#Sometimes it's the most boring option tho

[rubberduckyrye]

I like using Occam's Razor when I theory-craft, because often the simplest answer is the best solution.

But man does it sometimes lead to the most BORING answer known to man.

[zelda-posting]

tears of the kingdom could have been so good if it were built around like, its story or its characters instead of being a clunky shell to show off the mechanic no one asked for that it forces you to use

[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.

[7ndipity]

Sitting/laying on them

Ot7 x Reader

Summary: How they would react to you casually sitting on their lap or laying on them.

Warnings: none

A/N: Thanks to the lovely anon who requested this, and thank you to everyone else who sent asks this week! I'll try to get part of them out this weekend😊

Masterlist

Requests are open

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Seokjin: Actually really likes casual skinship, so you sitting on his lap just makes sense and feels very natural to him. He is a menace tho and will start to pick on you if he gets bored, so just beware.

Yoongi: True tsundere, he tries to pretend he doesn't really like it, but secretly he loves it! You're like the best weighted blanket in the world to him and finds having you so close really comforting.

Hobi: Loves it, drags you onto his lap every chance he gets, as if he can't have you close enough. His favorite time of the day is when you're laying on him, playing with his hair as y'all talk before bed.

Namjoon: Pretty neutral about it, most of the time. He usually doesn't initiate it, but sometimes when he's feeling particularly needy, he'll pull you over to him and be like "You wanna sit with me?"(ofc you do)

Jimin: Another big fan of casual skinship, so of course he loves that you seem to naturally gravitate to him. Likes being able to wrap his arms around your middle and rest his chin on your shoulder.

Taehyung: If you don't sit on his lap, he's gonna sit on yours, so you better figure out which option you want and fast, because the man need his cuddles or else he acts like the world is ending.

Jungkook: Clingy boy loves it, but likes to tease you about it a little, like "Do you really have to sit/lay here?" but refuses to let you move. Tends to sway you both from side to side, so there's a slight risk of him rocking you to sleep(I don't mind it tho).

[xruiiii-blog]

Some ghouls come in pairs and they are giving heavy sidling vibes…

These are just for fun!!! Some hc my friends and I shared:)) forgive my English too…I tried🤷‍♀️!

Swiss & Rain-They are not blood siblings but they’ve been by each other’s side for as long as they can remember. There’s an age gap, they act completely different, into different things, but there are times where they look like each other’s reflection. The pit was a tough memory for both of them but luckily they had each other.

That being said, They will do stupid pranks to the other one and it’s only funny to themselves. No one beside them will understand what the hell is going on. They won’t even stop giggling during practices this sometimes pisses Copia off…but they are his ghouls so he can’t do anything about it. Usually Swiss’ the one who started them. Rain only pays back if he’s bored/got irritated, most of the time he lets it slide.

Ifrit & Zephyr-They are twins! They can be very handful sometimes…the intention was nice(ended badly bc one of them accidentally messed up or got too carried away, drag the other one with them). They are free spirit. Don’t even try n tell them to behave or what to do cuz they always end up doing their own thing. Follow the instructions was never an option. If you trust them on whatever they’re about to do then that’s a promise, they sure knows how to deliver. Usually Ifrit suggests an idea and comes up with a “plan” but then Zeph is the one who’s actually doing all the work…

Rare occasions they get time-out from Terzo. They will start behaving for a week at most. Ifrit has to spend a day or two convincing Zeph to be on his side again. They are the sweetest boys tho, always trying to cheer their papa up and lighten the mood. If papa didn’t like it, try something new. Terzo secretly enjoyed their company. It feels like home when these two hanging around(even if he had to cover his ears or screams “put that down!”) Terzo gets complaints from sisters about these two running down the hall all the time. Besides a disappointed gaze, Terzo never actually punish them, ever.

Aurora & Phantom-baby bat siblings! Aurora is probably minutes or seconds older than Phantom and she won’t ever let this go. There’re A LOT of pillow fights, back and forth arguments about nothing, constantly screaming each other’s name for no reason in the ghoul dorms right after they’re summoned. Copia had to sit both of them down for a chat but ending up realizing there’s nothing he can do from this point on. They’re fine, it’s a sibling thing. The ghouls are on their own now.

(Quick side explaining: our lore is that ghoulettes and ghouls are not coming from the same place. Ghoulettes are like witches?? Their community are tight, function more like merceners, papa had to go hire from the witches. Ghouls are…ghouls. They are from hell, the pit, they can be owned I guess?? Make a living in the pit it’s all on ur own. Doesn’t matter where u from, working with/for the clergy, next to papa is always a pleasure, an honor. A sacred chance for anyone. Exceptions always exist, Mist is a ghoulette but she’s from the pit. Phantom in this case, was adopted by the witches and lives among them, so this makes him a half-witch I guess…there are some ghoul behaviors he simply doesn’t understand, Aether prepared him after his summoning but there’re still alotttt to process. He’s an exchange student if u will. )

If Phantom ever felt frustrated, Aurora is the first person he goes to, and vises versus. Aurora will call Phantom her baby brother only when tommy is not around. They are still on the young side so everyone is looking out for them. They never been on Earth before so they are super hyped about everything. Blew up the kitchen couple times but they were forgiven after a sincere apology. Will you ever say no or stay mad towards a baby bat who love you with all their heart?? That’s right, I don’t think so.

