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chuluoyi · 1 year

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fear

- gojo satoru x reader

his best friend’s defection is still a hard topic for him to swallow, and it leads into an unexpected argument that spurs you to leave, only to unlock a new fear in him when you get into an unfortunate accident afterwards.

genre/warnings: angst, gojo being mean, one scene with a worried nanami *wink*, injured reader, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end

notes: *sigh* my coping mechanism is still gojo’s past arc, which is why this piece takes place on that timeline. just a little context: reader is in the same class with nanami & haibara and was in the same mission that took haibara's life. this is probably the longest oneshot i've written so far sooo… enjoy! :)

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A year and a half had passed since Suguru embarked on his path as a curse user. In that one year and a half, Satoru had finished his last year at Jujutsu High, and now was in the halls of his alma mater, speaking to the newly appointed headmaster who was none other than his teacher.

"You're applying to become a teacher?" Yaga asked again with a frown. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. Granted, he was his most troublesome pupil. "Why, Satoru?"

"If I said it's because I want to train young sorcerers to be strong, would you believe me?"

That was not a lie. It was actually 50% of his main reasons anyway. The other 50% was to repent what he missed with Suguru when he chose his dark path—his contempt with the current system of this jujutsu world.

"I would," Yaga responded gruffly. To him, Satoru was irritating, but he also knew that he was also extremely capable, and thus everything he did wasn't just out of nowhere. "But you still have to submit your applications. We can't make an exception even if you come from a prestigious clan."

"That's fine with me," he grinned. "Thanks, sensei."

On summer days, he'd get reminded of Suguru and silly things they had done together. Eating shaved ice, cycling together, driving either you, Shoko or Nanami mad. Satoru missed those days, it hadn't been the same ever since. Not knowing if his best friend was alright—if he was still alive at all—was exhausting.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one who was affected by his departure, the only one who stayed right where Suguru left him. Shoko didn't seem ruffled, if anything she just went to more bars and pachinko parlors as of late. Nanami was always a recluse, he never disclosed his feelings. You mourned him, but it was clear that most part of you would always be more focused on Haibara's death.

Satoru understood that he couldn't force anyone to feel what he felt, and he had no right to. But sometimes, he just wanted someone to connect with at his level. Someone to get him just like Suguru did.

And so when he got back to his condo that night—just right next to the one he rented for Megumi and Tsumiki, since he had moved out of his dorm—to find his girlfriend there with a big smile and a tray of cupcakes, unaware of everything and anything, he merely scoffed to himself.

"Satoru, you're back," you acknowledged, beaming like the sunshine you were. "I just baked these for the kids. Do you want some?"

Usually he'd smother you, throw some pickup lines here and there and say yes, but today, he just felt drained. "No." And with that, he stalked away to the bathroom, not glancing back at you.

It was wrong. But tonight he just wanted some peace and quiet, and so keeping his silence seemed to be the best choice as he didn't want to start a pointless argument with you. But you weren’t anything but observant, and definitely noticed that something was amiss with him.

"Are you... alright?" You approached him warily after he came out of the bathroom with wet hair. "Where were you today?"

"Just somewhere," he replied curtly. Afterwards he turned on the hairdryer, drowning the whole place with the noise even as you stood behind him with a visible question mark.

But you were still there after he dried his hair. "Is something bothering you?" you asked with a tilt of your head, concerned. By all means, you mean well. You just wanted to know if he could use your help at all.

When you pulled that expression, he couldn't help feeling annoyed, like he wanted you to take a hint, but you just didn't. "If you know, then just shut it."

It was probably the first time since the two of you got together that Satoru actually said something harsh. But you still tried to be reasonable though, bless you.

"Satoru, I don't know what got into your nerves like this, but I think sleeping through it might help. Have a rest."

"Why are you talking as if you know it?" he snapped, finally turning to you with his cold gaze. "You might not know anything, so don't be a know-it-all. Just mind your own business."

Now you were frustrated with his reply. "Once again, I don't know what happened to you. But if you're taking it out on me because I'm the closest you have—"

"Who said that?" Satoru didn't know where he got all this venom from. It was just at the forefront of his mind and he just got the urge to spew it. "You're considering yourself closest to me? Where did you get that big head from?"

You were aghast, and you blinked a few times to get your bearings. "Let me guess, it's about Geto-san, isn't it? Or the higher ups. Either of that must be what causing you to blindly place your anger on me."

"So what if it was? It isn't like you'll understand anyway."

