#thanks for the ask Brit!

[kris-mage-fics]

(Oooh we love an equal opportunity shipper and I didn’t know about the rest!) Shery Tallys Chase and Red x Kyrah and 6,7,14,26 and 29 for whatever pairing you want to answer for whatever question 👀

This gets long and there are some alpha build spoilers for #29 so I put at the end. Also, here are some answers about Kyrahlise's relationships with Blade, and with Tallys. (Romance Asks, which btw, if you want to ask any feel free to do so even though I reblogged ages ago. I promise it won't take me five months to answer, lol!)

6. Who is the big spoon? Big spoon: Tallys Little spoon: Shery They switch: Chase and Red, though I think they're both the big spoon more often than Kyrah

7. Favorite date activity? Shery: snuggling under a blanket and reading together, going to cozy tea rooms and cafes, taking crafty classes together

Red: picnics, star-gazing, trips to museums, infodumping to each other

14. Is there anything they associate with each other? Shery → Kyrahlise: room cat, bright smiles, drawings, fresh baked bread, letters and notes with little doodles, paint stained hands Kyrahlise → Shery: sweets (especially cake), morning, roses, racy novels, afternoon tea, floral scents

Chase → Kyrahlise: books, her perfume, rose gold and amethyst, the sound of a pencil on paper, painted flowers, linen sheets, sunshine (that’s his own damn fault tbh) Kyrahlise → Chase: her sun medallion, pretty daggers, open windows, fancy scarves, rings, midnight

(Red don't get one because he associates too. many. things. with his ex-girlfriend, and I haven't spent enough time with Tallys to know what she'd associate with Kyrahlise. Though I can say that Kyrah has a pattern of associating certain times of day with people, like Red is sunset, and Tallys is early morning.)

26. How important is the romance in your OC’s overall story?

No matter who Kyrahlise is with, the romance is important to her overall story. It helps her realize people do actually care about her as a person. Which is something she’s struggled to fully believe since her 13th birthday. She’d actually made a lot of progress on that during her time at the Circle. But the 9/10 years since she left set her back quite a bit.

Also Kyrahlise starts to unpack the idea that she’s a walking time bomb. She told the Shepherds the truth about her past in Chapter 3, and none of them treated her like a threat. Then someone falls in love with her knowing her role in Vale’s disappearance, and the god-like power she wields? There are only two conclusions she can draw. One: they are all suicidal idiots to not be scared of her. Two: She isn’t the existential danger she’s believed herself to be for 16/17 years. Since the first can’t reasonably be applied to everyone in the Shepherds, she has to start to let go of this belief. The fact that someone loves her is the final crack in the foundation of this idea, allowing her to clear away the pieces. 

Something I’ve mentioned before, though I don’t recall where, is that Kyrahlise is very determined to stay alive because she needs to keep the memories of Vale. This butts up against her bad habit of underestimating how much danger she is in, thus making her appear reckless. She also has a rather self-sacrificing nature. As you can imagine, this creates a strange cocktail of things going on in her head. Since joining the Shepherds, her terrible risk assessment, as well as her borderline reckless heroism, has really come to the fore. And she can justify these things as “doing her job”.

Once fully in a romance, she starts to be a little more careful. The thought of upsetting the person she loves by getting hurt when it could’ve been prevented is enough to give her pause. Though I do think this happens fastest if she’s with Blade, because he’s so protective of her (and would be the main thing they fight about). It would happen second fastest with Shery and Red since they are both worriers, and she feels guilty adding to that worry. But it does happen no matter who she’s with, just the speed and details change.

Not that Kyrah, or anyone, needs romance to learn these things. She’s just dense when it comes to what she means to people, platonically or romantically. She doesn’t put more value in romantic relationships, but she’s never been in love before (sorry Circle era Red, lol). The newness of this type of love makes it all the more raw and forces her to examine these beliefs faster.

29. What are your favorite moments that happen between them? (Spoilers for the alpha build below, so if you haven't played beyond the public demo feel free to skip this.)

Shery: In Chapter 8 during the first trial when you talk to everyone, you can heal Shery’s ankle, and the romance version of that scene had me kicking my feet and twirling my hair! The sweet longing looks, the touch of gentle sexual tension! Sometimes I just go back and reread that scene because I love it so much!

Tallys: I love how in Chapter 8 MC can comfort her! She’s so calm and in control of herself most of the time, that it’s really nice to be able to be there for her when she needs it. I like seeing a different side of her. Also, it amuses me that it turns into a make-out session, but that’s very Tallys!

Chase: Okay, the bed sharing scene in Chapter 7 where you can push the beds together with Chase absolutely destroys me! I honestly cried the first time I read it! He’s so sweet and tender, and clearly already head over heels for MC. But MC feels like they can’t trust that side of him. 

Red: Gods, it’s hard to pick! Is it his second day off with the awkward encounter at lunch? Or in Chapter 5 when he doesn’t want MC to know he got propositioned? Or that conversation in Chapter 7 where he’s trying to suss out if MC is into him, and then the kids interrupt?

[garpen]

YALLER

Yaller...

"Yaller need therapy once he's done with you."

I'm sorry. I have nothing to say for myself 😔

Yaller= yall will = you all will

I'm not even country or anything this is just gen how I speak. I try spelling out what comes through my head but sometimes I forget and just like spell/sound out what words sound like to me lol

A more accurate spelling would have been "Y'all'll" ? (ew the apostrophes make it look ugly) but the way I say it out loud sounds more like "yaller"

You all should be thankful you can't hear the way I speak it's honestly an atrocity

[gomzdrawfr]

Do you think when Soap was younger, and still now when he can, went to the Scottish festival's?? I MEAN, a whole festival celebrated for his culture and life and he gets to be around people he loves!?

He would!

[thetarttfuldickhead]

Roy wakes, fully hard and – two seconds later, when the details of the dream return to him – fully panicked.

Fuck.

---

It’s not like he’s never had sex dreams before. Come on. But none of them had featured men (except that weird one about Lee Pace in a banana costume and that hadn’t left him so much turned on as thoroughly confused) and abso-fucking-lutely not a single one of them had starred Jamie Tartt.

Jamie Tartt, who is now standing right in front of him in the dressing room, saying something about football something something, right Coach, something free kicks, and all Roy can think about is how he now has a very vivid idea of what those lips would look like when wrapped around his cock.

Jamie pushes a strand of hair of out of his eyes. They look grey now; in Roy’s dream they were green-tinting-towards-brown and heavy-lidded with lust as Roy had pushed him back on the bed— 

Roy can’t stand it. Except one very specific part of him apparently can and no, no, fuck no, he’s not doing this. Without a word he turns on his heel and walks away, ignoring Jamie’s surprised objection.

Fuck.

---

Training is a nightmare.

The only way Roy can get through it at all is by not sparing Jamie a single glance. (Jamie running, dribbling, shooting; Jamie turning and twisting, as graceful as water; Jamie with hair damp with sweat and calling out to the others with that eager voice that had called out Roy’s name last night.) It’s really fucking difficult, though, because he’s used to always keeping at least half an eye on Jamie these days, no matter what else is going on. Besides, the prick’s everywhere, rushing around the pitch like the fucking Duracell Bunny on speed. Roy clearly made a huge mistake ever pushing him towards the heights of endurance because the little shit just. won’t. stop. 

Roy’s attempts at avoidance don’t go unnoticed, either. He can feel the eyes of Beard and Nate on him; can see the way the other players look from him to Jamie and mutter among themselves. 

He makes them run suicides until they collapse just to shut them up and when Jamie is the only one still on his feet Roy tells Beard that oh fuck, he has a really important meeting he needs to go to right now, he fucking forgot about it and now he’s running late, could Beard and Nate finish this up please, and of course Roy doesn’t flee from the pitch because Roy Kent doesn’t fucking flee from anything. He walks off rather hurriedly, sure, but that’s just to properly sell the lie of the meeting he’s in a rush to. 

“Yeah, something is definitively up with him and Jamie,” he hears Beard mutter to Nate as he walks off.

Fuck.

---

He withdraws to the supply cupboard where he’s not likely to be disturbed, or found. He’s not hiding, obviously; he just needs a few moments to himself, to gather his wits. He’d drive home, except he actually does have a meeting with Rebecca in a couple of hours, and she is the one person he daren’t piss off. Not because she’s terrifying – although she can be, a fact that Roy respects immensely – but because she’ll know that something is off if he doesn’t show and unlike everyone else she has both the guts and the capacity to force it out of him.

In a farcical turn of events, which he entirely blames on Dr. Sharon (and maybe also on Keeley and Jamie a little, for their absurd and sometimes infectious tendency towards emotional honesty), Roy thinks that maybe he wouldn’t mind talking to someone about this. Maybe it would… help? Give him some perspective on things? 

Problems is, there’s no one he can talk to, is there? Jamie is right out, for obvious reasons, and while this would probably be right up the Diamond Dogs’ alley, there’s no fucking way Roy is telling his fellow coaches and the club’s director of football operations about having a wet dream about the team’s star player. Apart from the utter mortification of it, it’s hardly fair on Jamie, having almost all his bosses discuss him like that. Even if it’s not the real Jamie they’d be discussing, really, just the very bendable and delightfully masochistic Jamie that’s taken shameless residence in Roy’s battered mind. 

He can’t talk to Rebecca, for the same reason, even though he’s pretty sure she’d be able to say something clever enough and cutting enough that he’d snap right out of whatever the hell this is. Maybe she’d declare him clinically insane and unfit for duty and have him carted off to an asylum or some shit, and as much as that would suck it’d be a bit of a relief, honestly. At least he wouldn’t near twist his neck off his shoulders trying to avoid looking at Jamie. 