I haven’t read much of the lores in the fandom if there’s similar ones oops!! We have similar tastes I guess! I don’t own any of these they are all just for fun. Thanks for reading and tolerating my on going struggle with writing! Hearts to all the writers out there, idk how y’all did this, it’s so damn hard💀.

u guys’ stuff actually makes sense, mines don’t lol

FYI my drawing always have them in these dynamic as well! These became canon to me…I just love seeing ghouls messing around…

[nyaagolor]

What's going on with Nemona's wrist?

this is mostly just me putting down all my thoughts about this hc I have. Below the cut bc it's long as usual but read on if ur interested in like. orthopedics

I think Nemona has fatigue and some kind of wrist Issue because 1. She implies she has decreased motor function in that arm (can't throw pokeballs well, supports her arm with her other hand during battles) 2. She wears a brace 3. She gets winded easily / needs to catch her breath more than other characters / hates stairs So that got me wondering what the cause could be. I work in an orthopedic office and my shifts are 12 hours so sometimes when it's slow and I'm bored this is what my mind wanders to

Option 1: It's carpal tunnel and she's out of shape This is the most obvious answer since carpal tunnel is a repetitive stress injury and she's wearing a brace that looks almost identical to irl braces for that problem. Throwing pokeballs over and over, especially incorrectly, would be the most likely cause of an asymmetrical injury like that, and is actually reasonable for someone of her age and activity level. The winded thing is just because she's out of shape and has no underlying cause. Or maybe she just has some kinda chronic pain / fatigue disorder. That's not my department idk

Option 2: Oligoarticular JIA (juvenile idiopathic arthritis) This very long name is just describing chronic joint swelling in children that affects less than 5 joints. It's an autoimmune disease, and actually not that uncommon all things considered. It causes stiffness and pain, which would explain the stamina issues and motor skill issues. Plus, the constant flexion and extension of the knees from staircases certainly would explain her distaste for them in particular. That shit hurts. Occasionally people will use a brace for JIA-- it's highly unlikely her wrist would be the worst considering the typical presentation patterns (it usually affects bigger joints first like the knees) but hey. It's possible! This condition also affects young girls more often than other groups so. Math checks out

Option 3: Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hypermobility type) Figured I would include this bc I've seen a few people hc this and wanted to give it a fair shot myself. This is a heritable connective tissue disorder that causes hypermobile joints, chronic pain, fatigue, and a whole host of other things. Specifically tho, this disorder used to be called EDS type III and is now considered part of the Hypermobility Spectrum Disorders, but that's a can of worms for a post that's not this one. While the symptoms do match, and honestly quite well (a brace for stabilization makes perfect sense and the fatigue symptoms feel pretty on the nose) the disease usually causes very stretchy skin and vascular issues that she doesn't seem to have so I'm a tad on the fence

Option 4: Cervical spinal stenosis Despite this being the first thing that came to mind for me (since I see it a lot in the office) I'm now less convinced this would be the case. This disorder is basically a narrowing of the spinal canal that pinches the nerves in the neck. It can cause pain, weakness, numbing, and pain that radiates down the body. If most of the compression was on the C4 and C5 nerve I can see it affecting one arm / wrist especially rough (since the pain is typically bilateral but asymmetrical) but also this occurring in people under the age of 50 is SUPER rare so eh. It's possible it was congenital or caused by an injury but I wouldn't bet on it. As for the stamina issues, the neurological issues caused by the compression would likely be the cause of that, especially radiating down the back and legs. Felt worth it to include even if I'm not 100% convinced

I'm saying "options" here bc these symptoms are super vague and there's like 80 billion things that could cause it, I'm just racking my brain for different possibilities. If anyone has other hcs for the underlying causes of Her Whole Deal lmk I'm curious

[eldritch-spouse]

Rinx and cute human auction host with impeccable sense of humour 🗣️ hear me out while I'm drunk again

just ✨imagine✨ – some closed auction with very specific-and-unique stuff, aimed on some narrow monster audience. Why human is a host here? She kinda... wanted a job not in McDonald's, but luck wasn't on her side – at the end, it is what it is. She started to make small talks with visitors and crack jokes around only to escape her fate as an auction lot. To her big surprise and happiness, visitors found feigned confidence believable, as well her humour sharp and dark enough for their twisted tastes, but not too belittling or offensive to hear from a mere human.

More so, she grew popular in this small community. Now she's cheeky and brave enough to talk back to some especially rude visitors– It's still a joke to everyone tho. Laughing stock of the day usually gets too embarrassed to come on her twice and audience can be ruthless.

But huh??? At some totally normal day here's more people than usual??? Regulars looking especially nervous for some reason???? And her boss is suddenly disappears after some lameass short unreadable message about "special guest"?????

Huh. Strange. Well, whatever, business is business-

Guess who got in the playful sarcastic bullshittery with some giant broccoli head first and now sweating bullets cuz that dude is just... Buys everything? Every-single-fucking-lot???? His bets are so high for a quite literal trash sometimes, is he insane???? She knows who is it from the first bet honestly, but she keeps repeating for her own sanity that it's some obsessive cosplayer.

And at the end of the auction he refuses to leave and makes a ridiculously small bet on "the charming host".

She jokes herself the way out only because she was so – well, she tells to bring and show her some fucking lost artifact from a rumour that was popular million years ago if he wants to buy even a minute of her time. "No more, no less," she says and leaves, pretty sure that she won this.

Even if her knees are shaking behind the curtains after a realisation it was fucking Greed Icon, she still believes that she can outplay him.

***

She's in pure panic and loss of words because she ran out of options and bets are getting insanely high. She thought he was playing and that he will get bored after getting a handjob (it was just a pin at first, she swears!!!), but on their last meeting he told her to get ready for a wedding. G666gling "WHTAT SHOUDLG I AKS FOR PKEASE HELP BITCH HAS EVVRHYTHIN" isn't helping at all.

Rinx loves how well-educated about valuable things she is, how good she's in jerking him off– and it's funny to see how she's sweating as she tries to decline his gifts and fails miserably. Truly, this game was fun while it lasted, but now? Now he wants a Queen.

That's all for today- hope exams wasn't going hard on u and ur amazing brain wrinkles my dear fella Pinnie we can get through 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

[Okay but the best part of this is "G666gle". I fucking love that.]

