASSY AT ALL AND HISS WOULD FOLLOW THE OTHER NAMING THEMES LIKE BARKK AND ORIKKO AND ROAAR!

xD

But yes, I'd probably change Sass to Hiss. I don't think there's many others I'd change though. Maybe Fluff's, honestly just for tagging purposes. I don't know what I would change it to though, maybe something related to time? Tikk? Tokk? xD Or maybe Cotton? Bunn? I dunno.

Um... The only other change I could think of is changing the spelling of Liiri's name to Lirri. I always do a double "r" every time I swear. Other spellings I would change would be how Ziggy and Roaar's spellings were retcon to Ziggi and Roarr (at least in the new kwami book), so I would make sure they stay as Ziggy and Roaar because those are the superior spellings. Maybe spell Nooroo like Nuuru (from a fic I read), but I don't mind it as Nooroo either.

Oh! I remember a long time ago I read a fic that had Trixx named Vixx and Duusu named Juuno (I believe it was written before their name names were revealed?), and while I wouldn't necessarily change Trixx and Duusu's names, those fan names were pretty good as well. I believe there was also one with Pollen named Honee as well if I remember correctly, which was also a fitting fan name.

[wanderingblindly]

@monacotrophywife tagged me to redo this, so let's see what's changed since November 2023 :) If anyone else has an old copy of this, consider yourself tagged again!!!!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

28 (up from TWELVE? jesus fucking christ get a LIFE)

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

159,730 (I ALMOST FUCKING DOUBLED IT?)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Still just F1! No interest in any others tbh.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? -

Is It Gay to Watch Your Teammate on Tiktok? (Landoscar) - Still my top fic!

Hot Pink Ring Pops (Landoscar) - New addition from last time!

Middle Child Syndrome (Lestappen) - Still here, still cannot stand her hahahahhahaha

Second Time's the Charm (Lestappen) - Moved up a place!

Rules of Engagement (Lestappen) - Switched with Second Time's

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Still totally agree with previous liquid!! I view comments (giving and receiving) as a wonderful part of the community, so I love to reply!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Still a pretty spineless worm, but I think that I've written a few... open but hopeful endings? That might leave a bit of angst on the tongue. Maybe 'I Know Your Name (But Not Who You Are)'?

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Yeah same as last year, i fucking love a getting together trope, so a lot of mine are happy endings hahahaha.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope!!!!!! Shoutout to all the lovely F1 readers!!!!!

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

...yes... repeatedly....

LIMA HAD TO INFORM ME THAT I FUCKING APPARENTLY WRITE 'HARD KINK' WHICH LIKE, WHO WAS GONNA FUCKING TELL ME THAT I'M PRETTY SURE THAT WASN'T MY GOAL BUT SURE OK

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Still no!! Also my ex cheated on me and she can fucking choke!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No one's had bad enough taste to claim mine as theirs lol << lmao still true

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I've now had two of my F1 fics translated! Beggin' is available in Polish and Middle Child Syndrome is in Czech :)

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

@monacotrophywife and liquid official co writing when

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Sebchal was my first F1 love, and therefore will always have a special place in my heart. That said, I think it would be a tie between sebson and sewis? Sebastian is the common denominator, as always, and there's something about... them seeing him grow from red bull to ferrari, the trust and respect? I can't articulate it but god I love them.

Ok i still stand with the above from past-liquid. I love landoscar so deeply, but time willl tell if they become all-time for me.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Will I ever finish my angsty-domestic sebchal will I ever fucking finish it no i wont' but god fuck if i dont' wrangle with it at least once a month

16. What are your writing strengths?

Still really hard to say! I think maybe it's.... a willingness to try new things? 2024 has been a departure from my usual romcom and fluff content, and I've been experimenting with new themes (cannibalism, smut, pining). Idk if that's a strength, exactly, but I think it's a good thing :)

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I :) cannot :) shut :) up :)

Probably pacing as a result of my obsessive exposition dumping. I also frequently get arrested by the "he wouldn't fucking say that" police tbh.

Oh, and I'm trying to break the habit of writing in a way that sounds good in my very specific mental inflection, which often doesn't translate well when someone else reads it. That's a hard habit to break. << still guilty of this, though I think I've improved a bit.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I don't mind it if it has a thematic purpose, but just for funsies? I don't see the value add << also still agree!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

... Visual Kei ... the GazettE had content on livejournal back in the day

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

I'm very thankful to my earlier fics, especially 'Changes, Beginnings'. That writing experience felt really formative to my finding my voice, even though it's still developing and solidifying.

But favorite... I actually really really love Choking on Greatness. It was incredibly niche, and hardly romantic at all, but it was SUCH a stretch for me and I feel like I? Executed? What I wanted? Which is not something I can often say about fics -- especially unusual ones.

Tied for favorite is probably You Bring Me Closer to God. Similarly, this theme felt really new to me, but I feel like I conveyed exactly what I pictured. I also love the whole universe it spun in my head, I so rarely create expansive, sprawling concepts that getting to play around in one has been delightful (there... there will be a sequel,,, one day)

20 questions for fic writers - from the ever incredible @like-pilot-lights!!!!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

12! Although I've purged this account multiple times, so god only knows how many there used to be.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

84,147!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently just Formula 1, but my history is... questionable. (Dan and Phil, The Amazing Spiderman, Visual Kei)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? -

Is It Gay to Watch Your Teammate on Tiktok? (Landoscar) - genuinely had no idea this would garner so much interest?????

Middle Child Syndrome (Lestappen) - with love, this fic is the bane of my existence. Pacing whomst? Embarrassing to read tbh.

Rules of Engagement (Lestappen) - domestic fluff, my beloved!

Second Time's the Charm (Lestappen) - idiots in love, my beloved!

