#this season was a bad writing extravaganza

[jhlvogue]

bring back lovable villans !!

there is a reason why penelope as a character has the fandom so split and its because she is not a villain that is easily lovable.

look at characters such as daemon targaryean, klaus mikaelson, or blair waldorf, these are characters that are written to be the antagonist. they are written for us to not root from them. they don’t hide behind their actions, they stand ten toes down in it. if either of them were in penelope’s situation, there wouldn’t be any back and forth or plot holes to justify their actions.

klaus deadass told tyler what method he recommends in order to k*ll him by retelling tyler how is OWN MOTHER died by klaus’s own hands…and people (me included) STILL rooted for this man. that man was so in love with caroline he made it his mission to be tyler and mystic falls public enemy #1 just so he could be around her.

blair was not a perfect friend. she was the typical mean, rich , white privileged girl who could not understand other peoples wants or needs unless it benefited her. blair was not perfect but she never claimed to be perfect. she never claimed to be nice or some martyr. she was blair and she was loyal to her group even when that group wasn’t loyal to her. people went from hating her in season one to rooting for her to win in the end.

daemon targaryean is not a hero. that man is about to say a ‘son for a son’ and you know what? he is going to have the whole team black fandom rooting for the war crimes he is about to ensue. not once did daemon say he was the good guy or excuse his actions. that man took the definition of standing on buisness during the dance of dragons. he is a morally gray character that is loved by the fandom and does not waste his time trying to be some disney prince.

penelope & polin fans find the incessant need to have an excuse for every single one of penelopes actions. whether it be her being a wallflower or ‘saving’ her loved ones by writing about them, there always is an excuse for her selfish actions. penelope is not given the space to relish in the villain that is LW. she could have been so much more as a morally gray character that admitted to writing shit about people while also growing into a woman who is known to tell it like it is and not hide behind the glitter and pastels of the ton. i mean isn’t that what LW is meant to do? uncover the ugly truth behind the dances and courtships of the privileged society?

but she cant fufill this because yall want her to be the good guy! you want her to be the heroine so bad when her writing and personality isnt set up for that. thats why people are pissed with every character bending backwards to be ok with what she does-yall want the new lady bridgerton to have everything and be the poster child of that family. thats why yall have all of these think pieces about how eveyone around penelople sucks & has something they need to work on while she is perfect. be so for real penelope does some nasty stuff & she would have been great doing that stuff and owning it like a true boss and not this cookie cutter princess ending where she continues to write gossip as penelope bridgeton.

[leclsrc]

do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

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

word count: 10.5k  

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

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

“Portugal is not boring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

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

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

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

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

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

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

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

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

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

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

“Try fourteen,” you argue. 

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

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

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

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

“I am not a big reader. You?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

He squints. “Beer?”

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

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he responds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feel good?

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m cumming—!

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

“I said fuck me.”

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

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

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

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

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if your dad walked in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look pretty.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

[carolmunson]

fall frenzy: a commish extravaganza

hi everyone, it's me carol (i'm the kitty in the pumpkin basket) and times are scary which is so fitting since we're a hop away from spooky season and fall weather. i wanted to put together a commission/donation based mini-fic extravaganza. how it works: - send a donation through my ko-fi (starts at $5) - select a prompt and dialogue from these cutie lists autumn prompts and dialogue autumn fluff prompts autumn dialogue prompts (also open to writing dark fics but can't find prompts for those.) - let me know if you'd like for it to be a steve focus, eddie focus, or steddie x reader focus (or you can request for any of my au versions of these guys - yes that includes kas!eddie or the little blurbie of eddie and steve being vampires.) - you can either put your request in a private message on ko-fi with your tumblr name or message me here letting me know your request and the name attatched to the donation. - i will not write smut for any anonymous requestors. i will need confirmation that you are 18+ for smut to be involved. - i will not write insecure/bad body image reader because we should all feel like hotties!

commission requests are: closed i will start fulfilling these: september 1st

[izzysillyhandsy]

Izzy's Gravy Basket

While discussing Izzy's looming end of season extravaganza (apparently Con's acting is so good we're all gonna lose our minds) on this poll, and maybe in connection with my episode 8 speculations here, @nicelimegreen put the thought of Izzy's own personal gravy basket in my mind - and I love it so much I have to write about it.

While Ed and Stede already let us see into their minds (and it was fascinating!), we haven't had anything like that from Izzy. And true to my firm belief that OMFD is a story about three central fuckups, an Izzy dream scene/hallucination would be absolutely perfect for the season finale to bring everything together.

Also, the unhinged enthusiasm of people who have seen all the episodes, specifically relating to Con's performance in episode 8, leads me to believe that there's something dramatic coming.

And why not Izzy's own purgatory?

I know, this makes it 3 death scenes in one season (plus 2 toe snips, an amputation and possibly torture?) which I would find a bit much even in hurt/no comfort fanfic, but it kinda is that kind of show, isn't it? (and I love it)

The fascinating question is, of course, what would Izzy's purgatory look like? (Please reblog and discuss, I'm going crazy with anticipation in general and about Izzy's conclusion specifically)

Let's look at our blueprint: Ed's gravy basket

Central conflict: self-hatred, fear of being a bad person, lack of self control, unloveable, no one cares if you live or die Location: beach, hut, cliffs Representation of self: Captain Hornigold, retired Pulling him out of it: Mermaid Stede <3 (I messed all of this up. I'll never leave you. You're safe.)

For Izzy, in my opinion, the central conflict is "What am I?" (from initially, "What am I to you?"). His arc this season is becoming a well-rounded person who can stand alone (first step: get a unicorn leg) and isn't (co-)dependent on his captain.

But that might not be all there is. Ed's death was directly connected to his conflict. I can't see how Izzy's death is caused by him becoming a more realized person.

Except... maybe this is a conflict between self-actualization and self-sacrifice. I've said it before, I sense a lot of guilt about something in his (and Ed's) past. Something about others paying the price for your ambitions (Letting someone die or driving them to suicide? Killing someone you love?).

Izzy spent a lifetime in the shadow of another man, propping him up (as best he could). Maybe there's a reason for this level of self-abandonment?

The location could be many places really - we know nothing of Izzy's past. It has to be quiet and introspective though, so I suggest a lake in some lonely place (Edward Teach born on a beach, Israel Hands born in the Midlands). Or a ship - because, at his core, Izzy is first and foremost a sailor.

Much more interesting is the person who'll be there with him. Keeping in line with our blueprint, it could be someone from Izzy's past.

For Ed, it was his feared captain who traumatized him deeply but also influenced large parts of his outwards persona, his conception of piracy and appropriate pirate behaviour. These are parts Ed hates about himself and that make him unhappy, and it ties in with his central conflict of course.

But for Izzy it could be the exact opposite. If it truly is a person from Izzy's past, it's very difficult to speculate who (that's why we need a scene like this - we know nothing about the fucker!).

I all comes down to how Izzy sees himself. Contrary to Ed, I don't think Izzy's conflict is self-hatred, so the person representing his self won't be someone Izzy hates.

I also don't see someone threatening - it is more likely someone in need of guidance, someone vulnerable and "weak". Maybe someone who wasn't strong and able enough to do their fucking job (and Izzy should have done it for him, then).

So who could that person be? It could be someone who was dependent on Izzy a long time ago, maybe someone he let down because he didn't protect/guide them properly. The person could be connected to the spade (traitor's?) tattoo or the ring on his cravat. It could also be a young Ed, who Izzy tried to take under his wing (for the record, I do firmly believe that Izzy taught Ed quite a few things, maybe not all he knows though).

He could also be alone 😢

I don't think Izzy wants to die like Ed did (he's doing quite well right now), but we've got 3 episodes left - who knows what'll happen. The guilt could play into it, or a feeling of this is how it was supposed to happen, I've paid my debts.

In any case, right at the end, someone will come and pull him out.

In spite of the crew being Izzy's love now, they've already saved him in Ep4. I think this time it should be Ed who comes for Izzy. I can also see Ed and Stede both being explicitly needed (Izzy has two hands).

I think there's a possibility Izzy won't drown though - maybe he'll burn in a wood/house/ship fire. A self-imposed fiery death in hell seems fitting with the guilt-theme somehow. But that's just me probably. Water works perfectly well too.

For the rescue, I am struggling to come up with something even half as perfect as a mermaid, I mean Ed and Stede can always ride in on a unicorn (bit of a double meaning there, but whatever), but that doesn't feel quite right - maybe Ed with a shark's tail? Someone else will have a brilliant idea I hope!

Going with Izzy's assumed conflict of self-actualization vs. self-sacrifice (and protection of others), the thing he needs to hear to bring him back would be something like "it wasn't your fault", "be happy" and "I/we want you in our lives but be your own person" (just a little more poetic maybe).

Conclusion: Izzy's purgatory will tell us something (harrowing I'm sure) about his past. Con's acting will be off the charts. We will want to thank him face-to-face (I've wanted to do that from the start, so...)