"Satoru," you started, trying to even your breathing. "What happened to Geto-san isn't your fault. I've been telling you this. It can't be helped—"

"Can't be helped?" he jeered. "Do you know why it has come to this?" his tone took a dangerous edge as he stepped closer. He reached for you, grasping your wrist.

"Maybe because I was too blind back then. If it weren't for you—if only I didn't spend that much time on you, maybe he would still be here."

Did he just say that? Did he just imply that he had regretted the two of you getting together?

You felt your lower lip start to tremble and something seemed to obscure and blur your vision, making it hard to see him clearly. "You... don't mean that."

"Really?" the corner of his lips curled into a disparaging smile. "You never know. Before you know it, this can be over already. After all, I could have anyone out there that I want. Maybe someone less nosey than—”

That did it. You wrenched your arm out of his grip violently, as your first tear fell. His smirk vanished too, replaced with a total stillness to cover his sudden panic that was followed by a sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You selfish, self-obsessed jerk," you hissed through watery eyes. He was taken aback, even amidst your anger and possible fear of him, your still managed to throw daggers at him. "Fine. You have it. I'll see myself out."

Satoru never wanted you to leave. Honestly, he would've made you stay. But he wasn't in the right state of mind and it was too late to take back what he said. He didn't want to mess this up even further.

You left the cupcakes, even throwing it away just to spite him. Driven by pain and humiliation, you choked back your sob and didn't spare a glance at him as you shut the door.

Peace and quiet. There he had it, he thought as he clenched his fists, at the cost of everything else.

Leaving that condo, every step you took felt like needles piercing your shattered heart. You wiped your tears roughly. No, you refused to cry over such asshole. He made it clear, didn't he? Whatever it was that you two shared, it was at the cost of his best friend leaving him. So now the blame was on you.

If you were thinking clearly, you would've understood that his words were likely a result of his own pent-up pain and frustration that he had kept to himself for some while. But you had no patience for that or even pinpoint what you felt right now—anger, disappointment or dread, or perhaps all three. You just felt wrongly accused.

Your feet brought you back to your dorm in the school. Now it wasn't as bustling as it once were. After Satoru and Shoko's graduation, you didn't really get close to anyone. There was Ichiji, but he treated you more like a mentor rather than a classmate.

As you sank into the comforts of your bed, You replayed the events, trying to find where it went wrong—and found nothing. After all, you had already said all that could be said. It wasn't just him who lost Geto, but you, Shoko and Nanami did too, but it was more convenient for Satoru to blame everyone else rather than trying to understand that they too shared this pain.

Nevertheless, you were disappointed. You didn't expect half of what he spouted, and it got you doubting everything you had.

"You've royally fucked up."

Satoru exhaled, glaring at Shoko through the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

The reverse cursed technique user threw him a blank stare, taking in everything from his disheveled hair to his wrinkled trousers. "Gojo, as much as I can’t care less about your sorry ass, I'm saying this not out of concern for you, but rather for Y/N. You are an asshole."

The puff of smoke she blew expanded to create a cloud-like shape. "Yaga-sensei was our teacher. His student is now a mass murderer and wanted dead. Can you even imagine how he feels? And I can't believe I'm saying this—but weren't there three of us?"

A week had gone by and instead of doing the right thing like trying to get into your good graces, Satoru was in Shoko's infirmary in the headquarters instead. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for by going here. Maybe some lingering taste of his happier student days, and Shoko was the only one remaining.

Three of us, huh... she was right. That was precisely why he came here after all.

"You're just sulking because it seems no one cares about your best friend being the best there is. But have you thought about how our juniors also lost Haibara? Right in front of their eyes? Haibara was our friend too."

He was wrong, of course he was. Satoru realized that now. But it felt wrong to ask for your forgiveness now, not to mention the disrupting thought he had—should he let you go for good altogether?

The phone suddenly rang with such fervor that made Shoko utter a swear word. She was on call duty for the rescue team today, and it was supposedly a peaceful day until Satoru decided to barge in to become her company. "Hello? Ichiji? What—speak clearly, I can't hear you."

She switched it to loudspeaker. "...iri-san! Ieiri-san—h-help—please—"

It was noisy, and blaring at the same time, and Ichiji was... Sobbing? Choking? His voice was terribly muffled and—

"L/N-san!" he cried, and Satoru remembered at that moment that you should be in a mission with Ichiji, he remembered you telling him before.