Oh it wouldn't be the first time Rinx gets excited and tries to take literally everything home, that's why the most well-known auctions around Hell are made with lots of care and many prepared speeches as to why the hosts, staff and other personalities present cannot be given/traded/bought.

Does this stop Rinx? No, not really.

You have his curiosity the same way Admin holds his curiosity. Humans are easy to take, easy to claim, easy to keep. To see you play such a dangerous game yet always come out on top makes you even more valuable in the demonlord's (lack of) eyes.

You don't have the option of declining anything Rinx gives you, be it a box of chocolates, roses, the most expensive outfits you could think of, or a ring that he'll slide into your finger with a crushing grip of your wrist.

[sakasakiii]

Hi!

I love your work!! Your art is very pretty. Do you have a specific idea of how old everyone is ? Do you lean more towards canon or do you have your own dates in mind ? If don’t wanna a answer it’s ok!

Hope u have a nice day

(Remember to drink water!)

hiiii nonnie!!! thank you for checking in, and im happy u like the stuff i put out!! when it comes to ages, it's difficult to answer sometimes bc of the way professor tolkien's timeline is-- it makes gauging one singular place where most of the cast can be compared something that makes my tired brain go 😵🤧🤕 but i love the prompt youve given! and thus heres my attempt at it

with most of my tolkien stuff, i always try to stick to canon wherever possible emphasis is on try lmao and the topic of ages is one such place. i do make exceptions to the Professor's canon sometimes for a few reasons: 1) i like some of the scrapped ideas in his drafts, or 2) i just prefer other options. with ages, i think the only charas with canon-established ages i deviated from are fingolfin, finrod, turgon, and aredhel. i try to keep cases like these minimal tho, so i hope it doesn't bother anyone too much... 👉👈

anyways i figured just dropping a list of numbers would be kinda boring to look at so heres an illustrated guide to what the ~rough~ ages of the finweans are in my head whenever i write or draw. Y.T. 1495 (the year Finwe dies) is the controlled medium ive used to enable a fair comparison of the Finweans

note: "born Y.T. xxx" means this is the canon date of birth listed on Tolkien Gateway. "est. born [xxx]" means this is a noncanon estimate:

the First Age gets a lot more muddled from there due to the hullaballoo of everything going on, so ill only be including the doriathrim and a few other denizens of nargothrond:

it's mostly the older elves that are more undefined/vague with their ages (i.o.w. others like elwing, earendil, the peredhil twins, and most Men all have set dates of birth), so they're all i'll be doing for now. but it's that vagueness which makes hcing all the more enjoyable, isn't it! plus since we’re on this subject, under the cut are just a few headcanons and musings ive had that i wanted to put somewhere 😙

Finarfin and Earwen were born within months of each other! Finwe and Olwe made a Really Big Deal out of when they found out their wives were pregnant at the same time. As a result, the two were often sent on many playdates with each other to “bolster healthy relations” between the Noldor and the Teleri. It wasn’t an arranged marriage situation, but I like to think they were goofy for each other from the start… Resulting in the two eventually getting married as soon as they came of age, the fastest out of all of Finwe’s kids to do so. 

The reason the Ambarussa are significantly younger than the other Finweans (especially the Feanorians-- there’s a 100 Valian year gap between them and Curufin alone!) is because I imagine they were accidental babies that even Feanor didn’t expect to conceive. too bad morgoth said "its morgin time!" and started Messing Things Up shortly afterwards.....

Anaire was Lalwen's good friend long before she married Fingolfin; they met through Lalwen who wingmanned Fingolfin the whole time. i like think Anaire'd be the best out of all the wives at keeping good, healthy bonds with all the women of her family :DD

luthien's potential 姐姐/big sis dynamic with all the younger doriathrim elves is something i daydream about a lot 😌 but sometimes the fact that she's older than finarfin keeps me up at night

this has been really fun, so thanks again for asking-- annnd yessir, i am chugging water as i write this so you better be doing the same ❤️ have a great start to your week!

[syrikif]

Gamer Etiquette

Kodzuken x Streamer!Y/N

Pairing: Kenma Kozume x Fem!Reader

Genre: SMAU, Written Elements, Strangers to Lovers, Romance, Fluff, Humor, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Streamer/Youtuber AU

Upcoming content creator/streamer, Y/N, has gone viral for lots of things. Her infamous dumb moments, her blended cookie recipe (which tastes better than it sounds), the way she rages at her friends during games, and about a hundred more.

But her most recent viral moment? Accidentally knocking famous streamer, Kodzuken, off the Bedwars map and making him lose his two year winning streak.

Now with more attention (and hate) than she ever asked for, her only option left is to go to the source: the man himself, Kenma Kozume.

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Chapter 2 (b): Boredom

Word Count: 2187

It’s been an hour since Kenma started streaming, and he’ll admit that he’s starting to get a bit bored. He usually enjoys playing Bedwars on stream but he’s been doing it so often lately that it’s beginning to get repetitive.

“What the hell is this guy doing,” he asks as he notices someone start building a tower of blocks on the emerald island. Kenma sprints over to the player, jumping up to knock him off the tower. 

“Hype_boy2000 was killed by Kodzuken!”

“People that play minecraft are brainless sometimes I swear to god,” he hears Kuroo mutter in his headset. 

Despite living together, his best friend usually only joins the stream via voice call, so he can interact with Kenma’s viewers and still be comfortable in his own room. Kenma honestly actually prefers this, it’s easier to hear him and he doesn’t have to worry about his roommate doing anything dumb in front of the camera. 

He shakes his head, “You play minecraft.” 

“Exactly!” 

Kenma snorts, taking a quick glance at his chat to see how his audience is feeling. 

Kodzuken is a GOD

People who play mc are losers🙄🙄🙄 (I play mc)

I’m not bad at the game but watching Kenma makes me feel like I am 💀

He looks bored 😕

His eyebrows furrow then because he’s almost completely positive that he’s hiding his feelings well enough for no one to notice. Apparently he’s not. 