All The Stars We Cannot See (Lestappen) - this holds a fond place in my heart

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always! The neglected youngest child in me craves validation like no other lol. Plus, I like the feeling of community it gives, especially when I see the same people in multiple works ^^

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I am a spineless worm and cannot write angst :)))))

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

uhhhhhh I'd say they're all similar? Ish? Love a "getting together" trope, man.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No, and I've never seen hate on any F1 fic I've read! Thank god

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

No, but -- according to my old fic archives -- FIFTEEN YEAR OLD LIQUID THOUGHT SHE COULD???? WHY????

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I haven't! Though my gf and I have a running joke of a Yuri on Ice!!! x F1 crossover

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No one's had bad enough taste to claim mine as theirs lol

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes!!! It's still on my AO3 lol, but someone translated one of my Amazing Spiderman fics into Mandarin (it haunts me)

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? no, although

Not formally, but @like-pilot-lights and I basically spam each other in chat until we find the plot so... she's basically my co-author on everything lmao

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Sebchal was my first F1 love, and therefore will always have a special place in my heart. That said, I think it would be a tie between sebson and sewis? Sebastian is the common denominator, as always, and there's something about... them seeing him grow from red bull to ferrari, the trust and respect? I can't articulate it but god I love them.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

oop the sequel to Second Time's the Charm has been in my drafts for.... ages.... and for some reason just won't come to me. I'll never say I won't finish it though, the idea could hit at any time!

I've also had a lestappen twitch streamer AU in my drafts for ages, but I can't seem to nail down the tone? The characterization, maybe.

16. What are your writing strengths?

If I'm honest, I'm not entirely sure? I don't think I'm consistent enough in my writing to have any strengths. I guess my writing occasionally has a pretty specific style to it, so maybe 'stylizing'? If that's a strength?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I :) cannot :) shut :) up :)

Probably pacing as a result of my obsessive exposition dumping. I also frequently get arrested by the "he wouldn't fucking say that" police tbh.

Oh, and I'm trying to break the habit of writing in a way that sounds good in my very specific mental inflection, which often doesn't translate well when someone else reads it. That's a hard habit to break.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I don't mind it if it has a thematic purpose, but just for funsies? I don't see the value add

19. First fandom you wrote for?

... Visual Kei ... the GazettE had content on livejournal back in the day

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Although I don't think it's my best fic, I have a soft spot for The Sum of Our Parts (sebchal). It was my second fic in the fandom, and it was the piece where I felt like I found my personal tone.

It was also the moment where I proved to myself that I could write more than one fic, that I could still come up with ideas like when I was younger. It was a very... solidifying experience, if that makes sense?

I'm thankful to that fic, despite all its flaws.

I think everyone I know has been tagged? Throwing a few people out there though, zero stress if you don't wanna do it <333 @felixsaysstuff @jennarations @f1-giuki @lattesqueeze

[snoopdogofficial]

As I Descended by Robin Talley

overview: As I Descended is a queer retelling of Shakespear’s MacBeth taking place in a haunted southern private school. It follows four characters: the lead Maria, her girlfriend Lily, her best friend Brandon, and his boyfriend Mateo. Ghosts and murder follow.

plot: I have not actually read most Shakespear works, I admit, meaning I generally go in blind with these. The plot is relatively straightforward, but gripping with how quickly it moves. The first chapter doesn’t waste time with its intro into ghosts, mischief, and tension between characters. Very little of the book feels like fluff with every minor interaction or moment of introspection building how the plot progresses or showing us the mental state and reasoning behind the character’s actions. It’s not anything particularly groundbreaking message wise or structurally, especially for young adult, but it’s solid and interesting if not slightly rushed at the end.

characters: I believe the characters are something this novel does well except for one case: Maria. Maria, our main character, begins the novel as a soft-spoken overachiever who plays by the rules. After being coaxed by her girlfriend, she commits to tricking the queen of their private school into failing her drug test. Only, it doesn’t go well. I enjoyed Maria’s fear and guilt over accidentally hurting Delilah, then later Brandon, but when it comes to Mateo, I suddenly wished there was more build up to her sudden commitment to wanting to kill him, too. I understand her reasoning in a general sense, but I still wish I could’ve gotten more of the logic and emotion so I could feel like it was truly earned by the character I met at the start. But besides that, I love the cast of characters. Lily who is unapologetically morally gray and okay with playing dirty to get ahead of the people who look down at her for her disability. Brandon who is a generally nice guy with his own issues that just wants his best friend back. And Mateo. The understandable antagonist who goes from bystander to the heart of a double would-be-murder plot in seconds. I really felt for him, which is why I love him as Maria’s antagonist. Because I also felt for Maria and Lily who are morally gray, but ultimately didn’t mean to hurt people but did and probably deserve the consequences for it. Have I mentioned I love morally gray queer characters? Because I do.

One other thing I will note, though, is that I wish more of the setting was utilized. While Maria being brown and Lily being disabled (and both gay) is a major reason why they chose to do what they did, this book suffers from having a white author. Class and race are two very tied things that are only mentioned on the surface unlike queerness or disability. Maria is described as “acting as white as possible” by one character, but the author doesn’t do much with this. She’s said to have worn her hair naturally until after the second murder, but if she’s acting “white”, why not have her straighten her hair the whole time? And Maria blamed other Latinos for “drugging” Delilah. Why not make that a point for how she’s betraying her ethnicity for whiteness? And the school was built on a plantation where Maria is described as “coming there in a price tag” were it still the colonial period. Why not do something with that? Why make the setting a white, rich private school built on slavery for the aesthetic if it doesn’t serve purpose? Ultimately, I understand white authors not wanting to overstep, but I can’t help but feel that a missed opportunity for richer storytelling is missed when you aim for diversity yet don’t embrace it.