"Hic—s-she fell... hic—she fell! B-blood! She i-is bleeding so much! I-Ieiri-san—hic—s-send help! Please!"

"Hey, stay awake. Breathe. Just breathe."

Everything hurt. Most notably, your head. You could hardly think straight when all you felt was blinding pain and how your breaths came in short wheezes.

Your vision was blurry. The numbness had started to set in and chills ran up and down your spine. You couldn't make out who in front of you was. Was it Ichiji, who went with you in this mission? The only thing that glared was blue.

"You can't sleep, you hear me?" the voice was commanding, willing you to do his bidding. It was familiar, but usually his tone of voice was much lighter, happier.

Satoru.

But why was he here? He wasn't in this mission. It was supposed to be a mission for you and Ichiji.

You remembered getting the cursed spirit after manifesting your domain expansion, until in its last ditch attempt, it went after Ichiji. You had no choice—even when your cursed energy had burned out, you still shoved him away at the cost of being flung from the top of a building.

Not again. Not after Haibara. You’d gladly pay the price if it meant you didn't have to see anyone die in front of you again.

"I..." You managed to croak out—breathing hurt, and you felt your hands being grasped tightly.

"Hey, just breathe. Y/N. Look at me.” Through your blurry haze, you focused on that cold blue, and you saw him. Satoru's sharp eyes, pursed lips and frown. He's really here.

Satoru always said that if there was a cursed spirit apocalypse, then Ichiji would be the first to die. You used to scold him for that, but now as you a laid here possibly dying in your own pool of blood, you found it to be true.

Yet at the same time you knew that with him here, Ichiji must be safe already, and it gave you reassurance so great even when you were on the verge of dying. "I... can't..."

"Yes, you can. Just look at me," he firmly rebuked, his voice came out in a hiss. For all the time you had been with him, you had never heard him so forceful. "If you close your eyes now, I won't forgive you. So please, just hang in there."

It was a struggle to take in any air and darkness encroached on your vision as your consciousness began slipping away.

And everything faded to nothingness.

Satoru honestly thought he had no fears. His worst fear had fully realized after all—Suguru going away into the darkness. What more could he possibly fear?

But when he heard Ichiji's distress call for rescue team, about how you fell from a rooftop of a building and unconscious, he realized that it was a fear he didn't know existed. His mind got disoriented and he teleported to the scene on impulse. He just had to see it for himself. With their petty argument still lacking closure, he felt even worse.

And the sight before him gave him so much fright he never thought was possible.

It was a mistake, he should have brought Shoko along.

You had laid there like a broken doll, your eyes dimmed, and not been able to breathe. He desperately tried to keep you awake, his presence beside you, yet it didn't seem to matter. He watched helplessly as you passed out in his arms.

Satoru felt nothing. The panic that had set in was suddenly gone as your limp body slumped against him, replaced by incessant ringing in his ears and tremor wracking his nervous system. It wasn't long until the rescue team came to retrieve you and even then he still felt numb. He rejected the idea that you might possibly die on him.

That went on until Shoko, who assisted in the emergency treatment, came out of the surgery, sweat on her forehead.

"It's even worse than the aftermath of the guardian deity mission last year," Shoko explained with a grim expression. "Her brain has sustained damage and it affects everything. It may take her quite a while before she can go back to the field."

When she said that, Satoru felt terror washed over him again. You almost died—was all he perceived.

The two of you had no contact for a week just because of his ego. He could still recall that day with vivid clarity, feeling a burning ache in his chest. If someone were to ask him what heartbreak was like, now he certainly would he able the to tell them the two instances in which he experienced them. What he felt now mirrored the same stinging sensation he had felt when Suguru left him.

He visited you when he was allowed to, and you were still unconscious, with many machines connected to your body. It was a sight he still couldn’t bring himself to get used to. He had seen you injured before, but never seen you in your own pool of blood, so this made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Stupid," he whispered, gently rubbing your forehead. His eyes remained fixated on you as you rested, his insides still churning with emotions. "You're not weak, and you're not hopeless." Once upon a time, Satoru might have thought of you as weak, but now he knew better.

"So why you always pick the worst decision?" The more he thought this could've been avoided, the more irked he was. The thought that he could have done something to prevent it intensified the sting of guilt, and he continued to punish himself with it.

And the more he dwelled on the idea that he had hurt you prior to this, the tighter his breath became.

But that was who you were. Self-sacrificing to a fault. And he loved you for that. There was no way of him letting you go now.