But Ed or Ed and Stede both will bring Izzy back - he'll thank them in his usual charming way and they'll live happily ever after <3.

Hope this wasn't too scrambled! Thoughts?

[dwreader]

Anne rice based lestat on her husband. I'm sorry but she always had louis stuck on that man even in the first book already its not like she changed her mind later on. Lestat was the looming husband figure. It's just so sad to see yall turn on the writers when the thing is yall have been chronically online + nursing resentment toward lestat&his fanbase and are now mad he doesn't get his comeuppance by louis having a much more passionate relationship w/ armand.

anon pls tell me when i have ever said loumand would ever take precedence over loustat on this show alsjsjajkas lmao like the ppl behind the show have announced multiple times that it’s about loustat and like primarily lestat i would argue based on rolin’s comments. literally the ONLY part of the book that i had any expectation wouldn’t be completely turned into a lestat extravaganza is the loumand courtship in paris where there is no indication that his ghost/memory stands in the way of louis accepting armand’s advances. he may feel guilt and worry over the consequences of what they did but if anything the fact that lestat was such an awful husband/mentor is what drives louis to be MORE receptive of armand and hopeful for their relationship. it makes him easier prey for armand because he wasn’t given any proper mentorship from lestat so unless you wanna enter into “louis just lied about everything” territory TO ME that’s an aspect of their relationship that should be preserved in order to have any impact (and i don’t see why louis would be lying when he’s very honest about lestat haunting him in the prior segment).

and not only is this louis’s only other substantial romantic relationship outside of lestat but this is also the last part of the entire series in which there’s any substantial writing of louis AT ALL… to dramatically increase the presence of lestat when the rest of the book series is already 99% his story just rubs me the wrong way. like we’re always talking about how this show is possibly going to work around the fact that anne never wrote about louis again after this but not even allowing what little independent story he does have in the books to be told w/o shoehorning lestat is again why this question keeps coming up.

yes lestat was always based on her husband but she wrote iwtv when she had a much more pessimistic view of their marriage and it wasnt necessarily a given that loustat were meant to be together in the long term (she literally tried to get rid of louis a million times in the subsequent books anyways) so this idea that they were always meant to be OTP4ever is just silly. the ending of iwtv works bc neither armand nor lestat could bring any passion back to him. it’s not a romance novel and even in the end, while he feels sad seeing lestat in such a rotten state and when armand leaves, he is too hollowed out to do anything about it and doesn’t stay with either of them. of course the entire series isn’t going to take that view but this season is not the entire series it’s just one part of the book that IMO is incredibly effective as it’s written without the overarching loustat otp narrative in its way.

also that woman tried to find a louis replacement in every single book she wrote and only gave up when her fans hated it and complained enough i guess. but even disregarding all her bad writing, everyone involved in the show has talked about how it was a challenge to account for the massive retcon she did after tvl. these are all choices that were made on what to prioritize and to deal with the fact that the books aren’t consistent about the characterizations or relationships. and they’re going to have to make even more decisions going forward when louis completely ghosts off the page in anne’s writing and all im saying is what im seeing so far makes me wary of those future decisions they’ll have to make s3 and beyond. (not even getting into the fact they’re shoving dm/lesmand/nickistat/etc into this season too like that’s just compounding the same issue)

[graveltrip]

2023 predictions

started writing this a few weeks ago, wanted to put together a list of predictions for the season for fun, then put it aside and ignored it. testing rolled around, i was far from finishing it and i didn't really care, but reading it back now, some of the calls i made were pretty solid predictions, so i decided to finish it, here is 23 predictions for 2023:

max wdc

rb will start pushing checo towards retirement (if he acts up)

ferrari off track politics extravaganza

merc rivalry heating up, extra points if shit goes down in silverstone or interlagos

a new winner (probably lance)

the ocon vs gasly beef will go in an unexpected direction and it's gonna be way more under the wrap than people expect it

andretti's calvary to get into the sport continues + the fia vs liberty media vs the teams/drivers thing will come back again

audi stirring up things in silly season

the lando should/needs to leave mclaren talk will get even louder

haas comfortably in the mid midfield

at least one of the at boys will lose his seat at the end of the season

big aston martin controversy by/around the summer break

certain reserve drivers will get more media attention than some of the actual drivers and it's gonna be annoying asf

lewis comfortably beats george

lance is gonna be closer to fernando than a lot of people expect, he will still lose the teammate battle tho

alpha tauri vs williams flop off at the back

oscar will be the highest placed rookie, but his season will be just okay

kevin vs hülk 1st lap incident with some spicy radio

another not that bad, but undewhelming year from ferrari, questions around charles staying with the team start bubbling up again

nyck will bring some of his fe antics to f1 and people won't be happy about it, he will continue where pierre left off when it comes collecting penalty points

someone will miss a race, so there will be more than 20 drivers in the standings at the end of the year

alpine is not gonna the smoothest ride this year, but they will develop a good car by the end of the season

the las vegas gp is gonna have a ton of hype to the point of being cringey, but the race is just gonna be meh

[drydak]

ohh bad batch finale thoughts...well i rewatched the whole season leading up to midnight and i think all in all it was a very cohesive season and also there really wasn't any hints beyond things you could read into? i guess? that tech was alive? like i'm wondering if people are disappointed because of the writing or because of the social media messaging because i think that's where you could maybe make a case for it. also the trailer having cx2 in a prominent role which makes sense considering how much he was in it but also i think made people assume? the first two clone assassins we see with their helmets off are undistinguishable also so i think it was people spinning themselves up. yes no body no death but also we have to be okay with characters dying sometimes. what else oh i'm surprised that nobody else died (my guess was wrecker and he had way too many close calls), ramparts death made me laugh a little, and seeing grown up omega makes me want to see her in other things...doing rebellion stuff....seeing hera again...u know etc. (here's how live action omega in the book of boba fett season 2 can still win #delusional) i think it is also a wasted opportunity if they don't follow up on all of the rex and echo stuff considering echo was missing half this season and they haven't connected wolffe's appearance this season to showing up with old man squad in rebels....and i love rex i do and there's a lot there that hasn't been explored but i want to see other old timers too. not that they have to connect every single thread but i think there is a lot there. i am also still biased and want to see cody again (i know he gets to be the named guy in live action which is a win but compared ro rex he does not have nearly enough screentime or development...they dropped cody guilt complex and left us with that forever AGH) considering all we know is that he fucked off but he is either fighting back or drowning in guilt and i know his appearance was mostly as a character vehicle for crosshair's morality shift but come on! like in retrospect if he wasn't in the big clone extravaganza episode he wasn't gonna come back at all but still. i largely feel satisfied i think because until they say that a clone rebellion series is never ever happening i can hold out hope for that and feel like they wrapped things up pretty well re the actual. batch. final thoughts: echo :)

[mmfpeg]

Super Cub review: Happiness is light personal consumerism

[this was written recently after the show ended (mid-2021). it's relatively better than my recent attempts at writing, probably because covid brain hadn't set in yet]

No, I'm not in favor of capitalism. Shush. Ah, imagining people genuinely argue for capitalism with "buying little cheap things is neat" depresses me already.

But anyway, would you believe me if I said that among the exciting superpowered extravaganzas and visual smokeshows of the anime (plural) of this season, one of the most interesting shows is just a simple story about buying stuff and being happy with it and not much else "happening"?

I'm gonna try to do a bad impression of a MyAnimeList's synopsis here. I don't know why I need to do that; you can just easily google it and see what's up. But in the interest of giving context to the readers without needing them to click away from here… What's Super Cub? It's a series of motorbikes manufactured from Honda, a long-lived model dating from 1958. It's also an anime adaptation of a light novel about a high schooler named Koguma, a lonely jerk without family and friends, going through high school on a scholarship, living in a place where the only entertainment is an FM radio. One day, after seeing someone riding a scooter to school and thinking, "That's neat," she wandered to a bike dealer, and due to a stroke of luck, managed to get a motorbike that's in her budget: a used Super Cub that apparently has killed 3 people. Immersing herself in riding the Cub and taking care of it, she finds joy, forges connection with other people, and even made some friends! Blegh. I'm sorry. but that's the gist of the story! If that doesn't sound like much, that's because it isn't. Still I implore you to watch it anyway.

It's genuinely a thing of beauty, how the gears of this show turn (pun). It's by design a story where much doesn't happen, and that works to its advantage. You don't need big hitter studios like SHAFT or Madhouse because there's not much happening on the screen at a time. Monologues and dialogues are sparse, especially at the start of the show, which is a bit of a wonder when you consider that this is a light novel adaptation. One ponders if the light novel consisted of just 75 lines of written out anime noises. "Uh." "Haa." "Humu." Haha. Anyway, this, along with the aforementioned non-busy screen, give room for the story to breathe, so to say. Stuff like lines of rapid-firing dialogues that even the subtitlers have a hard time keeping up with, or a character's complicated powers that was described a few seasons ago so you forget now and you're left confused, are not here to get in the way of the story. But then again, as I said on the synopsis, there isn't much of the story anyway. So what is this show then? It's… a lot of pondering. Koguma pondering about the changes in her life due to having a motorbike. Koguma pondering about the subtle changes in herself after buying a motorbike. Koguma pondering about the subtle changes from the little upgrades on her motorbike.