Would Snoop recommend? If you’re a reader of YA, interested in supernatural beings messing with the living, enjoy morally gray queer characters in all their imperfectness, and private school politics, then yes.

[rockingrobin69]

I'm sick today so how about "sore throat" in one shot

Oh no Nonny, I'm sorry! Hope you'll feel better soon. As I'm very committed to your wellbeing, and honey is meant to be good for a sore throat, I wrote something arguably just as sweet. Too sweet? you decide. Just - be prepared for a LOT of fluff, okay? 💖 thank you for the prompt, lots of love and well wishes!

Harry opened the window when he simply couldn’t help it anymore, tears of laughter running down his cheeks. He meant to take his time, milk the moment, but it really went above and beyond what would be considered torture. For the both of them.

“Quit yelling!” he barked at the man outside, wiping his eyes, but not the smile off his face. “You’re going to have a sore throat tomorrow.”

Draco lowered the mobile he’s been holding over his head, turning the music off. He was smiling, too. “I’ll keep going until you forgive me.”

“You arse,” Harry rolled his eyes a little too fondly. “You know I already have.”

“Still.” Draco’s grin was brighter than the moon, damn him. The neighbors in the next house, who gathered at the window to watch the spectacle, waved and took off. Harry couldn’t stop the breathless laughter that erupted from him.

“I’m never showing you Muggle movies again.”

Draco walked over until he was close enough to reach out and touch Harry. “I have to admit I’m a little disappointed. I was kind of hoping for rain.”

“You’re too dramatic for your own good.”

“There’s something about clichés,” Draco smiled and pressed a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “So, are you letting me in?”

“After that ghastly performance? You butchered Peter Gabriel. I think that counts as a criminal offence, actually.”

“Ooh, are you going to arrest me?” there was a flicker of something in Draco’s eyes that made Harry want to forget about everything else. Just him. Just here.

“I do have handcuffs.”

“Mm,” Draco leaned in, cupping Harry’s face. “Sounds lovely.” Then he kissed him proper, and Harry’s heart went out in a wild poof, and everything was perfect.

Until Draco broke off the kiss for a cough. “Gods, I think I do feel my throat.”

“You big baby.” There was something warm and wonderful and flittery going up Harry’s chest, threatening to choke him. He felt he might know what it was.

“Seriously, though. It is pretty cold. May I come in?”

Harry shook his head, exasperatedly affectionate. “The door’s unlocked, you knobhead.”

“Oh. Good.” He paused, uncertain for a moment. “Harry, just – I really am sorry.”

“I know. Just get inside, will you? Mrs. Gardner will be having my head if you actually catch a cold. It’s unfair that my neighbors love you more than they like me.”

“Well, I am charming,” Draco smirked and made his way to the door. Harry couldn’t help the sigh. Draco was such a dork, and Harry loved him. He let the thrill of those three little words spin his head for a moment, shocked and unsurprised and delighted. He loved him. God, he loved him.

Maybe there really was something to clichés.

[hhhecates]

Modern AU! Genshin College Boys HCs pt 2

# — pairings: kazuha x gn!reader

# — characters: gender neutral reader, kazuha

# — summary: second part of our college headcanons, this time featuring kazuha (and some more quick doodles of this pretty boy at the end).  Here you can read part 1 and part 3 if you’d like.^^

# — warnings: none I think, just fluff, teasing cause kazuha is a menace, playful arguing, this came out so long I’m so sorry

# — tags: hc format, whole lot of fluff, strangers to rivals to friends to lovers kinda dynamic, college au, canon divergence

# — notes: And here we are to the next part of this series! I hope you’ll enjoy this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it. Next up is probably xiao, though if you’d like to see someone else, feel free to tell me^^