Jamie would probably come and visit him, the fucking arsehole.

And Roy can’t talk to Keeley, either, because even though she’s probably the best person to bring this to and the person he’d most like to talk to, she’s been clear about having no interest in sorting Roy and Jamie’s shit out for them. Besides, he doesn’t want to somehow give her the idea that he’s over her. He’s not. He had a pretty wild dream about her just the other week, and—

For a brief moment, he’s assailed by the image of Keeley and Jamie tangled on Roy’s mattress, looking up at him with twin smiles and—

In spite of the cupboard being rather chilly, Roy starts to sweat. Desperately, he crosses his legs and forces his mind back to the time when he took a chug of orange juice only for it to be egg yolk and he nearly threw up. 

It doesn’t really help. He’s still turned on, only now he’s feeling sick too. 

He could talk to Dr. Sharon, he guesses, but Dr. Sharon is travelling southern France for the rest of the week.

Roy won’t last that long.

Fuck. 

--- 

The door to the cupboard is pulled open with enough force to almost startle Roy off of the bucket he’s sat on. 

“All right, what the fuck’s going on, man?” Jamie demands, without even having the decency to look surprised at finding Roy hiding hanging out among the mops and micro fibre cloths. “Did you hit your head and forget the last two years or something?”

“Of course not,” Roy mutters, determinedly not looking up from the computer precariously balanced on his lap.

“Then why the fuck are you ignoring me? The lads all think I did something really bad!” There’s a plaintive note in Jamie’s voice, reminding Roy of the noises dream-Jamie had made when Roy— 

Roy closes his eyes. He can’t go on like this. He’s pretty sure that if he could just get a day or two – three or four tops, absolutely no more than five – away from Jamie, away from these constant reminders, the details of the dream would fade away, and his desire with it – but they have a game the day after tomorrow, so that’s not going to happen, and he can’t keep avoiding Jamie until then. It’d be bad for the team – not to mention that he can’t really stomach the hurt he hears in Jamie’s voice.

Nothing for it, then. Fuck it all to hell.

“I had a sex dream,” he grits out, carefully looking to the doorframe right next to Jamie’s face, so that he can catch Jamie’s reactions without having to look him in the eye.

Jamie doesn’t react much, just cocks his head to the side. “You had a sex dream about me?”

“Did I say it was about you, you muppet?!” Conceited prick.

“Uh, no, but it was? You wouldn’t be all weird about it if wasn’t.” Trust Jamie to always choose the worst moments to be insightful and reasonable. He’s doing it just to be contrary, Roy’s sure of it. 

Jamie’s watching him expectantly, as if believing Roy will elaborate or explain further. Roy doesn’t say a word. Roy is busy stonily inspecting a small speck of dirt on the wall next to Jamie’s face.

Eventually, Jamie lets out a long sigh and rolls his eyes. “Fine. What’s the big deal then?” 

Now Roy’s eyes snap to Jamie’s face, because what the hell? “What do you mean, what’s the big deal? You don’t think it’s a little weird and really fucking uncomfortable that I, Roy Kent, had a sex dream about you, Jamie Tartt? I’m your fucking coach! We’re friends!”

Jamie makes a face, like Roy’s being the insane one. “Roy, mate, you’ve seen the wall in my old bedroom. Bunch of half-naked girls and you, right? You never did the math on that?” 

Roy has, in fact, never done the math on that. Hasn’t realize there as math to do. “You were impressed by my prowess as a football player,” he tries feebly.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Um, yeah. Which is hot.”

“… oh.”

Roy doesn’t know what else to say to that. Doesn’t know how to feel about that. Hasn’t the faintest idea about how to even begin to process it.

Jamie is watching him with a small frown. He looks concerned, pitying almost, which makes Roy want to go throw himself in the Thames more than anything else in this discussion has.

“So,” Jamie says eventually, speaking slowly, like he’s trying very hard to find the right words, “all these years and you never once figured that this whole thing we’ve got going, all this fucking tension, that it was… you know… just a little bit sexual?”

“No.”

“What, never?”

“No.” 

“That’s fucking mental, man.” Jamie looks like he doesn’t know whether to be incredulous or impressed. Then his eyes widen. “Ooh, is this because men getting with other men was illegal when you were a kid back in the dark ages? They burned people alive and shit, so you’re, like, repressed and stuff?”

Roy is about to bite his head off for pulling out fucking stupid ha ha you’re so old jokes now, except there’s something in Jamie’s eyes giving him the distinct impression that maybe Jamie is deliberatedly being a prick, doing it for Roy’s sake, trying to offer him a sense of normalcy or something, and that’s actually quite sweet, isn’t it? Only that thought has Roy’s heart doing something weird and stupid, so actually no, back to Jamie just being a prick.

“We’re in love with Keeley,” he says, and he means for it to be gruff, but it comes out pleading more than anything else.

“Yeah, I know.” Jamie sounds exasperated. “None of this means we ain’t. Fucking hell, mate, tension’s just tension, yeah, no need to fucking act on it if you don’t want to. And dreams are just dreams. I’m mad fit, you see me running around doing impressive shit all day, course you’re gonna dream about me, be weirder if you didn’t. Bet half the team do the same, anyway. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Jamie crosses his arms, and looks as serious and decisive as Jamie ever does. “Listen, Coach, we’re playing West Ham this Saturday, and you need to stop being weird about this and start coaching me and not freak everyone out.”

Roy doesn’t ask him what Jamie think he’s been trying to do all day. Not his fault Jamie’s been right there, all pretty eyes and strong thighs and distracting lips and shit. But he doesn’t say that; instead, he sighs, because Jamie, infuriatingly, has a point. “Yeah. Okay. But… just give me a fucking minute. Go get changed and I’ll be there in fifteen, all professional and shit.”

“Great. See you then, Coach.”

Jamie turns and as he walks away Roy can’t help his gaze sliding down to Jamie’s arse, noticing the way the blue shorts cling to the round buttocks, leaving little enough to the imagination, only Roy is imagining what they’d look like sans shorts and red from Roy’s fingers and palm, wondering if the reality would match the dream.

Fuck. 

---

Dreams are just dreams. Roy tells Dr. Sharon as much during their next appointment, because even though talking to Jamie helped him pull himself together just enough to muddle through the rest of the week with his sanity mostly intact, he’s still feeling rather rattled by the whole mess. Untethered. 

Jamie’s been brilliant, carrying on as if nothing’s changed between them. Somehow, that hasn’t helped as much as Roy would’ve thought it would. 

Dr. Sharon listens carefully and without judgement, as she always does. “You’ve had dreams before,” she notes once Roy’s fallen silent. “I’m sure some of them have been strange or unsettling. Has any of them ever affected you like this?” 

“No. Like I said, it’s just dreams, right? It’s not real. Shouldn’t affect me. Never fucking does, not even the sexy ones, usually.”

“Right. So why do you think this one was different?”

Roy stares at her. She returns his stare calmly, patiently. Waits, watching him, until he can’t help but catch the shape of it reflected back at him in her kind eyes.

Fuck. 

---

“What if I don’t want it to be just a dream?” 

“Eh?” 

Jamie’s peering at him through the open door, looking like he’s wondering what Roy is doing showing up unannounced and spouting nonsense on his doorstep at half past three on a rest day. 

Which, okay, fair enough. 

“What if I don’t want it to be just a dream?” Roy repeats, a little slower this time. 

For another moment, Jamie just stares at him. Then his eyes widen, lightening up with delight. “Oh! You mean… ?” He gestures between them.

“Yeah,” Roy says and then he’s being pulled into the hallway by his jacket and he has time to think that that they really need to figure out how Keeley fits into all of this and then he has his arms around a body that is firm and solid and there and Jamie Tartt is kissing him and it’s not a dream at all. 

Fuck. Oh, fuck… !

[piers-official]

Language :]

"Um, we don't serve those with our burgers, sir."

Piers eyes the waiter, completely puzzled by this odd notion. Currently He and Marnie are at a small burger joint in Castelia (At his sister's request) and were trying to have a nice supper before heading back to their Uncle's place. Piers glances over at Marnie with deep confusion, she simply shrugs.

"Ya mean, ya don' serve chips with the veggie burger plate, is that it?"

"No, sir... I believe you're thinking of Sub Wailord."

Well, this was even more confusing. They don't serve bloody chips with their subs. Piers quickly raises his head around the room, Everyone else seems to have chips with their burgers, so what was the problem?

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Aye, look-" He wasn't one to get mad at workers for something out of their control, but clearly they were misunderstanding him. He regains a calm composure, and continues, "-Don' mean ta be windin' up on ya, but i's a bit dodgy ta say ya don' got somethin' when ya clearly do. Ganderin' 'round, I can spot other blokes with chips sidin' with their nosh, So I'm a bit cheesed ta hear ya go off barmy like this."

A small pause occurs between the two adults, as they both stare in bemusement.

"Sir, I have no idea what you just said."

[saints-who-never-existed]

Hi! An answer for your accent post from an english-second-language Terror fan:

I don’t “naturally/instinctively” recognize the different accents and what they mean in terms of region or class, but the show is pretty good at indicating it in other ways- mostly with Crozier, where you can’t miss it or the Implications that comes with it.

But recently i’ve endured the French version and it’s WILD how much flatter it makes the character and what details we’re missing! I’m back to barely recognizing them, and the person i’m watching it (unilingue franco) is missing 95% of the prejudice. It’s interesting!

Thank you for this lovely and thoughtful answer! :)

I agree that the show generally does a good job of indicating region and class in a variety of ways outside of speech and language alone, and am glad to hear that you largely feel the same way as someone with English as their second language.