He feels something tug at his neck and briefly looks down to see what it is, resisting a smile at the sight of one of the younger cats, Mars, playing with the drawstring of his hoodie. “Do we wanna try playing something else after this?” 

“Why? You gettin’ bored of winning all the time,” his roommate teases and Kenma has to force himself not to react to his words because he might just be joking but he’s hit the nail right on the head. 

Kenma pretends he doesn’t hear him as he kills the last player (winning himself yet another game),“I’ll go one more round and then we can figure out something else to play.” 

OMG do you guys see the paw????

SHOW US THE CATS

We wanna see the cats

“I think the only reason you’re famous is because we have a million cats,” Kuroo announces and Kenma can almost see the accompanying eye roll. 

“I’m fine with that,” he shrugs. “But I guess I can show you guys the cats before we start.” 

He changes his scene in OBS so that it’s only showing his camera, making sure he’s in full view before he scoops up the bengal cat still sitting in his lap. “This is Mars, we got him like a month ago. How old is he? Um like five months I think?”

He sets him back down on his desk, “There’s only like four cats in here right now by the way.” 

ONLY FOUR???

How many cats does he have lol

“I think there’s like fifteen in the house right now,” Kenma’s head unconsciously tilts as he silently counts all their cats. “No- wait. Seventeen now, plus however many Minnie will have when she gives birth.” 

“Yeah but don’t worry we have three different rooms in the house for them, plus the loft and then the house itself is three stories.” Kuroo chimes in, defending Kenma’s apparent obsession despite the fact that he supposedly doesn’t care. “And then we have like ten cat towers and eight litter robots.” 

EIGHT?????

Oh so they’re rich rich

Half of those litter boxes would pay all my bills 💀

“Anyways um-,” Kenma pauses to reach for the orange cat currently laying in the cat bed beside his desk. “This is Enji, she’s been with us for three years now and she’s five years old.” Enji meows in disapproval as Kenma picks her up and tries to show her to the camera. She fights against him, her claws digging into his forearms and making him grimace. “She doesn’t like being picked up.” 

As if on cue Enji jumps out of his arms and lays right back down in the bed, eyeing Kenma like he’s just committed some sort of grave sin. 

“Well now that she hates me,” he shoots the camera a look, “Let’s go grab another one.” 

He stands from his chair, taking a cursory glance throughout the room to spot any other animals lingering. “Oh-,” he notices a ball of fluff hiding in the cat tower sitting in the corner of his streaming room. 

Miomi is much more willing to be picked up, her purrs echoing throughout the room as he cradles her in his arms and walks back to his desk. “This is Miomi, she’s a ragdoll obviously.” 

“She’s my favorite,” Kuroo suddenly chimes in. “Literally so cuddly I love it.” 

“She is very sweet,” Kenma agrees as he strokes the cat’s stomach. She blinks up at him slowly, her purrs lessening as she drifts back to sleep. “We’ve had her the longest, ever since we moved in.” 

Kenma gently moves to set her back into the cat tower, to which she stretches only once before immediately falling right back asleep. He then looks up towards the cat shelves he’d put on his walls a few years ago, snorting when he spots exactly who he was expecting to find up there. 

“Come here little buddy,” he coaxes the animal into his hands who meows in protest as his little paws reach out to cling onto his shoulders. And Kenma is just barely able to move into the camera frame before he starts practically screaming. “This is void,” he pauses to lightly pat his head, knowing that usually helps to calm him down. “Any guesses as to why we named him that?” The question is entirely rhetorical. 

“Dude he’s like blending into your fucking sweatshirt,” Kuroo suddenly laughs. 

Kenma leans forward to look at the viewfinder of his camera, “Holy shit he is.” 

Void starts meowing again at the change in position and Kenma can feel himself flinch from how loud it is. “Hey hey hey, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he swiftly places him back on the shelf. 

“That’s all the cats in here,” Kenma tells his viewers as he sits back down. “I might do a full video introducing everyone but it would just take a while to film because a few of them like going outside a lot.” 

“Yeah I haven’t seen Binx inside in like two months,” his roommate further adds. 

“I see him in the backyard a lot but he’s usually sitting up on the fence,” Kenma notes as he reopens the game on his stream. 

Kenma goes outside???

He went out to touch grass

Binx is such a funny name lol

He ignores their jests, running in game to play his final round of bedwars for the night. “How about a three v. three?” 

“Oh yeah you haven’t played in teams in a while have you?” 

“A couple months I think,” he responds as he selects the game. “What do we wanna play after this?” The streamer directs his gaze to the chat while he waits for his character to load into the game. 

“I was thinking something like Spiderman, or we could play Stardew with Kuro,” he adds just as he’s spawned into the map. 

“Um, hello?” His roommate’s voice is loud with disbelief. 

“Hi.” Kenma takes a moment to collect as much iron and gold he needs before sprinting to get a stone sword and some wool.

“Do I get a say in this at all?”

Kenma feels his eyebrows furrow, “You realize that you’re here solely for the viewers entertainment right?” 

He begins speed-bridging across to the emerald island as he hears his best friend scoff. “Fuck you.” 

“No thank you,” Kenma hums as he finishes off the bridge and jumps into one of the emerald spawners. 

“Sometimes I wonder why we’re friends,” while the words themselves are mean, both men know that Kuroo is entirely joking as he says it. 

Kenma subconsciously nods, “All the time.” 

He spots another player from a distance and moves to crouch behind a pile of blocks next to the spawner. “I think my strat is to just kinda run and kill everyone and let my teammates worry about the bed,” he explains. 

The player passes by then and Kenma manages to take him out within a few simple hits, as he usually does. He looks over at the chat, expecting the same praise he always receives after getting a kill but is entirely thrown off by seeing a completely random topic of conversation instead. 