- he's a theater major with a knack for play-writing. If you thought of him as a creative writing major, you'd be partially right. He actually was double majoring in both, but he dropped creative writing because he's way too picky and whimsical with his works. He hates having to mold his writing to fit assignments criteria, even more so since while he's a very dutiful student, he also only ever writes when inspiration strikes. Kazuha knows he can't force himself to, otherwise he will never be satisfied with the product, and he's known to be a perfectionist to a degree, so that simply won't do. So now he just sticks to theater; - fun fact, his major started out as an inside joke of sorts, Tomo would always point out that Kazuha was a super dramatic person, with his impromptu lines of poetry threw here and there and his smooth and calm behavior even in the most frantic circumstances; - it peaked one day, Tomo was so done with his shit, he just went "Archons Kazuha, since when you're so much of a comedian?" raising an annoyed eyebrow at him. Kazuha just looked at him, a concoction of amusement and challenge brewing in the red of his eyes "Since now." he shrugged, clicking a few more keys on the keyboard of his laptop before looking back at Tomo with a self-satisfied smile and turning off his computer; - now, Tomo has known Kazuha only for a few years, but he knows, he knows how Kazuha can be way too well. It didn't help that they were just discussing their options for college a few minutes before; - "Kazuha, what did you do?" but Kazuha didn't answer, he merely glanced back at him with sympathetic eyes, you don't need his voice to add ‘wouldn't you like to know?’ because his gaze speaks loud enough; - if you think that's how Kazuha chose to take up theater in college, you'd be very right. Did he ever regret it? Not one bit. Kazuha is not known for his impulsivity. That, he could never be. He'd rather call it,,, spontaneousness (is it even a word?). Which he quite often indulges, but Kazuha also reckons that those kind of decisions always turn out to be the best ones he's ever taken. So you could say that he is pretty confident of his choice in theater. Looking back now, he never regretted it either, and he's actually quite grateful to that little ‘argument’ he had with Tomo and how it led to his situation now; - not that he'd ever admit it either if he didn't like it, Kazuha is (unexpectedly) petty like that, and he'd probably see it through even if he didn't like it. Out of spite to Tomo who would be just waiting for a "I told you so" moment (since Kazuha is usually the one who chides him)? Yes. - Kazuha is also a literature minor. In particular Japanese and German literature; - it used to be Japanese and French literature, cause he really loves the language, Kazuha thinks it sounds so elegant and suave. But he came to really dislike how pompous and over the top its literature can be. Doesn't help that he wholeheartedly despises Parnassianism, all that ‘l'art pour l'art’ bullshit. Kazuha hates poetry and art generally speaking whose purpose is just to look pretty and show off. Don't even get him started on la Préciosité, because Kazuha could write a whole theater play mocking it just for the hell of it. He actually thought of doing it, thinks of it as his own little revamp of 'Les Préciouses Ridicules' of Molière, he loves the dude. (This is literally canon since when Beidou asked him to perform poetry for the crew he said “only if the mood takes me, of course. Poetry for poetry's sake tends to lack meaning." and since then, mind full of Kazuha getting huffy at the mere mention of Parnasse and Wilde and such); - he now switched to German literature. He didn't think he would have liked the language as much, but he actually finds it really charming. Also German poetry is right up his alley: blunt and straight to the point, but with burning, strong metaphors and oh so prettily crafted lines. He finds law and order that give him balance but also a pawing sense of freedom and desire of understanding woven in it, something he deeply enjoys and that never fails to leave him all giddy and craving for more; - Kazuha is the kind of person that dresses in this super sophisticated light academia aesthetic. Soft neutral colours, and sometimes just a dash of a dignified red hue that could make him stand out in a crowd of thousands. Brown polished shoes always shining, big over-sized blazers he probably got in some thrift store (dragging you along with him), pretty flowy blouses and fluffy scarves that cocoon him and make him look even softer. His long hair unfailingly swept in a casual but somehow still orderly ponytail; - people look at him and they know that he is the embodiment of a humanities/literature student, like come on, he looks like he's straight out of one of those novels he loves so much; - Kazuha is legitimately everyone's crush at university, and how could you blame them? No matter that he's quite the introvert, he would still offer a polite smile and a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement to everyone on campus. He's always so polite and eager to help, lending a hand to the old librarian to sort out all the books in the literature section and so graciously offering to close up for her on the days she needs to get home early to take care of her nephews. Kazuha who stops every time he sees someone struggling to carry a heavy pile of books or bags, immediately sweeps in and carries them in their stead, his effortless kindness always managing to make him late to his own appointments, but who could be mad at him and his sheepish smile? - you. That's who. You refuse to fall for his tricks. Well- let's back track a little, shall we? You don't have anything against Kazuha, no no, absolutely not. Nope. Aside from the fact that half of your friends have an annoyingly obvious crush on him and basically give him heart eyes every time he sits in three rows of vicinity to where you're sitting during lectures. You and Kazuha share your German Lit class, and again, while being quite the introvert, Kazuha never wastes an opportunity to swoop right in and make his opinions everyone's problem known whenever the professor asks if someone would like to add something. And of course, local pretty boy has always something to say; - and today is no different. You usually don't mind too much, you actually enjoy an output that's not only your professor's, helps you see things in a different perspective and more often than not you find yourself nodding along as a bunch of students discuss about a poem or give their different interpretation of a particular metaphor and jottle down some notes for yourself. But it can become really frustrating when the sheer stubbornness of one student can stall the entire lecture until they have it their way. And of course the student in question is Kazuha. You nearly pull your hair put of your scalp as Kazuha refutes yet again one of your poor fellow classmates trying to defend the purpose of ‘die neue Sprache’ of German Symbolism in this one poem you're trying, keyword, trying to analyse;