Among the fun pondering and navel gazing (two of the things that do happen), one fun thing to point out about this show is that almost all episodes of the show follow a formula that can be summarized as: Koguma buys something with her paltry allowance. Koguma discovers thing works well. Koguma's happy. Wonderfully, even though it's a Honda copyright sign officially sanctioned work, the story manages to convey those consumerism plot points without overtly sounding like a salesperson (the only branded thing that they would ostensibly be advertising is the Cub series motorbikes, after all). It's just a subtle pattern of the show that you don't notice at first, but then you start to and your brain just latches on to it. It's almost like a fun thing for a certain type of jerk (like me) to bring up on the show's discussion as a gotcha of sorts. As an "Indy doesn't actually have an effect on the movie's plot" type of thing. But, you know, the manner in which the story is told doesn't really let me do a "this show is trying to sell you consumerism!!!" argument anyway, even in bad faith, haha. Koguma's living on scholarship. A lot of the conflicts of the show stems from her needing to solve problems arising during her rides, looking for the obvious solution to it, seeing the price and going, "I can't afford this, you're having a laugh." Solutions range from unorthodox stuff that does fit her budget, to connections that she unexpectedly made.

Being a weirdo just by itself leads to a lonely life, but being a weirdo with a Cub begets another weirdo with a Cub. Reiko is one of the first things (people) that Koguma discovers (or rather, discovers Koguma) due to her Cub. Reiko acts like a sweetener to Koguma's bitter, lonely disposition, Reiko being a cheery and in-universe established It Girl, also an expert voice that helps ease Koguma through her honeymoon period with her Cub, a siren(!!) voice that sucks Koguma even deeper in love with her Cub and the concept of "driving around", and some tasty understated interpersonal relationship as well. Reiko calls Koguma exclusively with the -san suffix, even though they're as tight as friends can be on the outside; she only eats lunch with Koguma, Koguma sleeps over at her lodge, uh, thing? They endlessly drive around in tandem, just best buds things. It might be out of reverence; Koguma is a scholarship girl after all, and even though Reiko is the one more experienced and knowledgeable with regard to the Cub and driving, she tends to childishly reject solutions for their driving problems (like not wanting to install a windshield and leg shields due to them looking uncool on Reiko's Hunter Cub. To be fair, they do look uncool on Reiko's cub specifically, haha), and only relents after she sees Koguma using the solutions with no drama, effectively making Reiko the one following the lead. On the other hand, the -san might just be because that's how "distant" their relationship is (the only actual thing that they have in common is that they both ride a Cub, after all). Anyway, speculations aside, Reiko's here to help Koguma buy things! and consume better!!

Joking aside, even though having "I did consumerism!" as high points in the episodes might sound like a very weak proposition, there's this cute little thing that the show does to accentuate it. Put a pretty ribbon on it. You usually don't notice it due to the slightly depressing? undertone of the story, and the not-lavish production value, but the episodes and scenes tend to start out with desaturated colors. And then, after bouts of trying something out to solve her problems (which, as I mentioned before, largely involves her buying something for it), the moment where she finds out that the thing works well, colors come into the screen. It's quite a thing. You haven't been realizing that you're not seeing colors as vividly as they could be, until you see the vivid colors. A shot of happiness in your eyes. Happiness ranging from getting a raincoat so you can brave the rain to do your courier work, installing a windshield to protect you from the late fall cold air, consuming a warm coffee to counter the cold, brewed by Suu-chan, another friend you made along the way… (okay this is a stretch for the "consumerism" talking point lmao she still "consumes" though lmao)

The "being officially sanctioned by Honda" thing does remind me of another show with that distinction, a miniseries titled One Off. I've never actually watched it; the only things I remember from that show are the opening song, "Yakusoku no Basho" by Round Table ft. Nino, which is a great, cute song, obviously better than both SA-A-GIA and the CV song for the ending of Super Cub, though charming as they are; and the ending song, which is shown in story as a part of an in-universe scene, depicted as the characters doing karaoke, which happens to be my only exposure to the actual animation of the show… It left something to be desired. The premise is far more exciting than Super Cub! A beautiful foreigner! Riding a big dang bike! Through the mountainous roads! Although now, with hindsight, we found out that you don't need all that to sell a Honda. All you need is a simple story written effectively! A story about finding a hobby,

making friends along the way,

light personal consumerism,

dressed as an even simpler story about a girl in Yamanashi riding her motorbike.

[lillywhitefield]

Now that the initial excitement of just glimpsing Polin and getting some details about season 3 is over, I'm gonna put some thoughts out into the world. I will preface this by saying I'm generally an optimist, and I try not to take fandoms TOO seriously (been there, bad for mental health, will take a step back from anything if it's taking up too much of my life). I haven't felt this way about a fandom or a ship in a long time, and I've had time to process some thoughts/feelings

What I don't want from Season 3: that weird, alpha male shit book!Colin did (grabbing/bruising Penelope's arm, trying to make her stop Whistledown, his jealousy over her writing that seemed way over the top and completely unsupportive of her, I also think he makes her chug champagne at some point??). Colin only wanting to "rescue" Penelope from these new suitors (I'm truly over men thinking women need to be rescued, even if she tells him she doesn't need rescuing it will really put me off Colin). Penelope accepting a proposal from someone else before Colin tells her he wants her (I want these new guys to have as little to do with their relationship as possible, I hope they exist for comedy purposes only). Penelope still simping over Colin at the beginning (I'm interested to see how they will move the story into the wingman thing, I get why he said what he did and he probably didn't mean anything by it, but I would still be hurt if I was in Penelope's position). Colin also should not "suffer" or "grovel" or any of that (its really not necessary, and really wouldn't add anything to the story)

What I do want from Season 3, unselfishly: Colin realizing very, very slowly that he loves Penelope. Colin genuinely wanting to help Pen and as soon as he realizes that he has feelings for her he wants to court her properly. I only want the first half of the season to focus on her "lessons" and then move on to the serious feelings part (I don't think they would just give out the plot to the entire season, there has to be more to it). I want a sweet love story, I want it to be cute and hot and beautiful, no skimping on the romance between the leads. Penelope apologizing to Colin for the events of S1 and explaining herself (like I get why she did it, but I want a scene where she lays everything out for the audience and Colin/Eloise)

What I want from Season 3 very selfishly: Colin follows Penelope thinking she's running off to have a rendezvous with a suitor but she's really on Whistledown business, cue The Carriage Scene, leading into The Proposal Scene (Prudence filling in for Felicity). I want to see a wedding, and it better be a big 'ol Featherington extravaganza. I want the "Stay" scene, even if it's not at the engagement ball. I want them to have sex before they get married. I want there to be a mirror involved at some point. And I want a masquerade, because goddammit I wanna see some Benophie.

I might edit this later to add more, but right now, this is what I feel. They're my favorite characters because I relate to the both of them the most. Penelope as an invisible wallflower who is just bursting to find her place and say what's on her mind, but doesn't know how. Colin who feels lost and doesn't know what he wants, and sometimes maybe is a lil dumb and misses social cues (I literally didn't know I was on a date with my current boyfriend until he texted me later that he enjoyed our date LMAO). I just love these two so much and I can't help but to take what I'm given and hope they shine.

[contemplativepancakes]

long fics to download for when your power is going to be shut off ):

if i was going do a fic rec for @spanishcas​, i was going to do a fic rec :

Heroes for Ghosts by pantheon_of_discord

40k of canon verse Cas angsting while Dean and Sam (but mostly Dean) were captured by the government, 11/10

Handyman’s Special by @carrieosity​

50k fake dating AU: if you’re not already hooked, this is a comedy of errors in which professor!dean overestimates his home remodeling abilities, but no, he’s got this, sam! and he most certainly did not hire a contractor, that is his boyfriend, thank you very much

Mail Order Familiar by BlueMasquerade

60k witch/familiar AU in which Dean is Sarah Plain and Tall (but with added action and magic for your reading pleasure)

Bad Things by @duckyboos-blog

60k murder husband extravaganza! I mean, really, I don’t know why I even made this list when I could have just directed you to download this whole series. Cas is a mob boss, and Dean discovers that he’s more well suited to the work than anyone would have thought (:

Run Boy Run by @darcydelaney

40k AU where Dean is a cantankerous runner who qualified for the Boston Marathon before losing his vision. Enter Anna, who knows just the person to help Dean. One guess who!