That's a super interesting point about the show being dubbed in languages other than English too!

I've heard tell of extra implication and nuance being added in cases where the language has gendered nouns or very specific formal vs. informal versions of words etc that English lacks. But in all honesty, I hadn't yet considered the way that accent and class might (or might not!) translate in another language.

[greg-montgomery]

honey I've read your last post and I'm really sorry to hear this. 💓 just know that anything that happens it's not your fault at all💞 you are one of the kindest person I've ever known, and you're really lovely😭💞

in case you need this, I'm dropping this pic to you 💞

MY LOVE!!! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

i was literally just dramatic and overthinking we talked today and it was all in my head 🥲

but it’s so comforting knowing that no matter what happens with a boy i have my friends here who can comfort me like no one else 🥹 i love you and you mean the world to me!!!! 🫶🏻

and the pic omg 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

[spinnysocks]

hi spinny I wish to attempt to speak to you in the language of your people . (checks scribbled notes on hand) you are beans and toast and I am. Chuffed to bits whenever I see you on my dash :3 /gen /silly

(p.s. I apologise in case this came off as offensive I didn’t mean it to be fhdkdj /gen)

why thank you, my kind friend! i love a slice of toast with beans to laden it, i am truly honoured that you think i could be compared to such a bloody lovely meal! i, too, am chuffed to bits when i see your absolute banger posts on my dash! :3 /silly, gen

[reigningmax]

Ok I am very new to F1 and I don't understand the beef people have with Sky/English people? Can you please explain?

Sky is very very very biased against non-English drivers. Which would be fine if they weren't the international broadcast for the sport, and therefore unavoidable. They've said some pretty out of pocket things about Max and other drivers who have dared to be competition for Lewis, and blow smoke up mediocre english drivers' asses.

The English people thing is a joke for the most part but some of them ARE undeniably annoying when it comes to non-Merc/Mclaren drivers. The shit they say and do, the way they behave, etc. - these people are Briddish (as opposed to Brittish who are normal lol). But that goes for all nationalities so.

I had a Scottish teacher in secondary school who used to always say "I support two teams in the world: Scotland and anyone who plays against England" and I've adopted that in life <3 I actively just root against English athletes (Liverpool FC is scouse <3) lol

[scarletlizzard]

No attitude, and yet according to our latest messages, you’re considering acting out again to get my attention. Careful, darling, or next time your anons will see a great deal more than a few measly pleas.

Flattery gets you everywhere, baby. Good girl for remembering your place.

I’ve had a listen to your recommendations and I’m delighted as always. Too Sweet has midnight kitchen dancing vibes - arguably that might be because I am currently blasting it at midnight whilst making a tea. Empire Now feels like it’s borderline touching upon country; the opening guitar is almost reminiscent of someone like Cage the Elephant, but again, very enjoyable! I liked the overall vibe of Eat Your Young, but I’d probably say it was my least favourite of those four. As for Movement, that secured the top spot with ease - I feel like I ought to be drinking red wine or smoking to it, it’s (to use my apparent favourite word) delicious.

I’m afraid I’ve pocketed your dignity and am displaying it proudly in my trophy cabinet. Who needs notches on a bedpost when you can have a girl’s self-respect? Then again, I’ve clearly not taken away enough of your identity if you’re entertaining marriage proposals, tut tut. I best persevere until you remember that your purpose is to be my good girl, hmm?

-🫖

As always, no one is watching, right? Perfect. Let's dive in.

Me? Act out to get your attention? I would do no such thing, little Brit! 😊 Okay, okay, fine! I'm on my best behavior startinnnng now. I will be taking notes that flattery is going to get me places ✍️ And yes, melting at the use of good girl once again

You listened! And came back with reviews, I can't tell you how excited I was to see this! 💛

That's exactly the vibes of Too Sweet, that's why I love it! You in your kitchen making tea, why am I getting bothered by that in the best way possible? Ahh, only kind of freaking out because Movement was the main one I thought you would like, so knowing you did just made my whole night 😋

Do you often drink red or smoke, little Brit? Hahah yes! Delicious is your favorite word, I swear it. But I also melt a little each time you use it, so please don't take it out of your vocabulary!

Displaying it proudly, huh? Guess that little ego of yours is nicely satiated, isn't it?

😳 Hey, hey, I said maybe! But then again, I wouldn't want to stop you from persevering 😋

[kris-mage-fics]

18, 19, 29, and 41 for Kyrah for the Hard Mode OC questions ask pls!

For the Character Development Hard Mode asks. And here's where I answered 14, 23, and 40 for Kyrahlise last night (along with 16, 30, and 31 for Amira, one of my Scarlet Hollow MCs). 18. Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others? Between the two, Kyrahlise admires wisdom more. She's seen people's ambitions turn them into terrible people in the course of her travels. As much as she is fairly ambitious herself, wisdom is much more important to her in others and herself. 19. What is your character’s biggest relationship flaw? Has this flaw destroyed relationships for them before? After her 13th birthday, she became very slow to trust. I think if Red hadn't been gently persistent in befriending her at 14, she would've kept people at arms length for many years. There were people she met between her flower day and before joining the Circle who would've helped her, but she quietly pushed them away. Kyrah has a tendency to hide how she really feels behind being polite. While it was a good survival tactic for a long time, it's not great now. It kept her from becoming close to others during her travels. Though she's pretty honest with folks in the Shepherds due to trusting them. (Yes it's ironic that she's helping Shery with almost the same thing. But it was a very deliberate calculation in Kyrahlise's mind, never an ingrained habit. There is an impulse for her to hide her emotions, but she can choose not to.) 29. What did your character dream of being or doing as a child? Did that dream come true? As many kids do, Kyrah had a lot of dreams. Being an artist was one, as was being a scholar or teacher, she even dreamed of becoming Speaker of Vale after her father. Zori talked so much about going on adventures that she wanted to do the same. She's sold individual drawings and paintings over the years, but she wouldn't consider herself an artist. As for a scholar, she once forged academic credentials to get a job as an assistant research librarian! (The art skills came in handy for that, lol!) Given how often she's in diplomatic roles since joining the Shepherds, that's not terribly far off from being Speaker. She's certainly been on adventures, so that's adventurer-adjacent. So her dreams partly came true, just in wildly different ways than she ever could've imagined! 41. Does your character feel that they deserve to have what they want, whether it be material or abstract, or do they feel they must earn it first? Oh Kyrahlise absolutely feels like she has to earn things to deserve them! As a child she put a lot of pressure on herself to try and measure up to the Elves around her, and to live up to being the Speaker's daughter. When she got to the Circle, she worked her butt off to be the top student as a way to prove she deserved to be there. (And deserved the safety and relatively comfortable life she had there.) This stance has relaxed some over the years, but it's still what she believes about herself. She's a massive hypocrite, because she freely gives to the people she cares about and never thinks they have to earn anything from her. This is actually a large part of why she's uncomfortable with being the Hero of Haven. She doesn't think she's earned the praise she receives. In Kyrah's mind she's just a normal person doing her job.

[melit0n]

MEL I AM BUYING YOU DINNER WHEN I VISIT LONDON. That tag was KEY.

I'm glad I could help! Other than immediately thinking 'OH MY GOD THIS IS MY CHANCE' my thought was trying to get you tickets as well 😭

As someone who runs on takeout most nights, whatever you buy me would be much appreciated <33

[thegeminisage]

pls talk about structure. we love structure in this household. what's your favourite? - bma (also hi dunno if u remember me)

BESTIE OF COURSE I REMEMBER YOU <3 sorry it took me so long to answer you, i had a lllllong day yesterday. this is such a long rambling ask i don't even know if it's what you wanted to know and you are not at ALL obligated to read the whole thing lol but here we go!!!

i actually remembered you asked me a semi-related question one time before which is here and at the time i was thinking of structure as in, like, Acts. acts of the story. and my answer was that i basically don't think about it too hard it usually organizes itself in the outline process. which is still semi true but what i referred to in THIS post (the one that prompted ur ask) which i am so excited about is the Layout Of The Scenes re: whose pov they are from and in what time period they are taking place, especially when you depart from sticking to the close third with one character for the entire fic. which is like BUBBLE BATH LAUGHING WOMAN.mp4!!!!!!!! i don't know if that's the kind of structure you get excited about but i am excited about it

what i mean by that is like. ok so like in anchor my structure was "alternating viewpoints," right, between the two guys i am writing the fic about. EVERY time the scene swapped i swapped povs between character a and character b. i was very very strict about this and even casually kept an eye on my scene length to try and give them the same amount of pov time. (who says you can't have two protagonists!!!) that worked out to both my benefit and detriment near the end of the story when i needed two big things to happen in a row where both scenes needed to be from character b's pov. i struggled with a long time on what to do about it and then figured out a way to slip a breather between them from character a's pov, and then it wound up that the story was actually better that way - not only did we need to calm down from the last thing before we built suspense for the next thing, but it allowed for some character a perspective for the previous scene, in which he was unable to really speak or act to tell us how he felt/what he thought because he was drugged. the structure in anchor was also fun because i got to plan out versions of a specific story that character b, an unreliable narrator, told (both to us and to himself), and in each chapter i had the goal of making the story just a little bit closer to the true version. i have a really good time doing gradual escalation like that (more on that in a minute).