- you're not the kind of student that brazenly takes the word to rebuke someone else, sure you have your own opinions, stand firmly behind them and would never back down if questioned, but you never felt the need to put yourself under the spotlight, expose your ideas on a silver platter for another say 100 students to turn their heads and listen to you and you only. But you also have really been looking forward to German Symbolism, one of your favourite authors was in program today, but Kazuha is still picking apart at the poem on hand, explaining in the most polite and reverent way how stupid it was for the author to write a poem about a belt buckle and compare it to words and languages (if you know this one poem, know that I love you); - so when your professor heavens a sigh and asks if there's someone else who would like to intervene (and try to shake Kazuha's unyielding opinion), you stand up from your seat, eager to wipe the expectant smirk on his face, and you start your own apologia. Two can play this game; - you end up going back and fort for the rest of the lecture, both of you refusing to back down, to give in to the other. Kazuha's known to be like that, sweet words turning sly and biting whenever he argues, though he would hardly refer to it as such, it's fun to him. And you can tell, it's fun to him to cradle words close to him and also to pry and break them open, to find a contradiction, hesitation in your thoughts. But you don't give him the satisfaction to. Kazuha is a little of the teacher's pet as well. It's not even his fault really, he's just so good that professors can't help but adore him. It's hard to come on par with someone like him. Honestly though, you just want to get your damn lecture over with, and if that's going to entail having to shut Kazuha up, then you'll gladly oblige; - after awhile, that one poem you started with, and whose name you've long forgotten, isn't even a point in your discussion at all, it's just an excuse, you know, hell, everyone knows it, because both of you are ignited in sheer competitiveness. It's a matter of pride and misery, of tattered words and unspoken stubbornness, like the entire class is your stage, for you to take, for the other students to behold, be your audience in this weird and brash dance. Heads are turning from one side to the other bemusedly, probably the students at the far back are snickering and betting on who's going to win this. Even your professor looks beyond amused. But you don't see it, don't see anything of it, you only see Kazuha, still standing from his seat across the room, in the firsts rows; - the sound of the bell, telltale of the end of the lesson, is the only thing that manages to stop you and Kazuha right in your tracks. You hold your breath, see him do the same as you throw one last glance at him before sitting back down and starting to pack up your stuff; - your little stunt isn't forgotten quite easily, next week you see some students exchanging knowing glances as they look at you taking a seat in German lit class. You're starting to regret your actions. Even more so when the professor announces a group project and purposely, because you know she did it on purpose, pairs you and Kazuha together. You groan and bang your head on the desk, so much for keeping a low profile and just following your classes; - on the bright side, the poet you are assigned is your absolute favourite. On the other hand, he's also the greatest symbolist poet in German literature, so you're going to have a field trip with Kazuha and his apparent dislike for Symbolism; - so when lecture is over, you don't waste your time trying to talk it out with Kazuha, and you bolt straight for the library, convinced on getting the project done by yourself; - it's exactly in the library that you meet him, while trying to balance three different volumes about the author of your project while reaching out for for another book of french poetry (that one just out of your own whim) on the highest shelf; - "There you are." you shriek and almost let the book fall straight on your head if it weren't for Kazuha's sharp reflexes. He swipes right in, gently takes the volume in his own hands, though when he turns it around and inspects the title, his brows furrow in obvious distaste; - he tuts disapprovingly, and you swear you're this close to let the other books fall on his feet and leave him there; - "Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse." that does get your attention, you quickly snatch the book right back, cradle it protectively against your chest, so much that Kazuha almost apologizes at the sight of you looking so fondly at a mere collection of words and paper. You could very much stomp away and never talk to him ever again, ask your professor to pair you up with someone else for this stupid project, or just notify her that you'd like to do it on your own altogether. You don't owe Kazuha anything, you could leave him there and he'd probably take the hint and don't bother you again. You could. But you don't. It's too easy, something in the back of your mind says. So you unexpectedly grab his wrist, soon receiving a questioning look from Kazuha himself, your eyes are harsh and challenging, a hint of annoyance that makes Kazuha's skin tingle, but your grip on him instead is gentle and unsure, asking for consent, he subconsciously nods his head at you, and you proceed to dragging him along to one of the tables of the library where he spots your backpack occupying one of the seats; - you don't even give him time to ask questions, and you don't question his apparent dislike for French literature either, as soon as he's sitting down, you slam open the poetry book like you know its contents by heart and present him with a poem by Pierre de Ronsard; - "Mignonne, allons voir si la rose..." he mumbles out half distracted, you can tell even in a few words, his accent is much more fluid than you anticipated, he might not like French literature, but you can tell that he at least gave it a chance, and that makes you respect him a little more; - "How quaint." he chuckles, and he doesn't say it outright, but you know what he means ‘how banal’, "Are roses your favourite flower? Is that why you like this poem so much?" his sonorous voice mocks. Ode structure, octosyllabes (typical for French poetry in that period), four verses of sixteen lines each. Metaphor of beauty through roses. Kazuha wrinkles his nose in distaste. He's seen too much of this, and pristine structures and empty pretty words just aren't his thing; - "No." you say, he looks back at you, one inquisitive brow raised "I quite dislike roses too. But when I read this poem, it makes me wonder if maybe they are my favourite flower after all." that does get his attention, he discards the book in favor for you instead, you almost shy away under his gaze, but you will yourself not to crumble. You don't answer him, again (Kazuha doesn't know if frustration or anticipation that takes over him). Instead, you present him with a new poem, one from the author you were assigned to for your project, and from the crease of his brows he probably already knows it. You try to take no offence in the way he's looking at you favourite poem of all times. 'Ich fürchte mich vor der menschen Wort', 'I am afraid of human words', admittedly, one of the poems Kazuha despites the most, to be expected really, given his affinity towards words themselves. Though he'd never admit that he never bothered reading the thing, the title was enough to keep him away. You don't ask him to read it, you just point at one of the lines in the middle of the whole poem. Kazuha wants to say there's no point in taking few words out of their pretty scheme and try to make sense of them, but he doesn't have the time to think, doesn't have the time to rebut. "Start from here. 'Ihr Garten und Gut grenzt grade an Gott.' " you recite verbatim without even looking at the page. 'You put your own 'God' to stand between 'garden' and 'good' '. Kazuha shivers, and he doesn't know if it's the desperation of your voice when you recite poetry to him, or the poetry itself, he only knows that he's suddenly afraid of the answer; - the project goes surprisingly very well from then, you'd dare say you made Kazuha change his mind from his previous stance on Symbolism, but the thought alone sounds quite preposterous. Really? Kazuha?; - after handing the final project in, you heave a breath of relief, thinking of finally going back to before Kazuha; - but you quickly find that there's no 'before Kazuha' no more. That boy simply won't leave you alone; - Kazuha who slips cheeky poetry lines in your textbooks that make your eyes widen and your cheeks heat up while he brazenly smiles at you from across the hall (how the hell did he even get access to your stuff, to this day this is still beyond you); - he gets you hooked on Japanese literature too, shows you all his favourites, recites Hokushi's haikus to you, Experimenting I hung the moon on various branches of the Pine. And he looks at you, like you are the one who hung the moon for him. Whispers to you dan 69 of the Ise Monogatari like it's you and him who share a tale of forbidden love. If you stare for too long you might just think that he's true; - Kazuha who takes you by the hand, ignoring your half-hearted protests, drags you through narrow streets, shows you the best sights, best bakeries (where he insists on buying you the pastries you have, not so secretly, been eyeing), still holding your hand as he ushers you in his favourite vintage shops, chuckling at the way your mouth gapes at the sight of so many antiques, excitedly brings you to the book section just to see your eyes sparkle at the sight of old french poetry books. He tugs on your fingers "Let's play a game, I'll buy a book that reminds me of you. You buy a book that reminds you of me, then we’ll gift it to each other." and before you can say anything, he has already disappeared behind the many shelves; - Kazuha who invites you at his dorm more often than not, whines and complains if you try to come up with excuses. He's always so much softer in the privacy of his own room, hair more often than not let down from his signature ponytail, he bleats and grumbles about how his scalp hurts from all the tugging. You card your fingers through his hair to offer him some relief, and he quickly melts into your touch, leaning heavily in your hands before completely dropping down you lap and nuzzling into you. He reminds you of the white cat his roommate Tomo is so fond of. He closes his eyes and sighs contentedly, hums when you gently scrape at his nape, his own way of silently telling you not to stop, that still doesn't help how hot your cheeks feel, but he doesn't need to know that; - it's while brushing his hair and tracing your fingers along the many piercings adorning his ears (a couple of low helix, one standard lobe piercing per ear, one of which occasionally sports a fun dangly earring that suits him way too well) that you find the tattoo sitting gracefully at the back of his neck, it's a simple maple leaf in soft hues that remind you of watercolours for the way they blend with his skin, you can't help the strangled noise that escapes your throat; - "You have a tattoo?!" you're not even guilty of the accusatory tone of your voice. Kazuha clicks his tongue, probably displeased of the fact that your fingers stopped their work on his scalp. He looks at you, one inch away from sleep. He's all slurry and cute when he's sleepy (you'd know from the ungodly amount of times he asked you to 'sleep over because it has gotten too late for you to be out') but sleepy Kazuha also happens to lose all his filters and thus be even cheekier than usual (you don't even know how that's possible to begin with); - he chuckles, deeper than his usual tone, his gaze is nothing but teasing as he looks up at you "I didn't know it was something that would find you so interested." you hand still rested in his hair, you give it a little tug for good measure as a response to his taunting, but your chiding action quickly backfires on you when Kazuha gasps breathlessly. Archons, he's going to kill you one day, one very close day if he keeps this up; - "It's just,,, something I didn't know about you." you shrug lamely, he fully laughs at that, you feel his trembling against you. "There are quite a few things that you don't know about me." he croons, hand coming to cup your chin, he had recently took up the habit to brush his thumb over your bottom lip, a gesture meant to pacify you, but really, again, he's going to kill you if he keeps this up; - "Like,,," you take a brief pause for a more dramatic effect "That you play the saxophone?" he looks at you, eyes wide in surprise, now it's your turn to laugh "You have a saxophone case in the corner of your room, and quite the stack of music sheets too. Though those seem to be written for piano." you muse, tapping your chin. The grin he offers you in response is nothing but proud at your keen observation "Good." he praises "I do in fact play both of those instruments. Though the music sheets are only for piano because I'm in a band and therefore tend to prioritize it."; - you let the information sit for awhile before speaking again. "Will you let me hear?" he hums appreciatively, turns his head to bury it in your stomach. "Do you want to?" you just nod at him, unable to conceal your excitement. He chuckles. It sounds like a promise.