The Unwavering Heart of a Winchester by @violue

With a series name like Dan Westchester, Hello Kitty Enthusiast, you know it’s going to be good. Sam’s dead, but he was an organ donor. Through some totally noncreepy means and our favorite mulleted man, maybe Dean can see the good his brother made possible and just happen to stumble on some good of his own (80k)

[A]Typical Rom Com by @hamburgergod

Dean is a secret romance writer who may or may not have been writing about his best friend in all of his books. Will he ever work up the courage to confess this to Cas, or is he going to make Sam do it for him? (70k)

Continuity by @supernaturalpalace798300

A 70k angst filled canon divergent fic of what Cas having his own nephilim would be like (written pre-Jack)

Novaks, Rebooted by @violue

50k of Cas helping his trans daughter get a fresh start and falling face first into a fresh start of his own

Everyone’s a Critic by EnglandWouldFall

My personal favorite fic, Dean is an uninspired chef who accidentally sleeps with a food critic who just called his garlic bread closeted. Dean obviously has something to prove. (110k)

We are Such Stuff by InevitableThief

What would this list even be without a djinn fic? Sam’s djinn world has given him everything he’s ever wanted, and Dean’s... well Dean’s has given him Cas, and that’s just inexplicable. (60k canon verse)

It’s a Small World (AKA the Worst Ride at Disneyland) by @ireadhpinenochian

45k creature AU. When Sam stumbles upon his estranged brother who is married, he quickly realizes that maybe Dean’s husband isn’t as human as he is pretending to be. Obviously, this is a job for their dad. I love this fic SO MUCH and it just might give you what you are craving in terms of hunting John Winchester for sport.

Cult-de-Sac by OldToadWoman

This 45k canon verse oldie by goldie was written in 2012 and features the best of early seasons Cas, all while being married to Dean. For the sake of a case, of course!

The Bakery by @dates-with-cas

Dean works at Gabriel’s bakery, and he’s perfectly happy with his job until Gabriel’s perpetually grumpy brother shows up. All of a sudden, there seems to be a lot of tension in the air. (40k)

I Will Cut You by @paperannxo

45k canon divergent fic where Dean goes into hunter witness protection as a barber (no, he’s not a hair stylist!) Cas finds him and hijinks ensue.

[strxwberrylemonxde]

Hello, i would like to request 13. and 16. for Katsuki Bakugo as fluff for your Halloween extravaganza. Thank you.

SWEETER THAN CANDY - Katsuki Bakugou

Warning: Light cursing, Bakugou w/ a low social battery

Word Count: 0.51k

A/N - Hello my dear! Thank you so much for the request <3 This one took a bit to write bc I had so many different ideas I could've used and I kept changing stuff 💀 but it's finally finished! I used a bit of my own headcanon in this, I hope that's okay. Without further ado, please enjoy :)

Lynn’s Halloween Extravaganza

“Tch, this is so stupid, I hate Halloween parties” Bakugou complained as he placed the wolf ears over his head. “I have no interest in being around these damn extras.”

“Oh come on Katsu, it won’t be that bad, I promise!” You laughed as you placed the final touches on your own costume. “We’ll laugh, and dance, and have the best night of our lives!”

“Whatever dumbass, let’s go.”

You don’t remember who suggested it first, but your classmates had decided to throw a Halloween party in celebration of the Halloween season. It was a night meant to feel like kids again, no more quirk training, and no more hero working.

The music could be heard the moment the two of you stepped out of your dorm. The rhythm of the bass could be felt under your feet and the chatter began to echo along the walls as you drew near. The first words that seemed to greet the two of you as you entered the common room were “Bakubro! Didn’t think you’d show, man!” from an eager Kirishima.

“Shut it shitty hair.” Bakugou snarled.

“Did Y/N actually convince you to come, dude?” Kaminari smirked, wiggling his eyebrows. “Who knew Bakugo was wrapped around their finger like tha-”

“SHUT UP BEFORE I KILL YOU, DUNCE FACE”

Hours seemed to tick by as the party went on, laughing and talking to many of your friends. At one point, Kaminari and Kirishima held an eating contest to see who could eat the most candy. (Neither of them won)

“Idiots are definitely gonna puke later on,” Jirou said as she watched them shove candy bar after candy bar into their mouths.

It didn’t take you long to notice the figure standing in the corner of the room, looming in the back with his arms crossed.

“I’ll be back, you guys.” You excused yourself.

Walking over to him, you could feel his irritation exuding from him, and you knew well enough what that meant.

“Everything okay Katsu?”

“Yeah dumbass, I’m fine. Go have fun.” He mumbled as he leaned against the wall.

You knew he wasn’t having a good time as his eyes held a glow of annoyance at the rowdiness of the party. Wordlessly, you gently grabbed his hand and gave him a soft smile as you led him back to your dorm.

“Dumbass, go back to the party. Stop trying to baby-” He rolled his eyes as you opened the door.

You shushed his complaints with a kiss, as gentle as a feather and as sweet as candy as you cupped his face.

“I’m sorry for making you go Katsu, I know how much you don’t-”

It was his turn to hush you as he placed another kiss on your lips.

“Shut up idiot, it’s fine.”

Rather than ending the night partying down the hall, you cuddled up to your dear lover as a Halloween movie played on the TV. You felt a sweet peck on your temple as Bakugou murmured into your ear.

“I take it back, maybe Halloween isn’t so bad after all.”

[minetteskvareninova]

Lately, mostly because of some personal problems and Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, I’ve been feeling extremely angry. So the recommendations on my phone step in and are like “Hey! Don’t you worry, I’ll distract you from your legitimate anger with something nice, like a minor bullshit you could get angry about instead.” Which is how I came across this beauty: https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/three-body-problem-series-pushes-170000702.html?guccounter=1&guce_referrer=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuZ29vZ2xlLmNvbS8&guce_referrer_sig=AQAAAIcHfXJM8csPFCx1FCSeLzi9d2hjMrikuXXPeAqKpnn3FXOWAcg-6yDaaJ0Crd370Wk0Qv7xpjJnn9cZR21A5LCLZ8GxkEo_WxsJuaiTchK-mMMkvQk4MCkAebWJ6aMsngKalaYov_ZUJo0-i9SEgR251X6iZVxr8oJ09ajgerMf

Yeah, it’s bitching about D&D time again. Because this article confirms a lot of suspicions fans had about these two. I am specifically talking about this:

a) "If you're dealing with reality, it's so much easier to get things wrong. Nobody can really say, 'Well, that's not how they would do things in Westeros,' because there is no Westeros. But if somebody acts in a way that people in a university or high school or office building just don't act, now it just feels false to everybody." So, yeah. These bozos seem to have zero understanding of the very concept of worldbuilding. And doesn’t that make just... So much sense in the context of seasons 5-8?

b)  "In a way there are far fewer places to hide in a high school. If something's not working, you can't say a giant visual effects extravaganza is gonna come along in five minutes and wipe their memory of that scene, sweep it out to sea with the dragons and demons and aliens. Those giant, horrible, wonderful artificial creations aren't there to save you." So basically, according to them, you can compensate for bad writing in a sci-fi or fantasy with spectacle. Which, you can - a lot of people seem to think this way about Aquaman with Jason Momoa... But not every story in a sci-fi or fantasy universe lends itself to this treatment. If the story was meant to be dumb fun from the start, then maybe, but what D&D are and were working on ISN’T Jason Momoa exploring the lost city of Atlantis and beating up evil mermen in spandex. ASOIAF and The Three-Body Problem are heady stories with heavy themes - but I guess we can’t expect anything better from Mr. “Themes Are For Eight-Grade Book Reports”.

Basically, D&D learned NOTHING from the criticism levelled at them after season 8 of GoT aired. I am not a fan of The Three Body problem, but I feel so sorry for anyone who is. This is going to hurt.

[greensparty]

Stuff I’m Looking Forward to in July

Can’t believe it is now Q3 of 2022. In addition to Independence Day (July 4) and Eid al-Adha (July 9-10), here is what’s on my radar this month:

Movies:

Thor: Love and Thunder 

I enjoyed Taika Waititi’s Thor: Ragnarok, but what he did that really impressed me what Jojo Rabbit. Now after a few years of writing, directing, acting and producing several films and TV shows, he is returning to the MCU. New Thor flick opens July 8.

Nope 

A Jordan Peele movie is now becoming a big event! Since his debut Get Out, he has been firing on all cylinders. His mysterious new one opens July 22!

Podcasts:

The Video Archives Podcast 

Former Video Archives clerks Quentin Tarantino and Roger Avary are sort of returning to where they both worked in the 80s. After the store closed in the 90s, QT acquired the entire Video Archives inventory. In this new podcast, the Oscar-winning screenwriters review a movie from that inventory on VHS and discuss it each episode. I am so there! Podcast premieres July 19!