AHHHHH IT’S Y/N

Most unexpected duo ever💀

I was literally watching her stream twenty minutes ago

Wtf is happening lol

“Y/N?” Kenma is more than confused at this point, completely lost as to who or what his chat is obsessing over. 

“What’s that? Is that like the name of the map or something?” 

Kenma’s in slight shock for a moment at his question because there’s no way he lives with someone as stupid as Kuroo. “You’re literally an idiot. Look at chat, dumbass.” 

He decides to start making his way back to his team’s island, building a bridge to the diamonds to collect any that spawned on his way. “Oh she’s a streamer too apparently.” 

“Oh really?” He turns his character to look in the general direction of their island just out of simple curiosity, only to see something totally unexpected. 

He watches as one of his teammate’s suddenly jumps out from behind a giant pyramid of blocks, running towards an encroaching enemy player and knocking him into the void before they’re even able to make it onto the island.

But that’s not what makes Kenma stop and stare. It’s when the player starts jumping around, punching the air and spinning in circles as they seemingly celebrate the kill, that Kenma pauses. “What the fuck are they doing,” he hears himself mutter as he finally remembers to finish bridging to their island. 

GIVE HER THE STUFF

She needs supplies to cover the beeeeedddd

Y/N kinda sweaty ngl

He blinks, “That’s Y/N?” 

He runs over to her, abiding to his chat and throwing the stuff he collected on the ground in front of her (it’s not like he’s going to need any of it anyways). But she just stares at him, and he realizes that she must be dumber than he initially thought because she definitely doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

He tries his best to non-verbally tell her to pick it up - which takes longer than Kenma would like - but she finally understands and runs forward to grab the items. “Holy shit,” he mutters to himself as he turns and sprints back the way he came. 

He decides to start getting the beds of the enemy teams and he’s in the middle of killing the last player on the purple team when he sees a highlighted message pop up in his game chat. 

“Thanks :)” 

He knocks the player off, hearing the tell-tale sound of their death as he opens game chat to look back at the message. “Shouldn’t she be paying attention to the game?” He says it like he’s annoyed, and he’s sure that it comes off that way to his viewers judging by their reactions to his words. 

But he’s almost certain that Kuroo is able to tell that he’s not (he’s the opposite really) when he teasingly says, “Aw, she said thank you Kenma.” 

“Shut up.” 