so i really liked that alternating a/b/a/b/a/b etc structure, but it is hard to pull off! i don't know if i could have done it if the fic didn't have those guys be so incredibly isolated for most of the runtime. another structure i did that i really liked was for enter night, which was nonlinear but (for the most part) contained. this DOES involve acts - there were 3 "sections" to this fic. there was 1. everything that happened before sam and dean left bobby's house to protect the seals 2. the actual seal-protecting and then 3. the finale where meg enacted her grand plan. so while the chapters individually had everything happen out of order, we for the most part did not tend to put anything from one "act" in the section of another, except in places where you might put a dramatic flashback or flashforward anyways. (the prologue actually took place near the end of the fic, and near the end there is a flashback to something that happened at the beginning.)

and speaking on gradual escalation i also really enjoyed doing that in how arthur got his groove back. initially i really wanted to do an a/b structure for this one as well but it wasn't working because i didn't WANT to place equal importance on both characters (you will notice there is only One Guy with his name in the goddamn title and it is the one i am unfairly obsessed with). so i threw that out and instead adopted a system where with each chapter, the events of the plot would force arthur peel back one layer of anti-magic bias until he got to the heart of the problem (daddy issues with a side of existential crisis). i got to do other fun stuff in the spaces between that, but each chapter had a very precise goal, and i think the final product wound up being much tidier as a result (than, say, a fic like broken road, which i am proud of but which also had a much looser structure - the only thing that really gradually escalated there was how alarming dean's possession was becoming and it wasn't the Point of the story).

finally the structure i am working on RIGHT NOW for the undisclosed thing is something i am having fun with. instead of one structure for the entire story (it's too big!) i am having fun with a lot of little mini-structures. the story sort of has two halves, and three main pov characters. character a is actually the protagonist in this fandom, but i really also like character b and wanted her to have more screentime even though in this fandom she's usually someone who doesn't show up much, so i did the first chapter, the ENTIRE thing, from her pov. she and character a start the story in separate places, so i completely cut out her pov until they met one another, did an a/b structure for the first chapter they spent together, and then when they went their separate ways i have a character b scene at the start and end of every chapter, until the first half of the story ends.

meanwhile character c gets only TWO pov scenes in the first half of the story (one during her introduction, another during an event in which neither of the other two pov characters can logically be present) because in the first half of the story she is carrying a very big secret, and it's 1. hard to write around that from her own pov and 2. more immersive not to be able to get to know her in this time, since she is playing it all close to her chest. but later, in the second half of the story, after the secret's out, character a is...taken out of commission for awhile, and she gets ALL the pov scenes he might have had during that time, had he not been uh. unavailable. there is ALSO something of a verrry minor teeny tiny timeskip between the two halves, so in the second half of the story i am opening up the povs to include lots of the side characters, and at the start and/or end of every chapter i am using those scenes in a non-linear fashion to 1. explain what happened during the timeskip 2. solve a mystery about where an ancient-yet-advanced people disappeared to (are they dead, did they leave, not just what happened during the timeskip but what happened before the story even began).

to actually answer your question instead of rambling, i think i prefer that a/b structure and/or something nonlinear (never shall the twain meet, most likely, although i did get tempted to try for 12:46pm which is a deancas thing i will write eventually - part of why that's taking so long is that this kind of structuring is something i am struggling with). sorry for rambling so much! i hope at least some of it was a little interesting to you <3

[jackinalex]

This is not ATL related, but I know you studied English and I was wondering what are some of your favourite books/poems/authors? Do you prefer classical literature or more modern; prose or poetry? I recently started reading a lot more poetry and I love it, there is just something profound about it. Especially when you are able to experience what the author wanted you to so many years later. It’s like an emotional and sensory time machine.

I will talk about literature forever, so I will (try to) keep this brief.

I used to prefer more modern stuff, but I have a soft spot in my heart now for the classics (probably because I studied them extensively for six years lmao). If I'm going to pick up a book and just read it for un, though, it's almost always gonna be a modern thriller. I'm a slut for a murder mystery. My favorite modern authors are Gillian Flynn and VC Andrews, and I would say that my favorite book is Flynn's Sharp Objects. I'm not sure where I'd even begin with my favorite classic works, so I'll just list some of my favorite authors, both modern and classic: Flannery O'Connor, Eudora Welty, Gayl Jones, Randal Kenan, Toni Morrison, Zoje Stage, the Bronte sisters, William Gay, Alice Walker, Zora Neale Hurston, Kate Chopin, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and Hanya Yanagihara. Honorable mentions to Shakespeare, Steinbeck, Vonnegut, Poe, and Faulkner. I'm not going to lie and say that I enjoy reading Faulkner, but his stuff is so ridiculous sometimes. I love his storytelling. My attention span cannot stand his actual writing, but my favorite professor adored him, so I appreciate his southern gothic shit.

Poetry is a whole other can of worms. I adore it, but I didn't always adore it (high school Kalina would be shook to know this). I agree with you! I feel like every time I read a much-loved poem of mine, I still find something new. Music is like that, too.

My favorite poets are AE Housman, Sylvia Plath, and Emily Dickens, pretty much in that order, but I'm a Plath girl through and through. My favorite poem of all time is "Because I Liked You Better" by Housman, and it inspired the title for Where Clover Whitens. It's also the epitaph for the first chapter and what inspired me to make the whole thing have a poetry theme. I love Allen Ginsberg, Christina Rosetti, and Langston Hughes, too.

Most of the poetry I read is classic, but I love, love, love Mary Oliver. Honorable mentions go to Walt Whitman, Ezra Pound, and Edna St. Vincent Millay.

[cherry-leclerc]

cherry cola ☆ op81

genre: smut, humor, yearning, tiny bit of fluff, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, experienced!oscar, sub!reader (for a while!), dom!oscar (for a while!)

word count: 8.5k

After a painful break up, Oscar finds himself head-to-head with an enticing girl, filled with pure innocence. Also known as, his parents secret weapon, and his worst temptation.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...f!receiving, fingering, brief mentions of masturbation, face riding, missionary sex, doggy style

inspired by this !

cherry here!... hellooo anons, long time, no see haha sorry for the lack of posts, but hopefully this makes up for it, somehow? formal apology for my last post too while we're at it. though this fic is inspired by cola by lana del rey, it will not have a sour ending like past fics (iykyk). missed u all, so here ya go! enjoy :)

There is an apprehensive sensation that towers over him as soon as she walks in; shy mannered, tall, and firm with a hint of hesitation—it’s something he adores about her, but also something that has him feeling jittery. Oftentimes, her lips are his most prized possession, enjoying the way they move. All except at this very moment. 

Everyone notices his bitter, broken, and quiet mood despite always laying low. He’s never been one to share his problems with others, and he most definitely was not going to start now. It should be the best moment of the season—his first win—but he doesn’t have the joy to celebrate it with anyone. 

Oscar’s brown eyes are low and dull; empty. He’d be a damn liar if he said he didn’t see any of this coming. If he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt and misery. Should he have been more attentive, a better boyfriend, then he wouldn’t be regretting his life choices. Dramatic, but true. 

“How are you spending your summer break? Are you and Lily traveling?”

The Australian tries to scoff at the innocent inquiry beaming from his teammate, but he settles with a wince, not being able to hide it. “She, um…we broke up, actually.” He’s never been a religious individual—has never even set foot inside a church—but for the first time in his life, he prayed no more questions would be asked.

Lando raises his thick brows, clearly surprised by the sudden confession. Sure, they were a private couple—likely the most in the entire paddock—but he never saw this coming from Oscar and Lily. Though he only met her a couple of times, simply exchanging a kind greeting, he would’ve bet his entire Rolex collection that the couple were smitten with one another. “Ah, I’m sorry, mate.”

The rude sound of his race suit being zipped up harshly makes the Brit flinch in the slightest. “Don’t worry about it. That’s life, no?”

Costa Rica—they were supposed to go to Costa Rica. Instead, now, he sits alone on a flight back to his home country. He’s ecstatic to be sleeping in his childhood room with outdated posters hung of all his favorite drivers, but the feeling lingers. 

Sprawled like a koala, humid t-shirt pressed against his skin, he tosses and turns for an estimate of five whole minutes. He should be enjoying the beach, sipping on highly sweetened margaritas, getting the worst tan of his life, but he’s here. The hot summer air in Melbourne makes him spit out a string of dirty curses that would send his mum into a coma. 

The brunette might as well be an only child since not a single one of his three sisters were here to keep him company, ditching him with his parents. He loved them, of course he did, but a full house was his ideal way to spend his break. His home gym isn’t even enough to help him forget, even for a second. 

“Dinner is ready, honey,” Nicole announces, peeking carefully through the crack of the door. She grins widely. “There’s even pavlova—your favorite.”

He forces a polite nod, shaggy hair dangling just above his eyes. “Thank you. I’ll be out in a bit.” It actually takes a sum of thirty-minutes for him to jog down the stairs, a strong scent of apple expanding from his now washed hair. His dad hums as soon as he spots the McLaren driver. 

“It’s rude to leave guests waiting, Oscar,” he warns with a deep voice. 

The twenty-three year old assumes it’s a lame dad joke, perhaps, so runs along with it, taking a good look around the dining room. “Won’t happen again. I showered—”

“Where would you like to place the dessert, Mrs. Piastri?” a soft voice echoes down the hallway as he turns at the unfamiliar tone. You halt, caught off guard by the new presence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you would be here.” 

“In my own home?” he finds himself squeaking involuntarily. The stern look that dances across his parents faces is enough for him to bite down on his tongue. He doesn’t even know why he said any of that—especially to a stranger. 

They introduce you two quickly, though you’re just as fast as to say that you obviously knew about his existence. Do you follow my races? You shake your head, glossy hair shining. “I work for your parents, so…I sort of know. Plus, your sisters always talk highly about you when you’re gone.”

He blinks. “You work here?” Brown eyes flicker to his parents, confusion written all over. “What could she possibly do?”