TV:

Better Call Saul (AMC)

In April, season 6 of my #1 TV Show of 2020 premiered. Since this is the final season, they split the season in two and the second half returns on July 11. Let me just say right now, I am going to be so sad when this series ends on Aug. 15 and it then becomes Breaking Bad (in story chronology that is)!

Music:

Jack White Entering Heaven Alive

Just a few months ago, Jack White released his album Fear of the Dawn. Now he is releasing his second album of 2022! Album drops on July 22.

Events:

Collectibles Extravaganza 

My pals at the Northeast Comic Con have a collectibles convention at Boxboro Regency (Boxborough, MA) on July 1-3.

Nice, a Fest 

A brand new music festival is happening in Davis Square (Somerville, MA) at both Crystal Ballroom and Rockwell, with loads of bands including Speedy Ortiz. After the bands on Fri. and Sat. there will be midnight screenings of Wayne’s World and Wayne’s World 2 at Somerville Theatre as part of the fest! Nice, a Fest is July 28-30!

[maybankiara]

I read your tags about why you thought you shipped specific ships and now I kinda need to know your opinion of why someone would ship the various characters on obx lol

OH THIS IS A GOOD ONE. ok let me get my analysis gloves on!!

sarah and john b - i feel like this is kind of a given? they’re a canon couple and people tend to ship that. i think it’s one of those couples that you just kind of accept, or at least that’s what i’ve seen everyone do. they’re cute enough. but if you go into the issues of each character, you see how both of them aren’t the best people, and they do kind of fit together in a bad way. but honestly, they’re just basic. 

kiara and jj - this is one of the biggest ones, and i’ve noticed that a lot of people who ship it come from teen wolf or the 100 fandom, both of which have a hetero ship that has seasons of buildup. (arguably for bellarke, as they are still not together, but the development is there). i feel like the reason why people like slow burning ships is because it’s a lot like real life. you get to know a person and you fall in love, and it has a long-lasting foundation. i’d even say it’s what most of us hope to have - a love that’s built on friendship over lust. plus, slow burns usually make for great storytelling, if done well, and could be a great addition to obx. now, this is my analysis, but then again, my little sister watched two episodes and she said they’ll end up together, so i guess there’s more to it that i’m not currently able to uncover. plus, on a storytelling level, it would be incredible to see both jj and kiara grow as people, be with others, and then once they are both in a healthy mindset, realising that they are into each other as more than just a childish crush. for them, i think, it’s mostly the potential of a great story and rudy just having chemistry with everything that walks.

jj and pope - rudy and jd. i said it. these two have incredible chemistry and they bounce off each other in a way that most other pairings in obx don’t. i feel like there’s also a slight aspect of “let’s ship bc it’s gay” for some people, too. it’s also the friends to lovers trope, but i think this one is almost exclusively because of the actors and the characters’ dynamics. 

kiara and pope - surprisingly, i haven’t come across many people who ship these two. i feel like that’s mostly because of the audience being shown that kiara likes john b and then a few episodes later, she’s kissing pope. still, it’s a semi-canon ship (can you count one kiss at the very end of a season with little build up as canon?) and i think a lot of people just go “huh, okay” and don’t think much about it. but they’re both intelligent, and could be a power couple, and i guess a lot of people like them together because it’s unpredictable, almost. 

kiara and sarah - again, the chemistry, for the most part, and some of the writing/acting. there were a few hints to kiara having a thing for sarah back in her kook year, and it would be a cute take on the enemies to lovers trope. plus, i think it would be a story a lot of people could relate to - falling in love with your best friend and not knowing how to deal with it, especially when it’s a same sex friend. if it had a happy ending, it’d be a nice story and it would mean a lot to people. actually, the same goes for jj and pope, come think of it.

sarah and topper - i loved them the first few episodes, until i realised topper is an overly protective boyfriend with anger issues to the point of being dangerous to sarah. but i do believe that there’s some part of people who would like someone to love them the way topper loves sarah, to be so protective, or to have them wrapped around their little finger. topper would do anything sarah would ask him to, and doesn’t that sound nice? it’s a bad thing, but a lot of people go for relationships like these because they offer them a sense of security, even if they’re unhealthy.

kiara and rafe - i think people ship this one mostly because of kie’s kook year and the fact that everything points to rafe being a part of it? they have an interesting dynamic, and if they ever intend on making rafe either a proper villain or give him redemption, him having something with kie could be a great way of deepening his character. plus, the idea of the bad boy being soft for the main female character is a much beloved trope. it gives the illusion that even the bad guys, the unhinged ones, the ones we should keep away from, can be changed and soft and different when in love. it’s a common trope. it’s a trope that leaves thousands of girls with unhealthy expectations and broken hearts, but you know. (bonus: the bad boy/good girl is definitely it. even little preteens, like my sisters, are susceptible to it.)

bonus round

kiara and topper - this one is my favourite, and i don’t really think people ship it, but i think it could easily be the most interesting pairing, both for the narrative and for the characters’ respective arcs. they could be each other’s way of getting over their prejudices, their unhealthy ways of coping with things and the way they feel about themselves, and narrative could support this incredibly easily. it’s based in speculation but man, i’m going down with this ship.

honourable mentions

jj and topper - i’ve seen this circulate? honestly no clue, except that it’d be an interesting dynamic

jj and rafe - imagine the hate sex. they’re two sides of the same coin and i think it’s the potential explosive dynamic that draws people in

rafe and barry - i’m gonna say it: drew starkey and rudy pankow both have chemistry with anything that walks. this is mostly for the scene in which rafe confides in barry, and their dynamic

rafe and topper - best friends to lovers extravaganza. again, drew’s chemistry.

honestly, i might be completely off with some (or all) of these, but i’d love to hear why people ship specific pairings!! i know there’s a lot of psychological analysis that could go into this, and i’ve read somewhere that the pairings we like actually mean something, just like the characters we like, but i haven’t really researched into it so i wouldn’t go really deep into this analysis and say it’s fact. but it’s definitely something that’s often on my mind and i love exploring it.

[rufousnmacska]

Um hi, hello, I’m just wondering if you cold maybe write a manorian au dance or a ren faire would be fab. Thanks

I lost track of how long this request has been in my drafts, so I’m really sorry it’s taken so long to write. I have a bad habit of starting a fic only to get bogged down about how detailed the plot should be, leaving me not wanting to finish it. I’m not good at just banging out a short story and posting it. But for this one, I tried doing that. I hope you like it anon, if you’re still around!

Full disclosure - I’ve never been to a renaissance faire, though I have friends who sell their pottery at an annual, medieval re-enactment type festival. So, I took what I’ve heard from them and added in a little Medieval Times and Disney World. What I’m saying is, please excuse any egregious mistakes about how these things work :)

Fanfic master list

*****

A Bard’s Tale

The Morath Renaissance Faire was part historical re-enactment, part craft market, part food extravaganza, and all spectacle. It drew visitors from around the continent each summer for the three months it was open. People even came for days at a time, staying at nearby inns so they could enjoy all the faire had to offer.

Owned by Maeve and Erawan Perrington, the faire was known for its summer-long war, pitting bands of warriors against each other in mock campaigns until only one survived, as well as its jousting tournament, where knights did true battle for the honor of being named the Queen’s Knight Commander. The enormous market square sold everything from hand woven clothing, jewelry and adornments, to metalwork, and pottery. The food court had stalls serving street foods of all varieties, and a hall that seated hundreds, where visitors could treat themselves to an authentic seven course medieval dinner. Jesters roamed the streets entertaining children, actors staged scenes of roving bandits stealing from nobility, artists demonstrated their craft, and bards sang songs for spare coins.

While most employees were from the region, some, including most of the artists, came from other towns and countries. To house them, the faire had a sprawling campground filled with brightly colored tents. At night, after the faire grounds were closed, the camp came alive with employees sharing modest dinners and abundant wine, while music played and many danced.

Manon Blackbeak had been selling here for four years. Her shop, The Clay Witch, was situated near the entrance to the market, ensuring she had a good crowd and a view of the jousting arena. With her cousins’ help, Manon did a brisk business. She made pottery the rest of the year, selling most of it here, and her cousins were responsible for the rest: healing teas, fragrant candles, love potions, amulets, and other trinkets of a witchy nature. She wasn’t a people person, so she had a sales assistant named Elide who handled that side of the business. Together with her cousins, they took part in the war, calling their band the Blackbeak Coven. In years past, they’d made it into the final week or two of the campaign, but they’d never won.

Despite her competitiveness, Manon had always been fine with that outcome. While Maeve oversaw the jousting as Queen, Erawan was the King who lead the war. He had a habit of looking at her a little too long, his gaze roaming over her body in a way that made her want to shower it off with scalding hot water. She made sure never to be alone with him, usually finding someplace else she needed to be in order to avoid him.