It astonished even himself—that he was capable of this love thing. At first it was an attraction, but now that you had been going on for more than a year, it felt like it was no longer a silly infatuation after all.

"Hurry and wake up, will you?" Satoru gently brushed your hair aside, his eyes fixed on you. He didn't know it even as his gut twisted, his frown deepened and his touch quivered, that he was worried sick. "I have a lot to make up for."

And he left you with a tender brush of his lips against your forehead.

Nanami Kento was the first person you saw when you awoke from coma.

You struggled to regain your senses, still feeling absolutely broken. The dull throb on the back of your head was still there, and as if you had found yourself trapped in a fog, you were only able to move sluggishly.

"You're awake?" his gruff voice greeted, laced with concern. In his hand were a bucket of fresh flowers and fruits basket, which he soon placed at the table next to your bed.

It was unexpected, because ever since the tragedy that costed Haibara's life, the two of you had been drifting apart.

You nodded, and let out a hum in response—all you could manage at the moment.

"Thank God." Nanami sounded relieved as he pinched the bridge between his eyes, and you were moved that he had shown this degree of concern.

Your remaining classmate, who suffered the burden of Haibara's life just like you. He was always quiet or brooding somewhere, hiding his own feelings.

You felt tears pricking the corner of your eyes. The fact that he visited you meant that he hadn't decided to cut you out of his life yet.

"Gojo-san is out today, but he'll be back by afternoon," he said, mistranslating your tears as some sort of a want to have your annoying—ex?—boyfriend at your side.

The two of you were still not on talking terms, weren’t you?

You so badly wanted to say thank you to him—and tell him that no, you weren't looking for Satoru—but it came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"Huh?" Nanami then realized what you were trying to say, and a faint smile graced his lips. "Just... get well soon, L/N. Have a good rest."

Just before you drifted back to sleep, you could hear him sigh and mutter, "Hello, Gojo-san? L/N has awakened. Just letting you know is all.”

You weren't sure how much time had passed when you woke up the second time, but the curtains were already drawn and only darkness came from the window. Your body felt lighter, but you still felt like a mess and and couldn't help but groan in discomfort.

Satoru was there, he perked up at the noise you made. And you realized that it was the first time in about a week that he faced you after that disasterous almost-breakup.

He walked up to you, his expression was more hopeful than you had ever seen him before, like a kid whose wish had been granted. He slowly shifted to sit beside you.

"Hey, welcome back." His voice was soft. It was a change of pace for him, as you were used to seeing him all loud and silly.

Now your voice no longer sounds like a lead. "Hey."

"How are you feeling?" he asked and you took a moment to look at him. He was smiling, but exhaustion reached his bright eyes, dimming them. "You know, with the whole you passing out and almost dying thing?"

His words were almost humorous as he spoke, like he didn't know what else to say except try to lighten the mood, but there was also a strain on his tone, like he was holding back.

"I'm quite fine now, I suppose..." You still felt the lingering pain and dizziness as you slowly sat up. Satoru reached out to steady you—and you realized how his fingers trembled when they made contact with your body—as his brows furrowed with worry when you winced.

"You don't look like it though." His voice dropped and the humor was gone, replaced by this haunted look. You blinked. It was probably the first time you had seem him this ruffled.

He immediately pulled you into a hug, cradling your head to his neck gently, as if to protect and shield you from the world altogether. Exhaling heavily, he leaned on you. "You scared me, you know that?"

You wondered out loud if you really had that hold over him. "Did I?"

"You can't do that to me, you hear?" Satoru stroked your hair, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. His voice quivered. “Don't ever do that again.”

He pulled you tighter against him, but still careful not to crush you.

You let out a snicker, letting go of everything you felt during this horrible week. "Heh, afraid to lose me, huh?"

"Shut up,” he grumbled. “What were you thinking anyway? How did you calculate that freefalling is better than letting that cursed spirit attack Ichiji?”

"He was defenseless. He could die, you know that."

"And you also can," he quipped, upset, pulling away enough to look you squarely in the eyes, his eyes devoid of any expression, yet filled with a raging wave that you could only interpret as undiluted concern.

The emphasis in his tone made you recoil and feel guilty. If you were in his shoes, you probably would've said the same thing and so you had nothing to say to that.

But the more pressing agenda in the list was the unspoken silent treatment the two of you saw fit to use against each other for the last few days. Satoru was the one who decided to address it first.

"About that night..." he faltered, looking away. "I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry."