And despite always being notoriously calm on stream, Kenma’s face suddenly feels warm.

~~~

“You guys saw that right?” Kenma is in disbelief as he spectates Y/N, who’s currently just standing and not doing anything to stop the enemy player running towards her. “What the fuck is she doing now? Is her game frozen?” 

Y/N doesn’t react at all as she’s being attacked and Kenma can feel his jaw literally drop when she’s abruptly killed.

“Red Team has been eliminated!"

He sits back in his chair, his eyes wide and mouth still agape as he tries to process what just happened. 

He didn’t really care when she knocked him off the bridge, was even slightly impressed that she was willing to take down her own teammate to survive. But that all changed when she didn’t even try to fight back against the other player. 

“We just lost,” he whispers, mostly to himself, and the sentence feels foreign on his tongue. 

He can hear his roommate saying something over the headset but he can’t quite understand what it is, nor does he currently care enough to try to figure it out. 

“We lost,” he repeats, louder this time and it’s insane because he feels like laughing. 

He can feel himself grinning as his character loads back into the lobby, “I can’t believe we actually just lost.” 

And he feels almost giddy as he watches his win streak fall all the way back down to zero; because, for the first time in two years, something is different. 

And never has he ever been so happy to lose.

Taglist: @crazy-people-are-here, @existential-traveller, @peachesncats, @royalz658

Any names in bold are unable to be tagged.

[lovebvni]

HI - i hope ur well

i just wanted to ask, as someone that’s recently discovered loa, how would you go about materialising a complete head to toe glo up, like yk in the movies how the girl changes overnight and everyone and their momma is like "woah omg who is that ????" yes.

i don’t necessarily have a lot of hatred towards my looks, i’ve had very bad skin (hyperpigmentation) on my face for a few years tho, definitely want that gone now that ik about the law and even my smile, those two things are what i’m most focused on? but otherwise i want like a "woah omg who’s that" moment esp now that i have school break

any words of advice, any suggestions, tips - i don’t want to feel like i’m waiting for this one, like it must materialised like TODAY like SOON

yes

thank u in advance btw

hii anon!! i’m sorry im kinda on and off here bc of some recent frustrations, but for manifesting complete change i would js have to say stick w it!! it’s gonna b hard sometimes, but always know u will get what u want.

for me, if i were to do this, i would 100000% start with writing down what in specific i want gone in some sort of journal. i know a lot of people say physical is better but u can do it wherever and how ever u want.

have that written down on one sheet of paper (or one section of the notes app) then on another section i would make some sort of check list and schedule

so i would list kinda like a check list, and i would plan it out almost like its a normal day.

wake up

brush teeth n wash face

affirm for *different eye colour* (or whatever) while getting dressed

look in the mirror before i leave and tell myself “oh i love x feature and im so glad i manifested it!!” (x obvs stands for what u want to b there)

go on with your normal day w school, work or whatever

random my decide to affirm when ur bored/not doing much (write it or js verbally/mentally affirm.)

on ur way to wherever u live, listen to a positive song, a sub, or frequencies and affirm to them.

do ur hw or whatever, anything u need to when u get home and pop some headphones in and listen to some more subs, frequencies or positive music

journal abt ur day!!! say if u felt anything odd? bc it could deffo b a sign of a change!!

(optional) do a dance!! get the positivity flowing <3 it helps me a lot !! or do anything creative, get in touch w ur spiritual side.

do ur night routine, shower, do whatever n js affirm — do it a bit more than u have earlier js to make it like more important so u can affirm in ur sleep.

when going to sleep, you can affirm urself to sleep, affirm and listen to a sub, or js decide u have what u want, go to sleep, and wake up with it

that’s like pretty much what i would do if i wanted to change my whole body. i dont follow these step by step personally, but i would 1000% recommend step 12 bc like ive sen the most results that way <3

i hope this helps anon!! i’m sorry this is so long and it took so long to reply 😭😭

[annie-creates]

My beautiful nightmare

Pairing: Lady Lesso x reader

Genre: fluff

Words: 800

Note: Hi darling, as I've said I don't wanna write another part of that story as I would have probably killed someone and I don't wanna make anyone (including myself) cry. I left the ending open so everyone can imagine the ending they want. But I've written a different family piece for you, hope it will make up for it a bit.

Lady Lesso was a force to be reckoned with. She was respected by all and feared by most. Nevers went silent when she stepped into the room and Evers cleared out of her way. No one wanted to be the center of her attention, much less her wrath. She was known to be cruel, coldhearted and firm. The smallest mistake or fault in her mood could earn you hours in the doom room, and that was a fate no one wanted to challenge. But she was also collected and deliberate. Almost anyone could get to her nerves. Except for you.

You were a shy little mouse when you started teaching in the school for evil. Quiet, subdued, and seemingly scared of everything and everyone around you. Even your students had fun of you sometimes for being too tranquil to be a real Never. But as soon as you got facilitated around the place you became the real devil in disguise. Not only did you pester your students to prepare them for all the dangers of the outside world, but you also caught out your colleagues and other authorities.

Lesso didn’t exactly appreciate that as you were showing her the fatuous incapability of her own staff. All the complain about your tricks and traps bored her to no avail. The moment she fell into one of your snares herself was the cherry on the cake of her anger. But the more you annoyed her the more you enjoyed yourself and your little shenanigans. Soon it became your personal mission to get her as many times as possible. Your highest score was two times a day so far. It annoyed her to the highest levels yet firing you wasn’t much of an option. The Nevers strangely took a liking to you, or at least appreciated your wit. And then, you were the best teacher she had here, as you have so inaptly shown her.

“You are my worst nightmare Y/l/n,” she told you once, but you took it as a compliment.

What’s better than misguiding the devil herself? She almost got used to it… so much that the moment you fell ill and couldn’t leave your bed for a week, she found herself missing your pranks. Not that she would ever admit such thing out loud of course. Your artifice and cunning was something she started to admire. She found herself enamored by you. You were still her worst nightmare tho, and she made sure to tell you every time you angered her.

Now you were sitting at the terrace bench, your back supported by cushions, looking over the magnificent mountains. You loved the peace and quietness of the place, one of the reasons you decided to move here. Whoever said Nevers can’t enjoy nice things must have been really really wrong. Sometimes you missed the busyness of the school, but you moved on in your life and you had more important pressing matters to attend to.

“How’s out little spider doing?” Leonora asked as she walked up to you, hands full of chopped wood and sleeves pulled up.

“Taking his after-lunch nap,” you replied with a smile, controlling the baby you were rocking in your arms.

“Mama I wanna play,” your daughter whined as she came back from the trip with her mother.

“You have to wait till Y/s/n is a bit older my dear viper. I promise you he’ll be in all the trouble with you then,” you assured the little girl. “Don’t worry, he’ll be running around before you blink.”