The whole situation pissed her off. Her pottery studio was in a town a few hours away and this faire had been a great opportunity to build her business. They made good money here, enjoyed themselves in the battles, and had made lifelong friends in the campground. But, she was seriously considering not coming back next year. All because some creepy asshole wouldn’t leave her alone.

As she watched Elide wait on some customers, she grew angrier. Other people depended on her. She knew they’d understand and support her, but not coming back felt as though she’d be letting them down.

Outside, she heard people speaking in loud, reverent tones and knew what time it was, not needing to look at her watch. She contemplated hiding in the back just to see what would happen. But when she caught the first sounds of his voice, she found herself grinning.

At ten o’clock in the morning, every day, Dorian Havilliard made his way to her shop to serenade her, always with a group of adoring fans trailing behind.

It hadn’t taken long for Manon to recognize some of the faces of the people who came back again and again just to watch Dorian perform. He played his part well, flirting and making up spontaneous songs to please his audience. If ever their adoration crossed the line into inappropriateness, he’d break out the charm and shy away, making his discomfort clear. All while still obtaining a sizable tip.

Manon crossed her arms and leaned against the entrance to her booth, watching him approach. He had a preternatural gift for coming up with lyrics and melodies on the spot. She’d never admit it to him, but she’d come to enjoy his morning visits.

As for his nightly visits to her tent, it was impossible for her to hide her appreciation then, much to her annoyance.

This was his first and only summer working at the faire. He’d been dragged along by a friend who was dating a knight. Rowan Whitethorn was Maeve’s nephew and had been crowned her Knight Commander in the jousting arena for three years running. The rumor mill went crazy at the start of this season when he arrived with a girlfriend who was from Terrasen. Aelin brought an entourage with her, a bunch of friends from college who were looking for one last fun summer to tide them over before heading off into the real world in the fall. Chaol worked as a royal guard and his girlfriend, a pre-med major, worked in the first aid clinic that served visitors and employees alike. Aelin’s cousin Aedion had fallen quickly into a warrior group and rose to become their general, while his girlfriend Lysandra worked as a fortune teller. Manon and her cousins, who had known Rowan for years, had met them on the first day and they’d become fast friends.

And then there was Dorian. Who, within the first week of opening, had become the most popular bard at the faire. The center of attention wherever he roamed.

Manon smirked as he stopped a few feet from her. Today, as usual, he wore a well fitting tunic with Intricate embroidery that took the shape of wyverns. Curls that had not been there at the start of the season hung around his ears.

With a deep bow and flourish of his hand, he said, “Good morning Lady. I pray you had a pleasant evening.”

She managed to keep her expression unchanged, even though the memories of last night threatened to turn her face a brilliant red. Gripping the sword that hung at her hip, she said, “Lady? I see no lady here.”

“Ah, but you are a lady. Lady artisan,” he said gesturing to her pottery. “Lady warrior,” a glance to her sword. “And a lady of pure moonlight,” he said, nodding at the long white braid that fell across her shoulder.

Her hair was a constant source of interest for him. She didn’t think it crossed into the realm of being a fetish, but he very much enjoyed pulling it whenever he had the chance. She did too. And she enjoyed seeing his gem like eyes flash when she lifted the braid and wiggled the end at him.

Elide and a couple of customers audibly sighed at his words. Manon whirled and gave her a deadly look, but the young woman just ignored her, watching Dorian begin to play as she placed a hand on her heart. She’d been pushing Manon all summer to go out with Dorian. Wanting to preserve Elide’s innocence, Manon never revealed what happened in her tent most nights. And finally, with that thought, the blood rushed to her cheeks.

He sang a quick tune that compared her beauty to that of the moon, bowed again, and with a wink, he was off. His followers who returned day after day just to see him never seemed to think anything of his daily routine of singing to her. Either they were simply too enchanted by his voice and handsome looks, or they just didn’t care, thinking it was all part of the act, confident he would acknowledge them when he was out of character.

As he made his way towards the market square, Manon caught sight of someone who did notice, and clearly cared.

Maeve watched from across the wide street. Her black eyes held none of the smile that spread across her face, and Manon felt a chill crawl up her spine. She did not like Dorian’s daily ritual of showering Manon with attention. After a moment filled with tension, Maeve turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Just as her husband gave Manon unwanted attention, Maeve had been doing the same thing to Dorian. He’d mentioned it once or twice, trying to brush it off. But Manon had heard the discomfort in his voice, could see the way he held himself in Maeve’s presence, trying to escape her notice and almost turning to stone when she inevitably did. The other night at one of the bonfires in the camp, someone had teased him about it. Dorian laughed and said after this weekend, he’d never see her again. The comment had hit Manon hard, as she’d realized the same could be said of her. In a matter of days, this season would end and they’d return to their homes on opposite sides of the country. With no reason to ever see each other again.

*****

Managing to escape his fans, Dorian ducked into an alley that led to the back offices. He’d seen Maeve following him this morning, and for the first time all summer, he’d considered not going to Manon’s shop. This was a summer job for him, a one time thing before he started working for his father. But she was an artist whose livelihood depended on events like this. He didn’t want to risk getting her in trouble because the owner had some kind of sick crush on him. The season was winding down and this weekend would be the last. He only needed to avoid Maeve’s interest for a few more days.

“Ouch! Watch it!”

“You watch it! Big oaf. No one told you to do tricks on your horse while you were jousting.”

Stopping at the door to the first aid clinic, Dorian found Yrene examining Lorcan, one of the knights who competed in the arena. Like the other jousters, the guy was huge, and Dorian couldn’t help but admire Yrene for not taking any shit from him. Lorcan spotted him watching from the entrance and rolled his eyes.

With his elaborate costumes, zealous following, and natural charm, Dorian was not the most popular of people among the warriors at the faire. He got along well with Rowan and Fenrys, but some of the others looked down at him for his portrayal of the flirty bard. He suspected it had more to do with the tips he made, money that he didn’t need due to his family’s wealth. Chaol and Yrene were the only ones who knew he’d be donating all of it to charity at the end of the season.

Yrene lifted Lorcan’s arm, moving his shoulder around in the socket despite his grimace and stifled groans of pain. “You’ve definitely torn something,” she said, pushing into his joint with her small fingers. “You’ll need to get an X-ray.”

“You can’t just put it in a sling? So I can joust on Sunday?” he asked, relieved when she let go of him, only to wince again when his arm landed in his lap.

With a scathing look that made Lorcan recoil slightly, she said, “If you want to damage it further, sure. I could do that. And then you’ll definitely need surgery. As it is, you might get away with some physical therapy. Which will not be fun. But if you continue jousting, you’re looking at hospital time.”

“Shit,” he said, dropping his head into his good hand. “It’s the finals this weekend. Maeve is going to kill me. After she fires me.”

Not wanting to hang around and interrupt her work, Dorian quickly asked, “Any idea where Chaol is right now?”

Yrene shrugged as she pulled a sling out of a supply cabinet. “Maybe near the battlefield? He mentioned they needed extra help setting some things up for this weekend.”

“Thanks,” he said. Then to Lorcan, “Good luck, man.”

“Yeah,” Lorcan replied, sounding utterly defeated and giving Dorian an odd look. “Thanks.” It was the tone, the actual gratitude in the word, that made Dorian realize the look was one of kindness. At least, Lorcan’s version.

Sneaking along the paths he used to stay away from the crowds, Dorian emerged near the stands overlooking the battlefield. This Saturday the two armies that had survived the summer would face each other for one final battle.

Maeve had been smart to set things up this way, making the war and jousting into a months long competition, ensuring a build up of fans and repeat visitors. She had a good mind for business, he just wished she’d stop leering at him.

Even if he wasn’t focused entirely on Manon, there was no way he’d involve himself with Maeve. There was a darkness surrounding her that reminded him of a spider, weaving an intricate web to control everyone around her, and disposing of those who resisted her manipulations.

Though he had never spoken to the man, Dorian had heard her husband was just as creepy. One night at the camp, his name had been mentioned, causing Manon to visibly shudder. She clearly didn’t like the guy, and that was enough for Dorian to dislike him too.

As he sat and watched Chaol and some warriors setting up the dais that would hold the royal thrones for the final battle, Dorian wondered if he was making the right decision for this fall. His father had demanded he come work for the family company. That Dorian had refused to get a business degree meant little to the man. He would see his son replace him as CEO whether Dorian liked it or not.

As it always did when he thought about his future, his mind eventually traveled back to Manon. This summer had been amazing, due in large part to her. She’d captured his heart from the first day. It took a full week of songs before she showed up at his tent one night. After that, he’d waited. Waited for that look she’d give him at the end of the night, when the bonfire was burning down and the camp was growing quiet. The look that said the song he’d written for her that morning had left her wanting him. The look that invited him back to her tent where they’d stay up too late, making love and playing question and answer games, the easiest way to get her to talk about herself.

Gods, how was he supposed to say goodbye to her in just a few days?