“Oscar,” Nicole scolds. “I thought you left all the unnecessary questions back in junior high.”

Chris slides a large hand over her smaller one, calming her down just a tad bit. The older man sighs. “You know your mum, always looking for something new to do—”

“I wanted to grow a garden!” she squeals, delighted. “Like in all those magazines you get me for my birthday—oh, so lovely, honey. Only I realized, I don’t know anything about gardening.”

“And this lovely girl standing right here is a total natural. Her hands must be magic.” Oscar blushes hard at his dads choice of words. “She’s helping us out for the time being. Until we get back.”

The Australian's mouth opens, then snaps back shut, swallowing. “Get back from where?”

“Costa Rica!”

He gapes. “You’re using my tickets?”

Nicole winces. “Can’t let them go to waste, honey…”

His father butts in. “How is Lily by the way?”

The brunette groans, running his hands through his waves. “How should I know? Come on, you guys can’t be serious.” The tickets weren’t the problem; the fact that they were leaving was.  He spots you awkwardly placing the pastry down onto the table. “Can you give us a minute?” 

“Yes, of course,” you quip, glad to have a reason to flee far enough away from the premises. You turn to the Piastri’s who smile fondly at your understanding. “I’ll be out in the garden.”

As soon as you rush out, the twenty-three year old turns swiftly. “I guess I’m leaving too.”

“Don’t you dare, Oscar Jack Piastri—” He fumes. “Why not? You’re all going to be gone!”

“She won’t—you are keeping her company.” She’s not asking; she’s demanding. Staring back in shock, the McLaren driver avoids eye contact, fidgeting like a kid at their first day of school. His mum stands up, makes her way over, and pecks his soft cheek. “She’s a sweet girl. She won’t be a bother—she’s just down the hallway.”

That’s where Lily would always stay back when they first started their relationship; too afraid of making a bad impression on his parents. He found it adorable. He rolls his eyes and releases a heavy breath. “Fine.” He stares out the glass window, focusing on where you patiently sit on the wooden bench, delicate hands pressing your dress down against your thighs. “Fine...”

-

The following morning, his parents wake him up at the crack of dawn, bidding goodbye. It comes as a total surprise, thinking he had a few more days left with them, but no. He’s barely registering any of it before they whisper inaudible nonsense and scurry out of his bedroom. 

After some debating, he changes and decides to go on a quick run. The sight of Ms. Alleck watering her burnt grass makes him smile as he sets off. It would have been easier to not get as tired if it were a slight bit chilly, but it’s blazing hot. He cuts it short, dashing back home and immediately serving himself a glass of cold water. 

“You’re up early.”

The brown eyed boy jumps in sudden surprise. Standing in a pastel yellow sleeping gown, you grin brightly. Long lashes lay flat, nose pinching rosy pink, and breath minty. “Yeah, my folks sort of woke me up. Couldn’t fall back asleep.”

“Oh.” You pout. “They left already?”

“You knew?”

“Yup. They mentioned it last night before bed.” A beat. “I hope me staying here isn’t making you uncomfortable…it’s just that they offered, and—”

“It’s not.” Lie. “Make yourself at home.”

Not much is seen or heard from him for the majority of the day; occasional glaces coming here and there. They put you in an uncomfortable spot yesterday—you had been working on the garden for a year now, damn it—but their son's demeanor took you by surprise. The pictures and stories were something you relied on as the only source of getting to know him: polite, tall, and swanky—boyish.

That was so far from the truth. Oscar Piastri has grown into his body; almost appearing to be a handsome giant. Despite his warm face, his attitude is a bit snarky. He has no problem in saying what’s on his mind. And he is most definitely not a boy. 

He’s a man.

“What do you say?” 

“Sorry?” 

He chuckles, Adam's Apple dancing up and down. “Would you like to join me for dinner?”

It wasn't his intention to try and get close to you—not purposefully, at least—but he thought; why not? Who knows when his parents are coming back, when his sisters would, and he wanted to prove to you that he wasn’t some snotty guy. Summer is summer, after all. A friend to spend it with sounds quite nice.

Pursing your red lips, you nod, setting your book aside. The dinner table is already set up. Chicken and rice. That’s it. Given, it looks and smells amazing, but plain. You quirk a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to eat your greens? To drive quicker?” He burns up at you teasing tone.

“I didn’t want to risk burning the house down. We’re lucky I was able to get even this done.”

“Very well.” The refrigerator opens, colorful veggies staring back at him. You grin, slow and easy. “I’ll take care of it. It’s only fair, roomie.”

-

Oscar left home a few years ago, migrating to the United Kingdom for work, so it had been a while since he had stepped foot in his backyard. He faintly remembers his pirate treehouse, his sisters’ Barbie’s cluttered inside. It was a bone-chilling sight for baby Oscar back then, but now, the paint is chipping off, the wood looks a lot weaker. It’s a nostalgic feeling.

The new additions are stunning. A bunch of healthy flowers beam back at him and he swallows when he realizes he can’t name a single one. Waxflowers, Calamint, Dahlias, Peonies, Carnations, California Poppies. One by one, he admires with an open mouth. “They’re beautiful.” He turns to you with a proud smile. “You’ve done an excellent job.”

Pink feathers onto your already blushed cheeks, biting back a cheesy grin. You had decided to eat out on the bench, choosing to enjoy the now fresh air. Still humid, but less than before. The scent of coconut sunscreen makes his whiff constantly. “So…Costa Rica?”

He winces. It was too soon to talk about the situation, but something in your calm voice makes it easier to spit it out even though you probably already heard from his parents. All of a sudden, your savory carrots taste like complete shit. “T’was supposed to go with my girlf—my ex. My ex-girlfriend.” 

You pout, sorrowfully. “Oh, I’m sorry, Oscar. I didn’t mean to…I had no clue.” And it’s genuine. Guess his parents weren’t complete traitors. 

“Tell me—how long have you been working on fixing the garden?”

“Since last summer,” you hum, chewing down on a piece of grilled chicken. “This is the first time I have actually stayed here, though. Your parents are sweet. As soon as they heard that you were coming back home, they insisted I kept you company.”

Sharp jaw clenches and he scoffs. You simply blink back innocently. Then, he notices it. The way it reflects against the yellow ray of the now setting sun. He knows what it is, so he doesn’t ask. Too busy staring off into the distance, you place your plate down. “Let me show you a few other things I’ve been working on.”

There’s row and row, further into the open area; every twist and turn makes his brows raise up higher, impressed by the noticeable updates. Coming to a halt, he spins his head around, brown locks hitting his temples. “Since when do we have a cherry tree?”

You beam, orbs shining with excitement. “Since last summer!” you repeat, cheerfully. You pick one, handing it for him to try. An embarrassing moan erupts once the sweet nectar slides down his throat. “Good?”

“Bloody amazing.” Every compliment makes you squeal with delight. “My mum is actually allergic to cherries, so how…”

“She was actually the one who brought it up. Said she knew how much I loved them, and that I deserved a little something for flourishing her garden. I couldn’t deny the chance to do so.” You bite down on your lip, sheepishly. “They are my favorite.”

Reaching for one makes him look away as soon as your dress rises up, soft legs poking through. Bare feet press against the wet grass as you tippy toe. He mustered a fake cough, but as soon as you bite down onto the bloody fruit, he clicks into a trance. 

Plump lips; thick and juicy. Long lashes fluttering shut against your glossy cheeks. That could have been because of the summer heat, but it affected him just the same. The familiar sensation of attraction rushes to his cock as he stands stiffly—but also loosely. He was loose. So fucking loose.

Something hits his cheekbones and it rips him away from his drooling. A singular seed now lays by his feet; indicating what you had done. A crinkled, wobbly smile shines back at him, hands nervously flattening your dress back down. The Australian jokingly lunges towards you as you squeal, backing away. 

“You were disintegrating! I had to get your attention one way or another!”

Oh, you definitely got his attention. Giving you one final scowl, he stops his steps. “Everything—all of it—it’s great. Thank you.” The wind picks up and you shiver. “...for doing this for my parents.”

Neat hair flies against the breeze, covering your eyes for a minute. Pushing it aside, you scrunch your nose faintly. “Anytime.”

-

Technically, what you’re getting paid for was to watch over the beloved yard; that’s all. But you offer to do more. Mow the lawn? Paint the chipped wall? Wash the windows?

“God no, darling,” Oscar’s mum laughs through the end of the line. “You are doing enough already. Please. Relax.”

But you can’t. Nibbling on your thumb, you brush the counter, strolling past countless family portraits. A smile slips when you spot a toothless Oscar. “I insist.”

So, here you are; decluttering the attic. After a bit of bickering with Nicole, she eventually gives in and asks for a favor. Clean and tidy the small room. Easy peasy. 

“Ouch,” you hiss when a nail digs through your skin, gore immediately pouring out of you like a waterfall; you squeak. Just then, a certain brunette peeks their head through the entrance.

“Oh good, it’s you. I thought we had an intruder.”

Raising a skeptical brow at him and the thin duvet, you quickly take it from him, pressing it down to ease the bleeding. “Holy crap, are you okay?” In one motion, he steps closer to you, analyzing the injury with worried eyes. You groan.

“It’s only a little cut. No biggie.” But the way your face is slowly losing color lets him know that your words aren't true. Brown eyes flicker, searching for a spot to sit, but everything about this is crowded. You were just about to start tidying; the mess was still there. Crouching onto a tiny stool, he takes a seat, somehow still towering over you. Or at least that's what it felt like, because suddenly, you felt suffocated. 

His long legs are spread as you stand between them, hand out towards him as he winces at the brutal cut. “Ah—that’s pretty deep.” He gags when he notices the underneath flesh. You suppress a giggle. “We should go to the ER.” 