“How do you know? It’s taking him too long,” Y/d/n wasn’t having your excuses.

“Because that’s what you did to me and mommy. You grew up before we turned around to wipe your chin,” your wife laughed at that as your daughter got obviously tired with the conversation already and ran into the house to do god knows what.

“Well she’s not wrong, I can’t wait for out little demon to run around causing trouble either,” Leonora admits as she sits next to you, taking your son in her arms.

“I’m sure you can’t. Maybe you should be cleaning up all the mess this time,” you taunt her leaning your head on her shoulder.

“Hey, they got that after you!” Lesso argues with an amused smile.

“Yeah sure, cause the dean of evil and wickedness herself is a good little angel who wouldn’t hurt a fly,” sometimes she was just as annoying as you could be, but you loved her for it none the less. “But I love you with all your devilry and spite.” you assure her, you adored and sometimes even envied her troubling cruel talents.

“I love you, my beautiful nightmare.” Leonora exclaimed as she kissed your head, admiring the little vicious family you’ve build together.

[thefanciestborrower]

do you have prey link hc's i am BEGGING spare vore

YEAH here you go! These are mostly gonna be B0TW and T0TK Link since that's who I talk about most on here, but if you want any other version I'd be happy to do that too. Okay so it might actually take Link a second to warm up to being eaten in a friendly manner if I'm being honest because there are. SO many monsters that would love to make him into a proper meal so in his mind it's a bad thing. At least...until it's very firmly established as something affectionate and kind of silly a few of his friends can do. Then once he warms up to it he's an absolute menace. Cannot ever sit still in someone's insides and I mean he absolutely CAN'T. It's impossible he's just too fidgety and can't keep his hands to himself to save his life. That I feel like is true of every Link, but especially our lovely B0TW/T0TK gremlin boy because look at him. Even his idle animations show him constantly stretching, bouncing, and shaking his little hands, so staying still in a stomach really isn't an option. Unless he falls asleep of course which is, a very big probability. Especially if he's bored. Something I think might be a little funny is how easy it would be to startle him by just, grabbing him up. For a normally rather stoic hero it seems very easy to catch him off guard in the games, and I feel like that would very much apply to any time a friend decided to grab him for a snack, even if they hadn't meant to scare him. He'll make the silliest shocked little face before he realizes what happened and chills out. The biggest culprits of just snatching him would probably be Si.don and Dar.uk because, well look at them they're huge.

For Sid.on it's more of an affectionate Z0ra thing I think. It feels like something they would use to transport very young Z0ra still in their tadpole stage if they had to and a lot of fish use mouth brooding anyways to care for their eggs, so it stands to reason that eating someone might be a fairly understood and acceptable thing. Especially looking at all the stuff that happened with Jabu Ja.bu in previous games. Sooo Sid.on has a tendency to eat Link as a way of catching up with his friend after going a while without seeing him, and honestly Link never really minds it. His insides are soft and make a great bed, and they're warm too, so Link honestly just wishes he was given more of a warning sometimes before getting gulped lmao. Dar.uk tho...he was awful about snatching Link up because he thought it was a bit funny. Gor.on eat pretty much exclusively rocks and minerals, so it's possible they might be completely incapable of processing something like a Hyli.an, especially one that's still alive and kicking. Combine that with how much bigger Dar.uk was than Link and....yeah there was really no reason for him not to eat his tiny friend every once in a while lol. Link was pretty fussy about it because he was NEVER given a warning and always grabbed at an inconvenient time, but he never was genuinely mad about it either. Just playfully annoyed and incredibly wiggly. I feel like Link also gets eaten by various monsters he fights like Hinox, Molduga, and other things like that, but it's waaayyyyyy less friendly or fun for either party

[totally-not-a-tickle-blog]

Enjoy a free pass to infodump about Roy and his parents 🎫

I am v curious about your thoughts :]

You heard them guys I got a free pass :D

ALSO I'M SORRY I TOOK SO LONG I FORGOT I PUT THIS IN DRAFTSS

Roy's parents

Uhh tw for family issues and a brief mention of S/A

Imma be honest, I feel like people see their relationship as either black or white when it's definitely NOT the case.

Black = Carmen and Richard are awful beings, they hate Roy, they won't let him do anything and would easily abandon him for money, I EVEN SAW SOME SAYING THAT THEY WOULDN'T CARE ABOUT ROY'S UNCLE. I'M SORRY I KNOW IT'S AU AND STUFF BUT,,, it makes me so so uncomfortable AAAAA

White = They're just quite arrogant and that's it, normal life and communication, nothing changes from a basic family besides the fact that Carmen and Richard are "ughh poor people". Also makes me uncomfy ngl, even tho it can be cute sometimes.

Both are ENTIRELY WRONG in my view.

First of all, (most of the cases, not all of them) no matter how much your parents suck, how much they treat you awfully or just are JERKS to you, if they did "the bare minimum", you'll stay attached to them no matter how much you don't want to. In Roy's case, I can see that they already spent a LOT of money on him and pretty sure that it already gave him good time and moments (plus gave him a nice childhood since when he was born his parents are pretty happy), so they're not 100% evil or bad. Plus, as much as he's scared, I can see that he also respects them in a way, otherwise he wouldn't even go through the "Can I say bye? You know, ehh?" scene, if he actually felt FEAR he wouldn't even open his mouth and much less sound that dry to them (personal experience cough cough)

Not to mention that Roy gets angry with people calling his mom a lady of the night, he wouldn't give 2 shits if he truly hated her 🫠

But they're definitely not oh so good either. They wouldn't communicate that easily if not at all, y'know those scenes where you have dinner with your parents and gets nothing but silence or, idk, the most boring conversations ever? Something like that, not to mention the obvious problem with accepting Roy's personality

AND TOWARDS ROY'S UNCLE. MY GOOOODDDDDDD AAAAAAAAAAAA IT MAKES ME GO CRAZY,, /NEG

I explained it before but saying it again, ROY'S PARENTS WOULDN'T JUST??? IGNORE???? OR VICTIM BLAME HIM EITHER?? PLEASE. The most realistic option here is having their support, and even there it wouldn't be all rainbows and such since they're not close. It would get a bit better between them? Definitely. 100%? Nuh-uh.

Carmen and Richard want the best for their son, a good future, a good life, a good job, good school, but they have an issue of not thinking about his emotional state and own personal tastes. Roy obviously get mad at them, get upset, but not now not today that he would say something like "I hope they die", and if he does he wouldn't mean it or would regret. Basically "I don't hate them, but I don't love love them either"

I feel like this sounds more like a rant than anything?? Sorry if it does, but I'm a bit tired to see people trying to explain their relationship in a black or white view when it's clearly not

[cagedchoices]

It's been a while since I've done bullet points for verse info, but I've been thinking about my Westworld season 1 AU so naturally the brain rot is setting in and I wanna hyperfixate on it.

The What If Caleb Was In Westworld S1? AU

Caleb winds up in possession of an obscene amount of wealth by saving Mr. Whitman's life and in an effort to find something to do with even just a fraction of the money he'll never use, he learns about Westworld.