They had not spoken of it, neither one wanting to bring up what they both knew was coming. It wasn’t like they’d never be able to see each other again. But there was a weird sense of finality to the end of the faire season. The end of this crazy, fun summer. The end of their late night dalliances. The end of their late night talks, which he would honestly miss the most.

His bench sagged as Chaol sat down heavily beside him, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Ready for lunch?” Dorian asked, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt.

Chaol sighed, tired from helping to build the dais with a half day’s work still to come. “Yeah. Was Yrene busy?”

They stood and began to walk towards the food stalls. “Lorcan got injured. She might be done, but I doubt it.”

“Shit,” Chaol said, stopping in the middle of the street. “Will he be able to joust on Sunday?”

“Doesn’t look like it. At least, Yrene said no. Why? What’s the big deal?”

"He’s supposed to go up against Rowan in the final. Lorcan is the only real competition Rowan has. I overheard Erawan talking about the possibility of this final weeks ago. They’ve been hyping it up to the fans.”

Dorian shrugged. He didn’t pay attention to the jousts or the war standings. Especially once the Blackbeak Coven was defeated last week. Manon had been disappointed, but also oddly relieved.

“You don’t get it,” Chaol continued. “Maeve and Erawan are going to be pissed.”

That made Dorian smile. “Good. Maybe she’ll leave me alone then.”

*****

Sunday came with beautiful weather and a crowd that was electric with anticipation. Yesterday’s final battle, won in an impressive fashion by Aedion’s troops, had drawn record numbers of spectators. Maeve and Erawan had sat on their thrones, overseeing everything with bored faces and an air thick with arrogance. Most of the employees knew how little they were acting, but the viewers ate it up.

Today was the final of the jousting tournament. Being easier to follow from the stands, it was more popular than the war re-enactment. This year’s finalists promised to put on a good show. Until Lorcan injured his shoulder in his semifinal against Fenrys. He’d still managed to win, knocking Fenrys off his horse out of sheer spite, sending him to the final against Rowan.

When it was announced he couldn’t compete, Maeve had gone ballistic. Apparently, she’d destroyed her office, leaving a mess of papers, a cracked laptop screen, and a broken chair. Erawan had kept his cool, though a few twitches of his black eyes spoke volumes about his inner state of mind. Everyone assumed Fenrys would be given Lorcan’s place. But the notice board outside the arena had remained blank after Rowan’s name - The White Hawk vs.___

Last night, the talk around camp was all about who she would name to joust against Rowan, with some joking that she’d make Erawan do it. Rowan had seemed to welcome the chance to knock the bastard onto his back. Maeve was his aunt, but there’d never been any friendship between them. He worked here because he loved it. And now that he loved Aelin, it grew more and more likely that this might end up being his last year.

As people milled about in her shop, Manon felt a strange anxiety wash over her. Muscles tense, goose flesh rising up her arms, she looked out into the street expecting to see Erawan there. But it was just regular visitors making their way through the market, noisy and excited.

Slowly, she realized what felt off. The voices of the crowd had never been louder than Dorian’s voice. She looked at her watch and felt her stomach flip. 10:24.

He was never late. Never.

Just then, she heard commotion from the jousting arena. Over the heads of the crowd, she could just make out Asterin’s blond hair as her cousin waved for her to come over.

Pushing through the people, she found not only Asterin but Chaol and Aelin too, all three standing in front of the notice board, staring up at it in shock.

Just as she never had to check her watch for Dorian’s arrival, Manon didn’t have to read the board to know who Rowan’s opponent was. Instead of flipping, her stomach turned to stone and sank.

The White Hawk vs. The Black Bard

“That fucking bitch,” Aelin whispered.

Manon grit her teeth, her hands shook and she was too angry to even speak.

“Where is he?” Asterin asked.

Chaol shrugged, also unable to speak, too horrified with concern for his best friend.

Fenrys ran up suddenly, almost knocking them all over. “It was Erawan,” he said, breathless. “Some sick game between him and Maeve.”

Manon forced herself to swallow, to breath, to not go scratch that bastard’s hellish eyes from their sockets. “Why didn’t Dorian just tell him no?”

“I don’t know,” Fenrys said. “They must have forced him somehow.”

Asterin turned to Manon and they shared a look. The only way to make Dorian agree to this was if Manon had been threatened in some way.

“Rowan won’t hurt him,” Aelin said confidently.

Finally, Chaol spoke. “Maybe not on purpose! Dorian’s never ridden a horse. Rowan can deliberately miss him and he could still fall off and get trampled.”

“Shit.” Asterin and Fenrys said at the same time.

The sound of trumpets wailed and people began rushing to get into the stadium. As the others debated what to do, Manon took off, ducking beneath the stands to get to the fence that surrounded the jousting yard. It felt like time slowed down, and when she finally reached an opening with a view to the field, the announcer was already calling out the competitors names.

There, at the far end, sitting precariously on the back of a black stallion, was Dorian. Clad in black armor, the counterpoint to Rowan’s bright silver, he struggled to hold the lance steady. Dorian was muscled and strong, but this was a skill he had no experience with. Holding a lance properly took practice.

Rowan, atop his white horse, was within shouting distance. Manon called to him, but he didn’t hear her over the crowd’s cheers and the helmet he wore. She kept calling for him, only stopping when she glanced at the royal box. There, Maeve sat, stone faced and angry, glaring straight ahead. Next to her, wearing the tacky fake crown he sported everywhere on the grounds, was Erawan.

Manon wasn’t surprised to feel his eyes on her, his slimy stare making her feel as if she might vomit.

Just as she tried to get Rowan’s attention one last time, the trumpets blared and the horse reared and took off, thundering down the field towards Dorian.

*****

Dorian kicked at his horse, hoping that would get it to move. If it had been up to him, he would have simply sat here, letting Rowan charge and knock him off with his first pass. Hell, if it had been up to him, he’d be in the fucking stands.

But no. Erawan had stopped him early that morning, offering him the chance to joust. When Dorian had laughed in his face, Erawan had made it clear that it really wasn’t an offer.

He’d seen the way his wife looked at Dorian, knew that there was something going on between them, knew that Dorian’s protestations were lies. Erawan had insisted that If Dorian refused, the bard’s paramour would be punished.

Dorian had stopped laughing then. They both knew he had never been with Maeve. And somehow, Erawan had found out about him and Manon.

“I own this town,” Erawan had said. “There is nothing you can do. If you run, I will find her.” He’d clapped Dorian on the back as if they were friends. “What do you say young bard?”

Dorian had nodded numbly, agreeing to put on a show, make it look real, and not throw the match.

So now, here he was. However many tons - did horses weigh tons? - of animal rushing towards him, Rowan’s white tipped lance leading the way.

Fuck it, he thought, giving the horse’s side another kick. The beast reared slightly then hit the ground running.

Dorian just barely managed to hang on to the reins as he wobbled in the saddle. His lance almost slid from his grip, almost landed tip down in the earth, threatening to propel him into the air like an acrobat. At the last second before catastrophe, he got it under control, just as Rowan’s lance grazed his side, going wide of a strike. The crowd cheered, and though his helmet muffled the sound, he knew it was deafening for the people in the arena.

Their horses continued running until they were on opposite ends. Some lackey of Erawan’s came running out, pretending to offer him advice or assistance. Dorian ignored him, trying to focus on holding the lance up to the proper height. By the time he got it wedged under his arm, the horn sounded and his horse took off, unprompted.

He was able to hold the lance up the whole way, but he almost fell off the horse. For the second time, Rowan’s attempt missed. Dorian knew it was on purpose, and he was grateful. But the way the crowd had begun laughing was honestly starting to piss him off. He knew he couldn’t win. He just wanted to survive. But his pride was beginning to surge enough to overtake his fear.

The third run had the same result as the first two. Rowan missed, Dorian clung to the saddle and the lance and didn’t die. The horse guy came out again, seeming to adjust some of the straps. Dorian watched to make sure he didn’t actually loosen anything, and the guy gave him a nod.

Thinking someone was calling his name, Dorian twisted around to find Manon leaning over the fence, wild-eyed and desperate to get his attention. He lifted his visor and winked at her. The gesture appeared to make her angry and she shouted again but the words were lost to the crowd.

Hoisting the lance up and securing it under his arm, the reins tight in his hand, Dorian was ready for the horn this time. The horse pounded down the yard and time seemed to slow to a trickle. He felt every hoof beat, heard every puff of air from the horse’s mouth, saw the silver armor getting closer and closer. At the last second, before squeezing his eyes shut, he angled the lance towards that flash of silver.

The force of the impact threw him back in the saddle. His feet remained in the stirrups though, leaving him arched awkwardly on top of the horse. Pain radiated up his arm like a wave until the entire thing went numb and he had no idea if he was still holding the lance. With a grunt, he forced himself upright into a sitting position. The horse came to a stop and pawed at the ground, as if in celebration.