Here’s some lil doodles for college kazuha^^ 

I got so carried away writing this-- I’m so sorry. I get like this when literature is involved. I miss taking French and German literature in high school so much ahh. Also excuse my lack of detailing when it came to Japanese literature, I’m quite rusty on that. 

[spilledkauffie]

Bingo

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 2.0k T/W: pure, stupid, fluff  A/N: you meet Bucky at a Bingo night ft. Yori ❤︎

it’s a little dorky, but I thought it was cute!

Setting the tables with the rectangle cards, you smiled, straightening them out. Despite what your friends thought, you actually enjoyed volunteering with the local senior Bingo games on the weekends when you could. Feeling like they were often better company and far more entertaining than going to a club. It wasn’t a very big meeting hall, but that’s what made it feel so cozy to you. Hugging yourself when you finished the tables, you stroked the outside of your arms, feeling the softness of the cardigan you wore over your tank top. Sighing happily, you made your way to the announcing host, passing a few comments, as you waited for people to find their way in.

“Hey! Hey, look!” You heard a familiar voice; turning you found Yori and his usual group making their way to their table, with one exception. Smiling you made your way to him, arms still crossed, “no, I want you to meet her,” you heard him say to his friend, making you smile.

“Hey, Yori,” you said, coming to hug him, “brought more friends?”

“I- I’m Bucky,” he reached his hand to shake yours, to which you responded, taking his hand in yours.

“Barnes,” Yori added, reaching to slap a name tag on Bucky's chest.

Bucky took a deep breath, keeping his patience, as he looked down to the tag where Yori had written ‘single’ in parentheses, “yep. . .that’s me.” 

“This- this is the one I told you about,” Yori nudged you on the elbow pointing to Bucky, only making him more nervous as he immediately looked down to Yori with a questioning look.

“Ohh,” you nodded slowly, squinting your eyes at Bucky who met your gaze again, “you mean the anti-social grumpy one who’s scared to come because he’ll lose? That one?”

“Yes! That one,” Yori bobbed on his heels happily with a smile.

“What -I’m not-”

“Well,” you tilted your head, “I hope you have a good time and perhaps win something,” Bucky smiled, “but I think you’re going to need your hand back for that.”

Jaw dropping, he looked down to find your hand still in his, “right,” he laughed nervously, letting go, “sorry, of course.” 

You laughed quietly, biting in your lip watching him look anywhere but to you, mainly keeping his head down.

“Yori, you need anything you know where I am,” you softly placed a hand to his shoulder, “Bucky,” he looked up with a half forced smile, but you waited a moment, “it was nice to meet you, I’m glad you came.”

As you turned to walk away you could hear Yori whisper, “I think she liked you.” 

Followed by a quick change of subject from his friend, “I think you should find our table.” 