You scoff, ripping away from his grip, tripping over a box. Regaining your balance, you drape the cloth over your hand once again. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be right back.”

After rinsing your hand with alcohol, covering the wound with the largest bandaid to ever exist, and balling your eyes out, you make your way back up. The Australian is drenched in sweat, huffing and puffing. “Got it,” he pants. Confused, you tilt your head to the side, but that’s when you pick out the nail in the palm of his hand. You blink, too bewildered to make sense of how he retrieved it without the help of a hammer. “I also found lots of old trophies. Extremely bittersweet.”

“Why’s that?” you hum, kneeling down next to him, reading through the labels. Each makes you more and more dazzled. 

A minute passes by. “Because I grew up.”

“That’s…sad.” Shrugging, he digs for more. He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Dear G—I forgot this even existed!”

Oscar’s 81 Things To-Do During the Summer [List]

Learn how to bike.

Learn the Australian National Anthem (Sophie will be beautifully impressed)

Get better at being more outgoing (Mum is worried)

So on and so forth. “You were an extremely creative lad. Eighty-one things to do…eh.” A tongue click. “Possibly buy a pet dragon?”

He cringes. “Not all were realistic. I actually never really got around to it. Mainly added, if anything.” 

Crimson red flashes. “I, um, I could tell.”

69. Oscar Piastri, you know what I mean.

The brunette chokes on his saliva, yanking it away as fast as he can. Standing up to his full height, he rolls up the piece of paper and points towards the exit. “I think I should, um…yeah. See ya.”

“Yeah.” He dashes off. “See you…”

-

Eighteen-year old Oscar was a horny bastard. But every guy that age is, so it’s not really fair to feel bad about his list. The writing is obviously his, but the things jotted down made him almost feel like it wasn’t. Blowjobs? Hand jobs? What was he thinking?

And then, there was you—a curious cat. He had to be a virgin; he just had to. Why else would he be embarrassed? You weren’t one to judge, though. You knew nothing about the sexual world, having never partaken. The thin band wrapped around your ring finger is enough proof. 

And no—you weren’t married.

It would have been absolutely diabolical to mention sex in your household growing up. Being Roman Catholics is no joke, believing religiously to wait until marriage. You never had a problem with that; you would wait. Doesn’t mean you didn’t know what any of the common terms meant. Sort of. 

Only now—for the first time in your life—there it was.

Temptation.

The McLaren driver was no newbie. He has had his fair share of experiences; before Lily, with Lily. He knew just about anything and everything. His good-boy act was no facade. At times he didn’t like that about himself, but it’s who he was. Obeyed the rules. Never crossed the line with anyone he wasn’t romantically linked to. And yet…

There you were.

The flowers were perfect; only needing to be watered. The cherry tree was much more…complicated. The chances of animals recklessly hunting for the sweet fruit was high, the chances of the red drupes rotting also was. Therefore, you spent most of your time there. 

Maybe you were avoiding him; you told yourself you were already horrified at the dirty thoughts taking over like the plague. And perhaps he was doing the same; he had only been locked in his room for the past three hours. 

Golden hour. With your hands on your hips, you squint, admire the polished drupes, tickling with water. Walking back to the bench, you lay down, picking up on your reading, occasionally taking sips from your Cherry Cola. 

Pacing the small bedroom, Oscar mutters to himself. Maybe she didn’t read all of it. Maybe she doesn't know what it means. Yeah—he was exaggerating. Clicking his window open, he gasped for needed air. As soon as he spots you reading, he grunts. 

White skirt brushes down your smooth legs, challenging the sun to see who shines the brightest. Lips wrap around the glass bottle, puckering in the slightest. And he wonders; would you taste as sweet as the cool beverage?

He’s a grown man; an adult. There’s no need to be uncomfortable. Sex was a part of everyone's day to day life. He was the one making it a bigger deal than it actually was. Still, he slips on a pair of sunglasses, perched perfectly onto the bridge of his nose. 

“Is it any good?”

His voice makes you flinch, dropping the book flat on your face. A tiny groan rings through the air. Flashing him a weak smile, you sit up straight, fixing your clothes. “Want one? There’s plenty in the fridge.”

He had noticed, of course he had. Never in a million years did he think he'd see his refrigerator stocked up with the sweet drink. He never cared enough to ask who they belonged to; figured they would just expire.

Wavy hair swings back and forth when he shakes his head. “Gotta keep in shape.” I see, you murmur, loopy eyes peeking over at him, taking another gulp. The sizzling feeling is utterly childish compared to what he’s making you feel. The burning sensation between your legs is annoying and painful, you almost want to plead for help. “I meant the book, by the way.”

“No!” You laugh, nervously. “I mean…it’s alright?”

After he stormed off and left you a breathless puddle, you biked and biked—until you hit the local bookstore. You weren’t looking for anything in particular, simply browsing, but as soon as you reached the section of Erotic Literature, you stopped. 

So many—many—wrong choices. Still, humiliated, you paid and fiercely ran out. Maybe this was some sort of punishment for reading what you’re reading; had to be. And Oscar asking questions wasn’t helping. Licking your berry lips, you swallow a thick layer. “What have you been up to?”

Fuck, he moans, large hand sliding up and down his cock; more and more pleasure intensifying. Your tiny dresses. Your short skirts. Your angelic face. The way your lips would separate before every sentence. Your sweet scent that would have normally given him a headache, but instead made him chase after you like a dog. 

Finishing all over his thighs, he shudders. White liquid never looked more sinister than at this very moment. After changing, he paces the room with regret. 

Pushing the frames further into his face, he hums. “Oh, you know. Just… cleaning up my room.”

-

It’s been a week in a half now and you’re happy to announce that you have fallen into a routine. While Oscar did his daily workout, you would make breakfast. While you worked on the garden, he cooked dinner. Though, he was unbeknownst over the way you would drool over him when he would walk out the door; a compressed shirt hugging his built body tightly, arms begging to be kissed. You were unaware of the way he would rub his face in desperation when you walked out, banging his head purposefully against the cabinet; the way you would skip out with your book and infamous drink, or how you would prettily tie up your hair before you even got started.

It was a mess.

A mocking mess.

This afternoon though, you aren’t flying out the door to the yard, but rather frolicking over to Ms. Alleck, ready to assist. I try my best, but they always wilt! Could it be the humidity? Laughing, you toss your hair up into a bun, messy strands poking out as you cock your head to the side. “Could be, but don’t you worry. We’ll find a way to make it work. Promise.”

He had always known you were kind, gentle, soft spoken…pure. And you doing this only added to his attraction. It’s salad, spaghetti, and salmon that afternoon. Sweaty, you pant. I’m going to squeeze in a shower real quick. But you weren’t sweaty, like you believe; you were glistening. 

“This is so cute,” you chirp, sitting cross cross in the old treehouse. A few spider webs make your blood run cold, but he quickly took care of it, apologizing. The brunette blushes. 

“I wanted to use it one last time. Before we get rid of it.” Neat brows furrow. “It’s just that it’s old—only a matter of time before it plunges down.” “What?” 

“O-obviously not now!”

After a bit more convincing, you finally relax and enjoy the way the crickets sing against the night. Small feet press against the wall, white tube socks turning slightly brown from the lack of sweeping. For a moment, he shuts his lids, breaths shallow, body loose. The high temperature almost made him feel as if he was cuddling into the warmest blanket; it felt nice. 

Whoops, you mumble when hollow glass pounds against the wooden floor. He perks up at the sound, brown eyes burning with high alert. “You do shit on purpose?” he screeches when he detects scarlet blood. Wincing in pain, you curl your hand towards the hem of your dress. 

“Help me,” you plead, slight annoyance written all over your face. He must’ve broken the world record of running into the house to retreat the first aid kit, and running right back to you. The way he sanitizes the skin, to the way he wraps your hand with a gauze pad, is honestly hilarious.

“What so funny?” he murmurs, attention never leaving the wound. 

“Mmm. Nothing.” He snickers and you giggle harder. “It just seems as if I’m making you a professional. You ought to be ready if anyone else needs your help to treat injuries.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll tell them a certain klutz made me learn from day to night with all her clumsiness.” His voice drops, laced with concern. “Seriously though—you were just healing. You have to be careful.”

Plump lips part with the sound of his delicate voice, accent almost disappearing. Wandering eyes admire the way his brows are knitted together and orbs soften. Swallowing, you nod. “I will.”

“Good.”

The once vibrant room is now hazy and suffocating. Does he not know what kind of effect he has on you? The type of power he holds? Oscar doesn’t seem to, though, with the way he chugs down his entire glass of water. Stuck in a trance, your hand briskly reaches out for your own drink. He roars with laughter, clutching his stomach. “You just broke your bottle, you don’t have a drink anymore.” He picked up the Cherry Cola you had offered, but he had declined. “Take mine.”

You don’t put up a fight, simply allow him to open and give it to you. The sweet drink doesn’t do a great job at hydrating your foaming mouth, but it helps as a distraction. On the other hand, the brunette can’t seem to not watch the ways your lips suck in and out, eagerly. As if this were the only source of air. He shudders. 

“We should probably head down…”

Wiping your lips with the back of your hand, you comply, already standing up. From the floor, he has a good view of your legs; long, soft, sweetly scented. He wonders if you use honey as lotion because that would explain his urge to nuzzle his face against them. Picking up the broken glass and plates, you turn back. “Coming?”

A sigh rings through the air once, and suddenly—he’s cradling your face with high intensity and lust, molding his lips against yours. Tomato sauce stains his shirt and your dress from the plates that still remain between you two. One second, you're wide eyed, and then the next, you're allowing yourself to kiss him back. 