The applause and cheers hit him almost as hard as the blow he’d administered to Rowan. Looking down to where he still somehow held the lance, then turning in the saddle to see Rowan pushing himself up from the dirty ground, Dorian slowly realized that he had won.

*****

Manon was running the second she saw someone made contact. The dust was thick and she couldn’t see what had happened. At the sight of a riderless white horse trotting towards her, she sped up, almost tripping over Rowan, who laid sprawled on the ground. His helmet had come off and he had a big grin on his face.

When she reached Dorian, he was sliding off the horse, the weight of his armor pulling him down faster than he could handle. She caught him just before he could land on his ass. Propping him against the stallion, she tore the helmet from his head and yelled, “What the fuck were you thinking? You could have been killed!”

Dorian, a little dazed, a little breathless, said nothing. He pulled her close and kissed her.

The crowd erupted, roaring their approval and chanting his name. “Black Bard! Black Bard! Black Bard!”

Yrene came over with a small medical bag, but Dorian waved her off, then went back to kissing Manon. When he let go, she stumbled backwards, still clutching his armor. His horse was strutting around them, loving the attention, while flowers rained down around them from the stands.

It was tradition for the victorious knight to gather the flowers and present them to Maeve; the Knight Commander honoring his queen. But Dorian had not been aware of the tradition. And she knew he wouldn’t have done it anyway.

Manon watched as he bent down, slowly so as not to fall over, and picked up a handful of poppies and daisies and whatever other blooms had been tossed onto the field. Dropping heavily to a knee, he smiled brightly and offered her the prize of wildflowers.

She shook her head, unable to keep the grin from her own face. Taking the flowers, she bent to kiss him, but he pulled her down onto her knees.

“I don’t think I can stand up,” he confessed against her lips.

Manon laughed and went right on kissing him. The cheers turned to a loud buzz in their ears that they ignored along with everything else.

Eventually, Rowan appeared, offering his hand to Dorian, both in acknowledgement of a well fought match, and to help him up. Manon moved to leave but Dorian refused to let go of her hand. She was glad for it, and gripped it tightly when she remembered Maeve and Erawan in their viewing box.

The two “royals” looked anything but. Maeve clapped in a meager attempt to save face at Dorian’s insult with the flowers. And Erawan glared at them both, his hate for them rising off his skin like heat in a desert.

Dorian squeezed her hand and Manon remembered why they were out here, why Dorian had risked his life.

“I know why you did this,” she said. “I wish you would have found me first.”

“What would you have done?”

She smirked. “I would have sliced him up with my sword.”

"My lady warrior,” he said, his face dropping with exhaustion as the adrenaline wore off.

“My bard in shining armor.” She caressed his cheek and he turned to kiss her palm. “Do you really have to go back to Rifthold?”

It was the first either one had spoken of what would happen tomorrow. She knew this wasn’t the time or the place, but something inside her needed it to be. She needed to know that she’d see him again. She needed-

“I’m going wherever you are,” he said simply, as if there had never been any question.

Manon smiled softly in answer, wrapping her arm around his waist to support him off the field.

*****

The next summer, without its star in the jousting arena, the Morath Renassaince Faire saw a marked drop in attendance.

Rowan had joined his new wife in Terrasen, telling his aunt to shove it. He’d taken several of the other jousters with him, leaving them one main attraction. Cairn didn’t last long however, as no horses would allow him in their saddle.

Other parts of the faire suffered too. Without the Clay Witch selling her wares, and no all-female warrior band fighting in the war, interest waned. Artists began to close their shops. Re-enactors and food vendors found other venues.

It was as if Rowan’s departure doomed the faire. And within another year, it did just that. Maeve and Erawan closed the faire and moved away, leaving the structures empty.

The town lost business, but like others who had dealt with the Perringtons in one way or another, they were glad to see the couple gone.

But the locals still spoke of that final good year. The year when a hapless, yet handsome, bard bested the reigning Knight Commander in the jousting tournament. How he knocked the White Hawk from his horse, winning in one pass. And how he spurned the evil queen and won the heart of a witch instead.

*****

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[norahastuff]

Dean was applying to be a cop in the finale!? Gosh it’s like someone who’s never seen the show or only seen the first season wrote it. Deans never been a dog person. Dean would never leave Cas like that and have fun at that pie fest talking about moving on. Jesus not even a second of that episode was in character. I’m so sick of shows having s1 HIMYM like endings ugh

The thing is HIMYM? Yeah it was a bad finale and it didn’t make any sense to shoehorn in the ending they’d written back in s1 at the end of an 8 season-long series - characters grow and change in ways you wouldn’t expect them to back when you first created the series - but HIMYM foreshadowed that ending. A lot. The entire final season they pointed towards what was going to happen. Actually, even the season before had a couple of pretty anvil heavy scenes that showed what the endgame was eventually going to be. Spn didn’t do that.

I can very easily accept series finales I don’t like as long as they make sense and I can see how we got there. I’m a very “journey, not destination” kind of tv watcher, so a bad finale doesn’t usually ruin the rest of the story for me...this is kind of a first though. Because why spend so much of your season (seasons plural?) focusing on found family? On how important Dean and Cas’ relationship is? On what a profound impact Cas had on Dean’s life? On how Cas’ powers were fading? On all the problems with heaven and hell and the empty? That last one was a pretty big thing that was referenced in multiple episodes and then just no follow-up. All of that (besides the Dean and Cas stuff) was just handwaved by Bobby saying Jack fixed it. Actually that’s not true. Bobby said Jack fixed heaven, nothing about hell or The Empty.

I’ve been thinking about it lately trying to make sense of it all, and it felt very in tune with Singer’s vision of the show, or at least my perception of what I see as Singer’s version of the show based on the way I’ve heard him talk in interviews/panels over the years.  And I want to stress this is all just complete speculation on my part and I’m not even saying it’s what I think happened, we don’t really even know enough to say, but from everything I’ve heard him say in the past, it did seem like he had a very brothers only view of the show, and that his ending would reflect that. I mean Dabb wrote the episode...but he’s also been the showrunner that put the most focus on found family and growth, and you can’t see either of those things in the finale. I do hope that by some magic we someday see a pre-covid version of the script. It’s entirely possible it mightn’t be good either, Jensen did have problems with it, but I have to imagine it would at least make a little more sense. 

I mean at least we might have been spared Dean not being allowed to interact with anyone and anything in heaven besides his car and the double carry on extravaganza. Maybe there would have been some resolution of all those dropped plotlines. Maybe Cas and his impact on Dean’s life would have been granted more importance than a brief smile from Dean...though I still maintain how easy it would have been, even in this nonsensical version of the finale we got, for Sam and Dean to have a short conversation where Dean talks about how he’s trying to be the man Cas thought he was and needs to carry on and perhaps even *gasp* show some emotion about his best friend of12 years dying for him. That was the subtext of what Dean was doing anyway so why not just say it?

But if originally in the finale there was supposed to be some kind of acknowledgment of Cas from Dean (I’m not talking explicitly romantic here) it would maybe be possible to write off Dean not saying anything at the pie fest because we’d perhaps see it at another point. But in the version of the finale we saw, there was no “Dean’s feelings for Cas” related moment (Jimmy Novak related or otherwise - don’t get me started!) so it just seems hollow and empty.

I don’t know if Dabb was just done by the time post covid rewrites came around and didn’t want to revise the script taking into account that there wouldn’t been any Cas/Misha/Jimmy (lord help me) appearance. I mean it’s not a conspiracy to say Misha was supposed to be in the finale so Cas’ significance was going to be felt in some way (regardless of how big or small that was supposed to be) and yet in the final version there’s no real indication at all that Cas mattered, to the story or to Dean. Like it’s not rocket science to say if an important main character who’s been on the show for 12 years and has profound relationship with one of the lead characters, a relationship that was given extended focus in the final season, if that character or actor is supposed to have an appearance in the finale and it gets cut for whatever reason, you rewrite a scene or two to reflect what would have been shown in the cut scenes. And Dabb seemingly didn’t do that, for whatever reason.

So yeah...to be honest that’s kind of where I’ve landed on this. It looks to me like Dabb stopped trying and/or caring at the end, whether that’s because of external pressure or because he just thought “meh good enough” (I don’t doubt that Singer probably thought it was good enough) I mean I don’t think that’s something we’ll ever know unless he talks, and he’s not exactly known for being forthcoming. 

As for finding out the details of the original ending? I don’t know if/when that will happen, but it certainly seems more likely than Dabb revealing his motivations and decision-making process. 

Oh and the job thing...not to defend the finale but was it ever proven that the application was to be a cop? I didn’t notice it when I watched the ep, and I have no intention of rewatching it. I mean Dean’s in the database a dead serial killer many times over. Don’t think that would go down too well at the interview. 

Yeah and in regards to the dog...I got nothing. I think the thought process was Jensen looks adorable hugging a dog and since we’re throwing the rest of his character’s personality out the window, what’s one more trait?