And lastly, “I know where our table is, and if you can keep your eyes off her, you’d see it too.”

With a giggle to yourself, you walked up to the foldable table that had been set up for you to sit at as usual. You were alone, but you were in charge of any assistance and you kept the first, second, and third prizes hidden. It was harder than one thought to keep curious seniors from nosing around for them. 

While the night was long and you stayed quiet, you were very grateful to have a little more entertainment tonight. It seemed Yori and his friends got their own entertainment out of teasing and poking fun at Bucky, who was a true sport through it all.

“Absolutely not,” you heard Bucky say. Looking up you saw him holding his card to his chest, with Yori trying to convince him to let him take a peek at his numbers, “are those the rules of Bingo?” Bucky shook his head, but another one of Yori’s friends tried to peek from his opposite side, “Oh,” Bucky dropped his jaw, leaning even farther back in his chair to keep the card hidden against him, “a double front attack? Really guys?”

Unable to hide your smile, you kept an eye on the table, specifically Bucky. Who after giving the group a few amusements, looked over to you. Blinking softly, happy that he noticed you, you lifted your hand to wave subtly. With another half smile, that was genuine this time, he raised his hand to wave, but forgot just how far back he was leaning in his chair. Soon, you watched him vanish from sight and he found himself flat against the floor, with a wince. 

“That’s whatcha get, you punk,” Yori told him through a laugh and an assertive nod.

It wasn’t long before there was a soft murmur of quiet laughs spreading throughout the hall, as Bucky reset his chair and sat properly in it this time. He pressed his lips together tightly and avoided everyone’s eye line, but yours. Hand over your mouth, you looked mildly worried, raising your half furrowed eyebrows at him, he could tell you were asking if he was okay. To that he carefully nodded, before turning to someone else who was addressing him at the table. 

The half way break came up shortly after, and you had to help a few people. When you looked back up from your table you saw Bucky, hands in his pockets and bouncing on his heels about three people away down the small line. Leaning your head to the side to see him, it took him a moment, but when he saw you, he gave a quick smile, before being spoken to by the elderly lady in front of him.

“You’re a very handsome young man, so nice of you to come play,” she said, to which he gave a shy thank you, as she asked you for a new marker, “he’s a very handsome young man, you know,” she whispered loudly, before glancing back at him, “and she’s single you know.” 

Ducking your head, you gave a monotone, “thank you, Mrs. Kasey,” putting your hands over your face, hiding the embarrassment, you composed yourself and straightened up, “hey, what can I help with?”

“Word is you got the prizes?” Bucky perked an eyebrow and gave the most obvious wink.

Half smiling, half jaw dropping, you looked around his hip to see Yori, who was keeping a curiously careful eye on his friend, shaking your head you looked up to Bucky, “so. . .they sent you? I don’t break that easily.” You crossed your arms over your chest, playfully, keeping eye contact. 

“Well,” he shrugged, “to be honest I’d like to know what we’re playing for too, I mean what’s our motivation here? I don’t know,” you covered your mouth, hiding the smile accompanying your soft giggles, “Why are you laughing? This is serious. What is the purpose of playing Bingo if you don’t know the prizes?”

With a real laugh at how hard he was trying to convince you, “okay, alright,” you reached under the table bringing up the prize in your hand, elbow against the table as you held it up, he looked down.

“A jar of jelly beans,” Bucky nodded, bobbing his head back and forth before a confident, “okay, seems fair, what about second place?”

You held up a jar in the other hand. 

Bucky looked between you and it, “that’s- that’s just a smaller jar of jelly beans,” he lifted his shoulders as if asking ‘why?’

“These people really like their jelly beans,” you admitted, “I figure you can guess what third place is.” 

“Seriously?” he dropped his shoulders, disappointed.

“Was there something you were hoping to get instead, Mr. Barnes?” You set the jars down, resting your chin on top of your laced hands as you looked up through your eyelashes at him.

He swallowed, deciding if he wanted to say anything, he winced as if he was going to regret what he was going to say- luckily for him the announcer called everyone back to the tables. He sighed, and you leaned back in your seat as you parted ways again. The evening remained entertaining with Yori occasionally reminding everyone at the table that if Bucky wins he’d share the prize.

Towards the end of the event, Bucky was the only one at the table still in the final rounds, meaning the entire table squeezed around him, glancing at his card and intensely listening. When the last number was being called, they all had a hand on Bucky, clinging to him like it was the olympics and he was their champion. 

“Seventeen” was announced and you noticed a sudden shift in Bucky’s demeanor, even though everyone around him was ecstatic, he looked like his mind was suddenly somewhere else, until he shook his head like shaking off a bad memory and he lifted his card. He didn’t have to say it, his group was already exclaiming Bingo enough for him. He came up casually with the other two, and you handed each of them a jar of jelly beans.

Bucky gave a ‘thank you,’ and took his back, but it was gone before he could even offer it to anyone.

“What’s the joke?” Yori held out the jar back to Bucky swiftly, “I can’t open it.” 

Smiling, Bucky popped open the jar in no time and immediately it was out of his hands again. 

“Congratulations,” you said behind him, making him turn around, he saw you had your jacket in your arms and purse over your shoulder, “I hope I’ll see you next month?” “Next month?” He tilted his head, “I thought it was weekly?”

“Volunteer rotations shift,” you explained, gesturing your hand in a circle, “I won’t be back until next month since we’ve got new volunteers.”

“Oh,” he nodded and there was silence.

“Anyway, I hope I’ll see you around,” you waved to him and to Yori as you left, pushing in the door’s brace open.

As it shut, Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, with a sigh, still watching the door.

“Go,” Yori said next to him and waved him away, “you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Bucky took a moment to consider it, “take the bus okay? I don’t want you guys-”

“Yes, yes, we will,” Yori said, already turning back to his friends.