Aa per canon lore, black hats and white hats are by far the most popular choice among the human guests, typically categorizing them into one of two roles.

Color theory and symbolism in the western hemisphere often dictates that the color white represents purity, innocence, light, and/or heroism as traditionally "good" traits whereas black is often chosen to represent power, darkness, death, mourning, and/or villainy as traditionally "bad" traits.

These are of course not the ONLY color hat a guest is permitted to wear. There are hosts and some background guests seen wearing brown hats or gray hats.

Brown hats and gray hats are naturally more "neutral" options than black hat or white hat. They represent a tendency to make impulsive decisions that happen in the moment. In color theory, brown often symbolizes a neutral but more earthy connection to the world around you. Gray is often chosen to represent an option directly in-between black and white, sometimes thought to be "boring"

Caleb would likely wear a brown or gray hat. I almost wanna say he'd go hatless because that is what he does in the 20s-themed knockoff park but. Cmon, playing cowboy without a hat is like. blasphemous?? So he really should have a hat. So I’m giving him one.

Caleb's outfits resemble Marty McFly's from Back to the Future Part III. Marty's clothes in turn vaguely resembled Clint Eastwood from the Man With No Name Trilogy.

I'm not 100% committed to this idea but. Young William takes on a bounty hunt for Slim Grant during the Past Timeline. Caleb could *maybe* take on the bounty for Hector Escaton in the Present Timeline. Ultimately, he'd probably forego collecting the bounty and let Hector and Armistice go. Tenderloin and the one other bandit whose name I don't remember are still gonna die tho.

[eveandtheturtles]

I saw that you wanted Donnie requests and I have so many ideas! First one of my SFW ideas I want is a general headcanon of Donnie with a s/o (any pronouns are fine) who is kinda chaotic and hyper but is a sweetheart and loves hearing him infodump about his projects (even though they don’t even know what he’s talking about) Sorry if that’s a strange ask 😅💜

Fear not! I heard weirder lol (not this fandom tho, y'all guys so nice). I love chaotic characters. In fact my own oc I ship with him is chaotic lol but this isn't about her. Here I will use they/them as gender neutral option but honestly yeah can be replaced with any pronoun! @littlebeanprotector

Chaotic S/O and Infodumping Donnie

The s/o and Donnie are a match in chaotic energy. Whenever there was a crazy prank going on it was these two usually behind it but Donnie has a much calmer energy to him than them.

List of things that happened (pulling in effect the other 3 brothers + Casey and sometimes April) California Reaper Pepper challenge, the googly eyes in unexpected places prank, cling wrap Mikey and Raph challenge that got mixed with a 100 layers challenge and most importantly - crazy pizza toppings.

Now with Donnie, the s/o heard from April that he used to infodump a lot in the past but brothers generally either were escaping or (*coughRaphcough*) let him know nobody fucking knows what he is on about, which is rather discouraging so over the years Donnie learned how to "contain" himself around other people.

He's not shy it would most likely be an annoyed huff through his nose and pressing his lips together.

The s/o noticed a couple times that when certain topics are mentioned Donnie perks up and it definitely seems he wants to say something but it quickly dies down and he merely nods along with a frown.

Whenever Donnie would start Infodumping and the brothers would groan the s/o would yell "Shut up! I want to hear this you asshats!!"

Another tactic was blowing up a kazoo whenever Raph would try and interject.

It was a surprise to everyone bc whenever they were at the lair they bounced all over the place, only matching Mikey in the amount of excess energy, so they thought you also would find Donnie lecture time boring.

But no. It was surprisingly soothing.

It took a lot of poking and prodding and gentle encouragement to finally have him talk.

And boy does he talk and the things he knows! He is a walking breathing encyclopedia on certain issues.

The first time he let go the s/o sat there with open mouth. Granted a lot of it went over their head. But what was important was

Donnie's face just lit up. As he spoke he got more and more animated. His hands moving with his mouth to even bouncing on his feet. And then-

"Oh, sorry, I hope I'm not boring you..." He asked suddenly dimming down, shy.

That broke their heart a little. "No! Please keep talking I love listening to you! I love your voice and gosh you know so much!"

That helped him relax and breathe out.

They weren't lying about loving his voice. Whenever their brain would refuse to calm down but you needed to chill you'd go to Donnie to listen to him talk.

Sometimes that was how they'd fall asleep, curled up in his lap.

Now the s/o could say:

XD hope you liked that!!

Tag list!

@turtle-babe83 @madammuffins @thelaundrybitch @pheradream15 @sharpwindow @dilucsflame33

Anyone who wants in or out of it let me know. Also if you got prompts requests! I'm open!

[babybammargera]

Things bf Bam does for the sole purpose of annoying you.

He'll get bored if you take naps without him.

So he'll probably let you sleep for a little bit.

But then he'll probably yank you out of bed of jump on you.

On the other hand he's awful when it come to waking him up so those are your only options to get him out of bed.

Hes always mocking you when you get onto him about anything. So you'll have to eventually result to "Damn it Brandon listen to me"

But arguments aren't usually serious.

Pranks. So many pranks.

Like he pranks you as much as he pranks the guys and sometimes worse.

He's tried to get you with the clipper pranks (luckily April stopped him)

Fireworks in the most inconvenient times and places.

Silly string attacks while you're trying to get ready.

Or throwing you in the pool if he gets the chance.

And as I've said before he's the type of bf to straight bodyslam you onto whatever (bed couch beanbag chair etc) is closest to you.

Will 100% chase you around with spiders.

Taking a shower? Yeah he's turned on the cold water on you.

Locked a skunk in your car one time. (Honestly tho it was probably more Novaks idea tho bc Bam drives your car more than you do)

Probably trashed your room during the prank war.

But felt bad bc how you reacted and spent the day with Ryan Raab and Dico cleaning it up

Will whine till you agree to go with him to set or the skate park.

Whines even more If you didn't see him land his "fucking rad" trick.

"BABE THAT WAS SO SICK DID YOU SEE THAT?" cue whiney Bambi when you say you didn't.

If you're eating so is he. Even if you've already split your food with one of the others.

He won't get his own food or snack tho.

"Bam seriously get your hands off my food I just got that. Go get your own."

"Why would I? you've got food right here. And you're already sharing with Dico anyway its only fair."

Sleepy Bam after shoots/filming days insists on having all of your attention even if you were on set right along with him.

Like will make you sit or lay with him for the sole purpose of sprawling out on top of you and telling you all about whatever he's currently hyperfixated on.

He watches the same 5 movies on repeat.

Also can't sit still for the life of him.

And can't keep up with anything either.

So your bag has more of bams (and his friends if it's a group outing) belongings in it than your own.

His keys. A spare pair of his bitchy sunglasses. A beanie. His lighter and cigs. Some random stuff of Ry's too.

Probably more than that tbh.

He gets so hype and wild listening to music.

So never expect peace during a short car ride.

Can't ask him to hold your drink anywhere bc he'll forget and drink it.

Honestly I could go on and on for days but I'll keep it short.