You want to cry with how pleasant the feeling feels and he wants to scream with how much he wants to fuck you. But alas, one of you pulls away first—you can’t really tell who— and you’re both left gasping for air. Completely winded and fucked.

You both are fucked.

-

The treehouse comes crashing down the day after your first kiss. Yes, first kiss. You would like to blame him and say that he stole it from you, but the arousal that was dripping between your thighs last night was a clear indication that you could never actually say so because you liked it so much. 

The wooden house tearing down is something you take as a sign; you’ve sinned. Okay, maybe that was a bit too dramatic, but you were honestly thinking about it. That night you dreamt of the wildest things imaginable; his pretty face in between your legs, large hands squeezing your perky breasts, fingers swirling inside your velvety walls, cock tearing you in half.

It was unacceptable. 

So, while Oscar worked on picking up the tiles with a hometown buddy, you marched right over to beg for forgiveness. Kneeling down against the cushion, you say a silent prayer. 

I don’t want to think like this—not when I know I can help it, but God this is getting way too out of hand. And you know I’m not like this, you know that! But he just—AGH. Maybe it’s his personality that makes him so attractive, or maybe it’s his sudden growth spurt, but please let me get a hold of myself. He’s just a friend, he’s just a friend—HE’S JUST A FRIEND. 

“Would you mind keeping your words to yourself, sweetheart?” an older lady whispers, two rows ahead of you. 

Pink feathers onto your cheeks. “Oh, yes, of course! I’m so sorry…”

I don’t ever ask for much, no, that’s never been necessary, but I am now. So please. Hear me when I say: Push this desire I have, far, far, far away.

-

If you were to say, there was a ninety percent chance that you would walk away. Not even spare him a passing glance. He would call you out on it later, but whatever—too late. Ignored you, you say? No, really I did? I had no idea, I’ll make sure to not let it happen again!

If Oscar were to say, there was a ninety-nine percent chance that he would let you walk away. He didn’t need your company; he was doing just fine. But then again, that one percent tugs at him like the devil on his shoulder.

“Hey. You’re back.” Cool. Calm. Collected.

“Oh! I suppose I am.” Cool. Utter. Mess.

He grins, eyes crinkling like the leaves that hang upon the crimson tree. Signaling up, he cocks his head in deep thought. “Just finished. Cole said his uncle could shred…” A pause. “He owns a massive wood chipper.” 

Blinking like a deer in headlights, you chew on your bottom lip, simply nodding along. “Sounds good? I think. No. Yes. Very good.” You wince at all the uncontrolled mumbo-jumbo. “I’m sorry I was no help, too. I had to…talk to the man up above.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. That must be why your pretty little knees are bruised.” 

Your breath comes to a harsh halt, ears burning like a wildfire. The Australian just keeps his brown eyes set on the tree for a second longer before turning to face you. Quickly, you relax your muscles. “You could make up for it by helping me with something else.”

You gulp. Suddenly, your mouth is overflowing with hot saliva. “With what?”

Dark orbs glue onto your delicate figure, a slight smirk playing out. And it looks so unfamiliar, not his own, that you create a distance. And just like that, it’s gone. Vanished just as fast as it slipped onto his pink lips. “Get on.” He crouches down and your jaw drops.

“Wha—like onto your shoulders?” Rolling his eyes in a goofy manner, he nods, picks you up safely, and places you on top. You screech, dizzy by the sudden altitude. “Put me down!”

“You’re fine. Just help me reach those. Been craving them all day,” he murmurs, voice raspy. The twenty-three year old is still slightly sweaty from his hard labor, and that’s clear when you cling onto his brown locks. Other than that, you’re as high as a kite; both figuratively and literally. 

You’ve known—seen—how tall and broad the Australian was, but being perched onto his wide shoulders was a sweet confirmation you couldn’t help but enjoy. “Move a bit forward.” He follows instructions, wide hands gripping onto your thighs to keep you steady. You giggle when a few fruits hit your face. “Watch it—and don’t you dare drop me.”

“Get,” he commands.

About three minutes pass by. You rip the cherries carefully, candy aroma filling the air, and plop them onto the basket. By all accounts, you’re well aware of your actions. The basket was full, now overflowing, really, and you could plant your ballet flats back onto the tall grass—but you don’t.

There’s something about feeling his touch; high electricity, shock waves nipping at your skin, soft pants. It’s pathetic how much you crave any ounce of physical touch he’s willing to give you, unknowingly.

“That should be good,” you whisper, meekly. He doesn’t respond, just swings you down as you let out a yelp. All of a sudden, you’re magically magnetic. And he wonders; if only. You hand the basket over, waiting nervously for him to thank you, at least. 

“Thank you,” he feels himself saying. “What do you say we play a little game? No prize. Only bragging rights.”

“O-okay.”

A singular cherry is handed over. He grins. Can you tie a knot using your tongue? “Wait—are you being serious?”

The red fruit dissolves inside his mouth, spitting the seed somewhere far enough away. Then, the stem flips into his mouth. “Come on. I’ll give you a head start.”

With wary hands, you rip the stem away from your own drupe, fitting the thin stick into your suddenly dry mouth. He stares intently, clenching his jaw, “Go on. Ten seconds.” Quickly, your lips start to move, twisting and turning. Pouting, then sucking back in. Your low breaths become heavy after a few tries. You think you’re getting it done right, the sudden ball forming is enough for you to guess that you must be doing something correct. 

The sound of his low mewls is what ends you. Doe eyes flicker up to face him, paying close attention to how his brown eyes wander up at the sky in concentration, occasionally squinting due to the bright sun. You can feel a thin layer of sweat hug you like a blanket as your movements slow down; a snail's pace compared to before.

For good measure, you fake your twists as you continue to simply admire. Too far gone, you blink hastily when he sticks his pink tongue out towards you, a stinking knot sitting nicely atop.

“I won.”

Gulp. “You sure did. Good job, Oscar.”

Long lashes flutter shut momentarily, head tossed back, sighing. “It wasn’t a fair fight. You weren’t doing anything. Other than staring at my lips.”

Flustered, you dig your hand into the bucket. “That’s not true! At all. At all, at all.” You munch harder, splitting a seed in half. You spit it out sourly. “You're just better at using your mouth than I am.”

It goes straight to his cock, your words. Opening his eyes, the brunette scrunches his nose. You’re avoiding his gaze. You’re good at doing that. A pro. But it leaves him to wonder some more. And that itself was dangerous when it dawned on him. 

He doesn’t like daydreaming anymore.

“Fuck it,” he grunts, kissing you harshly, like the night before. And you thought that blew your mind, but this? This left you gasping and reaching out for him even though he was pressed right against you. You could feel him buzzing, pinching your hips against his large hands. It’s perfect.

You don’t really understand how you end up straddling him on the grass, green straining your knees as you grind harder onto him, forcing your skin to burn with each stroke. This—this—must be as good as it gets. There can’t be more, but you weren’t complaining. It was enough. 

When his fingers dance underneath your dress, you halt, and everything comes crashing down. “No,” you pant. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Why is that, baby?” he mumbles, lost on sucking the side of your neck. Looking up, his straight brows drew in together with concern. “What is it?”

“It’s just that…I’m—” Why is it so hard to admit? Brushing a strand of hair away, you purse your lips. “I’m a virgin, Oscar. It’s odd, I know, but I can’t sleep with you.”

“You think I didn’t know that?’

You freeze. “What?”

His thumbs circle your thighs, gently, swooning with how soft you feel. “I figured you were. Your purity ring sort of gave it away.” You blush hard, rolling off of him, playing with the thin band. 

“I wish I could do this—God, I really want to—but I can’t.”

Respecting your decision, he pats your hand with reassurance. The hot feeling remained between your legs and the pain between his. This was torture, you both know that, but what was there to do? It’s awkward for a while, that is, until he starts asking you about things that shouldn’t make you glow with happiness.

How was your day? I want to hear all about it. Do you think it’s bad to eat an entire bucket of drupes? Must be, right? In the long run? Hey, would you mind teaching me how to garden? You make it look intriguing. 

That seems to do it for you. Everything you ever promised flies out the window as you climb back onto his thick lap, and this time, he’s surprised by your actions. Clumsy fingers try their best to unzip his pants, but he only stutters against your kisses. N-no, we don’t have to rush anything. I, you, we—

“Shit, o-okay,” he sighs when you finally touch him, even in the slightest. He may be touch deprived, but so were you, so how far would any of this go? Flipping you over to lay against the tall grass, he winks teasingly and that effectively makes your heartbeat quicken. “Relax, sweetheart. Do that for me, yeah? Can you?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” 

The McLaren drivers press a kiss on the inside of your thighs before licking them. You shiver, though try your best to even your breaths. You shut your eyes, maybe if you act hard enough, you could somehow convince yourself that this wasn’t a war itself. To see how long you’d last. No—you would last. You had to.

“I’ve thought about it.” He slips your panties down, inch by inch. “A lot, as of lately. If you would taste just as sweet as I imagined. As sweet as those Cherry Cola’s you're overly obsessed with.” And he dives in, licking your arousal clean as you pant, chest heaving up and down like an erupting volcano. 

What were you supposed to feel—relaxed? In a frenzy? Most likely the latter because considering the way he was making your head spin said it all. The sounds he’s making forces you to involuntarily shut your legs around his face and his hand that now lies between you two. The stretch is a burning sensation that leaves you both gasping and moaning; it’s too much, but not enough.