Smiling towards them, he started a jog for the door, exiting, he looked to find you. Already on the sidewalk, he met up with you. Obviously causing you to stop in your tracks and wait when you heard him.

“Hey, um-” he looked around, “can I walk you home?”

“Sure,” you nodded, smiling.

There wasn’t a terrible amount of conversation, but you liked his company and didn’t want him to feel like he had to talk.

“I think it’s really sweet what you’re doing, what you did tonight” you said, looking straight ahead, even though you knew he was looking at you, “there hasn’t been that much laughter in a very long time,” you exhaled sadly, “most of them spent five years alone, or missing out on seeing their grandkids grow up. I was so happy to see their smiles.”

“And what about you?”

You finally turned to him, “I was here, alone” looking down, you laughed, “then again I was alone before, so. . .” you bit in your lower lip, wincing “that sounded so pathetic.” 

This time he laughed with you, “no,” he shook his head, “I know how alone feels.”

Stopping on the sidewalk, you exchanged glances, “well, this is me,” you pointed up to your apartment building.

“Right, okay,” he breathed nervously.

“Thanks for walking me home,” you said, walking towards the steps.

“Yeah,” he ran a hand through his hair, “hey, do you- would you want to get dinner?”

“Finally,” you giggled, before turning back to him, “it took you four blocks to ask!” He gave a shocked expression, only making you smile bigger, “I’m free Sunday, meet you right here at six?”

“Okay,” he said happily, “it’s a date then.”

“Perfect,” you squeezed your arms, hugging yourself.

He swallowed harshly, before taking a step closer and leaning in to kiss you on the cheek, sweetly. When he pulled back, he looked slightly nervous, as if that was the wrong thing to do.

“You missed,” you batted your eyelashes, with a soft smile.

Bucky took a second, unsure if you were serious, either way he took his chances and met your lips with his. Somehow this one took you by more surprise, causing you to move your hands against his chest, holding on to his jacket, until he pulled back.

“Bingo,” you whispered.

[vvh0adie]

vvh0adie’s BTS request

These are the conditions and lists of readers and situations I’ll write. End of discussion. Don’t ask for nun else. You will be blocked. This list is subject to change.

Certain kinks aren’t reflective of my own morals.

Only BTS on this blog. Other groups: @kimchicollardgreens

Read faq/dni for banned prompts.

Request: OPEN { ♰ } | Commission: CLOSED { ♰ }

You have questions/need further elaboration on what’s below, send an ask.

General

*Honestly my Wips Catalogue is great reference*

Genres? | smut, suggestive, fluff, angst, combo

Aus? | Probably anything but I’m not too sure myself, so send an ask -on anon, if you want- to gauge whether or not I’d be interested in writing for it. I’ll make a tag that archives, so you can reference it.

Personally Liked Aus? | hybrid, friends to lovers, strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, sci-fi, horror, supernatural, vampire, werewolf, college, time periods.

Demographics? | I do write the typical straight, cis, conventional couple, but I mainly focus on whats below. Please keep in mind that there are certain experiences I’ll never have or are not educated enough on, so I’d appreciate if you followed below. Members and Reader can be:

Neurodivergent

— Autistic

— ADHD

Sexuality

— Bisexual

— Demisexual

— Sapphic

— Achillean

— Straight

Gender

— Cis Female

— Trans/Nonbinary

Body Positive

— Plus-sized/Chubby

— will not be specified unless stated

Tumblr Requests

Pairing? | mem x mem , mem x reader

Demographic? | Almost always African American-coded Y/N. Since these are free request, I take control of racial implications* to serve this blogs purpose. Black comes in many shades, hair textures, and facial features, so I won’t write distinctly; just cultural familiarities. But you can still request what’s in General.

*note 1: I may not always imply race either. It depends how I’m feeling.

Situations

Levels of harm/explicit behavior

*each following level includes every thing before it

No explicit actions of sui*ide/c*tting/substance ab*se, just mentions

Mild punch, kick, slap, etc.

Not done to/no death of reader/member

No explicit death unless already ghost/human turned demon, vampire, etc

Depression: 1

Anxiety: 1

Body Dysmorphia: 1

Violence: 2

Gore: 3

Cheating

Pregnancy

Family

Omegaverse

Supernatural/Horror: 4

note: If you’re still confused, please don’t feel scared to send me a private DM cuz honestly you’ll be helping me make this list better.

Commissions

*This is tailor made, I mean it. You ask, and I’m more willing to deliver.*

Pairings? | mem x mem, mem x reader, mem x my OCs

Demographic? | Since it’s paid you can specify reader to your hearts content regardless of race, ethnicity, sexuality and gender.

OCs? | Yes, if you enjoy a couple and would like to see more of them in your own scenarios, then you’re free to ask. I do ask that you try to keep it in the sphere of their alternate universes cuz honestly they’d just be different characters at that point.

Situations? | You can follow the one for free request or we can get wicked. All cards are on the table. Send me an private DM and we can discuss how crazy we can get. But I still have limits, but for money I’m willing to write much darker. Note: Depending on the severity, they prolly won’t make it to tumblr but on buymecoffee. Or who knows you may be the only person to every read it? If posted on either platform, you will remain anon just like free request.

Acts

somnophilia

breath play

gun play

blood/cum/lactation kink

praise kink

vouyersim

knife play

fear kink

heat/wax play

needle play

electric/violet wand play

BDSM

degradation kink

con noncon

dub con

double penetration

body worship

size kink

group (4+) sex

mmf/ffm/mmm

anal sex/play

nipple play

period sex/care

aftercare

dacryphilia

impact play

pain kink

exhibitionism

breeding kink

pregnancy kink

corruption kink

daddy kink

mommy kink

monster/hybrid kink

legal age gap kink