Satoru always had trouble processing emotions. This time too. He must've a hard time dealing with the anxiety caused by the possibility of him losing you for good, no matter how much he tried to be unaware of it.

"..." You wanted to respond, to make him understand your point, but somehow right now you were just too weary. And he sensed your reluctance. So you blurted the first thing that gnawed at your mind.

“You said you could have any other women out there—”

"No, really—" he started to panic, and it was blatantly too, which surprised you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Us. I don't regret anything. I’m not breaking up with you. Being with you is the happiest I've been ever since Suguru left."

“That's...” you blinked, before letting out a small sigh. “Okay. Fine then. Let's just put it behind us for now.”

“I—” he almost wheezed, his bright blue eyes were overtaken with sheer urgency to explain how wrong everything had been that night. “You must know that I didn’t mean any of it. And that I hate hurting you the way I did. I won’t—”

"Satoru, I understand," you let out another sigh, fidgeting with your fingers. "Sometimes when I’m reminded of Haibara, I also get sad. I don't want to presume but I think I know how you feel. Just next time, maybe," you shifted your gaze on him, seeing how you had his attention fully. Gojo Satoru, the strongest now, was looking at you as if you had his fate in your hands. "Just tell me if you need space and I would have understood."

"Yeah, okay, sure," he responded immediately, relieved, before a lopsided grin appeared on his face, turning him back into your dork slash boyfriend. "So, am I forgiven now?"

"A thank you would be nice."

In the end, he chuckled, seemingly resigned. "You should sleep more."

He positioned himself into bed next to you, and you let him pull you into his chest again. You could feel how his taut back started to relax upon the contact. He pressed his lips on your forehead in a fleeting kiss.

"Promise me you won't pull that stunt again.”

You smirked. "I can't. What if Ichiji—"

"Then just let him die."

You swatted his arm playfully, pressing your head to his chest as he continued to run his fingers on your hair. He cushioned you carefully, and you felt the tension in him slowly melt away with each breath you took. In your mind, you figured he needed this closeness more than you did, if anything, for the sake of his sanity.

“I love you,” he whispered by your ear, kissing it lightly.

“Mmhm.”

As you felt Satoru's calming presence, it helped ease you into slumber. You soon found yourself in a deep sleep, comfortably held in his embrace.

Epilogue

Ichiji gulped as Satoru stared him down, sizing him up as if he was the most despicable creature on this planet.

Okay, he might be. He was a coward, all he could do was trembling in the face of evil. But he had come in peace, even bringing fruits as an offering! He felt bad too that he was the partial cause for you to be this injured.

He was used to Satoru terrorizing him—calling him names, slapping him, and whatnot—and he could take it. Just this time, he really looked like he could murder him on the spot if he wanted to. A small part of Ichiji mourned that you were his girlfriend, because that pretty much sealed his fate that Gojo Satoru could indeed murder him on the spot because he had a valid enough reason to.

"You are—"

"No! I'm sorry, Gojo-san! I'm sorry for my incompetence!"

"Hah?"

If he was mildly irked before, now Satoru was visibly irritated.

"You're not cut out to be a jujutsu sorcerer," he started. "You're useless. You just get in the way most of the time."

Ichiji kept his head down. No, no. He can't cry!

"Get your driving license or I'll slap the shit out of you."

"Oh?" and before he knew it, Satoru had stalked away, leaving him in the dust. How rude! But...

Get a driver license? Quit the jujutsu work?

Hey, that sounds like something I can do!

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httpsserene · 7 days

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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. reader has a mom and dad. original side characters. dates. golf. miscommunication (done right). reader is bad at feelings. flirting. d/s undertones. light dom!carlos. switch!lando. switch!reader. brat!lando. hair-pulling. light pain kink. light praise kink. cunnilingus. vaginal fingering. threesome m/m/f. vaginal sex. protected sex. overstimulation. carlos sainz jr’s canonically big dick. petnames. orgasm delay? envy and jealousy.

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)

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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@sainzluvrr/@arialikestea/@urfavnoirette/@swechchhaj/@delululeclerc

@formula1-motogpfan/@f1orza/@daniskywalkersolo/@uselessginger0/@mickslover

@isaidlandowecanbeworldchampion/@tremendousstarlighttragedy/@annispamz/@certifiedlesbianbaddie/@sofs16

@tomiwastilinskii/@sakuxxi/@mitruscity/@pal3rmo/@lando-505

@hahahjej/@eugene-emt-roe/@nissaimmortal

696 notes · View notes