More. Grinning up from in between your legs, he shakes his head full of curls, all thanks to the Aussie weather, and your dirty foreplay. “Does it feel good?” You whimper. “Good—good, baby. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Velvet walls clench around his long digits. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

Once your soft orbs connect to his intoxicating ones, his cock grows harder. “Okay, listen, it’s going to hurt a little bit, okay? But that’s completely normal; it’s like a…a stingy feeling. Do you understand?” I do, you pant. He grits his teeth when his calloused fingers brush against your g-spot and your head lolls back, exposing your sharp clavicle. He itches to mark you all over. “Do you want it, then?”

A zing. “Fuck, Oscar. I fucking want you.”

The brown eyed boy is all over you, kissing you up and down, gripping you tighter. It was an addiction in its truest form. For a split second, you frown when he slips out of you, but as soon as he starts unzipping his pants, you feverishly lick your lips. 

It dawns on you that you aren’t scared, nervous, or anything; you’re bubbling with excitement. You watch carefully as he jerks himself off a bit, his already large girth growing bigger. How is that possible? “I’ll start with the tip.” Leaning down, he pecks your pouty lips and you smile. “Let me know if it’s too much, we’ll stop and take a break. Or do anything, really,” he adds, cheekbones flushing red. 

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper. “I swear.”

You were being skinned alive, it was excruciating pain. You know he notices it when he starts brushing your hips, hoping to comfort you in some sort of way. Heavy breaths, numb lips from biting too hard, exposed breasts arching straight for him. He didn’t know whether to enjoy this or worry. 

“Breathe, darling, breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. There you go,” he congratulates, admiring your shaky breath. “You’re doing so good.”

“Osc, move…please.”

There was no more confirmation necessary that you were ready to go. His hips find motion, thrusting into you slowly. Nails scratch down his back as you moan loudly, almost yelping. “Y-you’re so big.” So, so, so, so big.  “So good.”

Nearly animalistic, he releases a grunt, pounding deeper into you, getting lost with the way you hug him tightly. You mewl, pressing your naked chest against his, and he nearly slips from his hands being set on top of the cold grass, but it was beautiful torture, all at once. 

From the way you tremble, to the way you look up at him, he loves it all. He realized it been too long, he’s missed this, he’s missed having a body undeaneath his, as fucked up as that sounds. 

And he—he must be a saint, himself. There’s a sort of invisible halo that lightens up around him, nearly blinding you. There’s a gut-wrenching stare he’s gifting you, making your stomach churn with pleasure. 

Wrapping his mouth around your sore buds, you let out a shaky sigh. Skillful tongue swirls the way one would suck on a lollipop; the heat intensifies. “Close?” But you’re not sure, you just know it feels good—ridiculously good. He must have known so, and must want to make your first experience the best you’ll ever have, because suddenly, you’re on all fours. 

As he slips in and out with such ease, you grip harshly at the tall grass. You can hear the sad rips with every thrust and every tug, but how can you feel bad when he feels so good? His cock rapidly brushes the magic spot, and you’re left seeing stars. “Oh God. I feel it, Oscar, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Tell me. Describe it.”

Your jaw locks, and your arms give up, flying down towards the grass, round ass high up in the air as he continues his movements. He groans at the sight, slapping your sweaty skin. Whining, you look back at him, grinning from ear to ear. The Australian looks up at the open sky, trying his best to push back the feeling of his upcoming orgasm, but it's hard to ignore the fact that an absolute angel takes him like no other.

And an Angel you were.

“Can feel your cock, Oscar. The way it pulses—so thick, so veiny, so sweet.”

An Angel with a vocabulary of Heathen.

“God, fuck me harder, please, Oscar, please.” He’s pretty sure you’re half-gone, half-present, but it only adds to the lust he carries for you. Just then, you feel the fresh cherry pressed up against your lips. Open, he demands and you follow straight away, ripping it from its stem. You nearly choke on the seed when he suddenly speeds up, limbs and arms burning from holding upright. For a moment, you stare back with an open mouth, admiring over the way his abs contract with every brutal push.

“Now spit.” Two seeds fly out towards the grass, laying there to taunt you as you pick up on your moans, ringing through the air. If you squint hard enough, you can spot the stars that mock the daylight sky. It doesn’t make sense, but then again, none of this does. “So pretty, sweetheart.” You swoon, feeling his arms hold you down. “Again—open.”

You’re expecting another set of cherries, thinking this might be some sort of prize, but as soon as you feel the familiar stick, you pout. No, you cry out. He chuckles. “Yes.” A pause. “You only get to come until you tie a knot.”

“You’re not being f-fair, holy shit.” Long fingers rub slowly against your puffy clit, throbbing with pain, begging to come all of his numbing girth. You clench your jaw, eyes screwed shut.

“We don’t have all night, go on. Move that pretty little mouth of yours.”

It’s a mission, it’s a task, it’s a fucking wreck. It’s impossible. You’re not that surprised, though, not when he thrusts into with twice as much force, triple speed; what a man. Loose tongue swirls at a weak attempt, but then he pinches your swollen bud, and you’re back to square one. You’re nearly there, excited to prove to him how much you wanted this and how you were able to multitask, but then he’s pulling all the way back, only his rosy tip awaiting by your entrance, and he’s coming back down, full-throttle. 

It was cruel.

But two can play that game, you suppose.

You pull away quickly, he blinks, and then you’re pushing him back, sprawled on the grass. He nearly whines from missing your warm cunt, but as soon as you climb to sit on his face, he grows more and more turned on. “Go on,” you push. “Use that pretty little tongue of yours.”

Dark eyes stare up at you, enjoying the way your body moves, hips rolling, riding his face at an impressive rate. The white nectar you're willing to spill out makes him lap at an embarrassing speed, desperate to taste the sweetness. 

Meanwhile, you’re gripping his hair, trying to feign indifference with the way his nose rubs against your lips, the way he keeps you in place with his watch covered hand, the other playing with your clit. It’s even, this is fair, but you still needed to reach your end. 

“I’m close,” you moan, head rolling back, but jaw continuing to tick. He hums and the vibrations cause you to squeeze your legs around his face. That seems to make him enjoy this far more. Unless you show me you’ve done it, then no, you’re not coming anytime soon. Your molars grind harder, white spots forming throughout your vision. “Shut up, just—fucking stop talking.”

“What do y’know? Miss Perfection has a potty mouth.” He pokes his tongue against your hole. “Dirty girl, eh?”

With one final suck, and one soft moan, you cum all over him. The Australian is quick to lick you clean, groaning pathetically deep. Gasping, you fall from your climax, slightly twitching with sensibility as he hauls you onto his lap. You giggle when he raises a teasing brow. 

“You got away with it—this time.”

“There’s going to be a second time?”

He stiffens, trying to play it cool. “Well, not anymore, you didn’t do what I asked for you to do—”

Opening your mouth, you stick your red tongue out, displaying the most perfect knot. He gapes, sticking his fingers in to retrieve it. “H-how?” A beat, sharp and accusing eyes. “Seriously, how?”

“Does it matter?” you ask, wide eyes back on for show. “I did it.”

“I…yeah, yeah you did,” he repeats in disbelief. He laughs. “You’re wickedly talented. That's an art.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, slowly, mixed with a giggle. “I tried my best for you.”

“I see that.” The brown eyed boy pinches your hip. “How was it?”

Sighing dreamily, as if napping on a cloud, your eyes twinkle. “I get it now. Why people have casual sex, I mean. It was amazing. Thank you.”

Casual, casual, casual, yes. Of course this was casual, why wouldn’t it be casual? He’s not looking to have anyone new in his life, and you’re barely understanding what any of this is, so yeah. Casual. 

“Was I bad?” you ponder, chewing on your bottom lip. “I know I’m no professional, but I—”

“You were perfect,” he reassures with a soft smile. “Best thing to come around, solemnly swear.” Swatting his arm, he snickers, catching your hand. You purse your lips. “I was right,” he murmurs when his lips graze over your own. You open your mouth, waiting for more.

“About?”

“You tasting as sweet as a Cherry Cola.” Then he connects your lips, and you’re left utterly smitten. You can hardly feel him slip your ring off, but you know so when your finger feels empty since the moment you first put it on. “Guess you won’t be needing this anymore?”

“Guess not, no. Keep it.”

“Could take it to a Pawn Shop, sell it for a couple dollars…”

“Hey! Be nice, you dimwit,” you warn. “You should feel special. Stupidly special.”

“I’m kidding. I’ll cherish it.”

“Creep.”

He groans, slapping your ass as you squeal. “There’s no right or wrong answer, it seems like. Very well, let's just leave it at thanks. So…thank you for trusting me.” You blush, looking away. Awkwardly, you reach for your dress, slipping it over your head. He coughs, dressing himself before choking back a much needed chuckle. “Looks like we got dragged through the mud.”

“Ah, ew, I can’t. I need to shower.” 

Reaching your end of the hallway, you press your back up against the wooden door as you sheepishly giggle when Oscar does the same. “Okay then…see you around?” 

“Around town?”

“Around the house.”

“In the garden?”

“In the attic, too, maybe. It still needs a good sweep.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do we still have time?”

“Before your parents get back from Costa Rica?”

“Yes.”

“Which is in—”

“A week.”

“Which is—”

“Seven days.”

“And roughly…”

“Enough time.”

“Enough time to do what?”

He laughs, eyes crinkling suggestively, and your heart pounds hard against your ribcage. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

“Yeah,” you ponder in deep thought before your lips stretch out into a bright smile of your own. He raises dark brows as you scurry over with bruised knees, a muddy dress, and an exploding heart. “Yeah, okay. Just until they get back.”

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[greg-montgomery]

i hope you know you’re an absolute angel and i would do anything for you <333333 like seriously <333333