#what counts as american culture

[snekdood]

my culture is midwestern emo

[consumeroflemoans]

Which myths would you be particulary excited about working into the superfox verse

Greek myths are always a classic. I’ve already mentioned things like centaurs, harpies, sirens, and dryads. But tbh them in a modern setting has already been thoroughly explored by stories like Percy Jackson so they’re not the most exciting to explore.

I think what I’m most anticipating is Celtic folklore. It’s always been one of my favorite mythos. I kind of want to include Kelpies somehow because I love those murder horses but I’m not sure how. I just love how many of their creatures are just slightly inhuman like with the fae, leprechauns, werewolves, bodach, the dullahan, vampires, and a bunch of unique ghosts like the banshee. It would be fun to find ways to integrate them into modern society.

I think I just have a weakness for myths about tricksters

[saturnniidae]

I think American folklore is mad underrated when it comes to fantasy and horror

[clueless1995]

i hate americans actually

[screechingsandwichhologram]

i feel so insanely guilty for being american and not being good at french rn

[pissfizz]

I’m going to lose my mind oh my god I am so scared for this quincenera wtf

[timeisacephalopod]

Part of being Canadian is how similar we are to the US, and honestly not a single person on earth I think could genuinely pin point the difference between Canadian and American culture but the average Canadian. Americans assume we're the same as them (we aren't), even a bunch of Canadians think we're Americans, especially around voting seasons, and about half our cultural identity is "we're Not American!" but there are some cultural differences and if we all spoke French equally we could have had a language distinction but nooooo. Despite not being America unfortunately such a fuck off massive country right below your teeny tiny ass country (population wise) does result in a cultural avalanche from said fuck off massive country. Especially when you share a language.

The war of 1812 will forever be funny to me though because Americans were like "hmm maybe Canadians would also like to tell the British to fuck off, we will invade to show them!" And Canada was like *burns down the white house* and we've been tentatively chill with each other ever since lmao (even when we probably like. Shouldn't be cool with America but like. We could not risk that implosion politically or otherwise it'd be suicide).

[karmaphone]

anyways I think we can tie the lack of new subcultures* to the fact that nobody has any free time anymore, and what free time they have is spent digitally instead of Creating

[writingwithcolor]

Naming International POC Characters: Do Your Research.

This post is part of a double feature for the same ask. First check out Mod Colette's answer to OP's original question at: A Careful Balance: Portraying a Black Character's Relationship with their Hair. Below are notes on character naming from Mod Rina.

~ ~ ~

@writingraccoon said:

My character is black in a dungeons and dragons-like fantasy world. His name is Kazuki Haile (pronounced hay-lee), and his mother is this world's equivalent of Japanese, which is where his first name is from, while his father is this world's equivalent of Ethiopian, which is where his last name is from. He looks much more like his father, and has hair type 4a. [...]

Hold on a sec.

Haile (pronounced hay-lee), [...] [H]is father is this world’s equivalent of Ethiopian, which is where his last name is from. 

OP, where did you get this name? Behindthename.com, perhaps?

Note how it says, “Submitted names are contributed by users of this website. Check marks indicate the level to which a name has been verified.” Do you see any check marks, OP? 

What language is this, by the way? If we only count official languages, Ethiopia has 5: Afar, Amharic, Oromo, Somali, & Tigrinya. If we count everything native to that region? Over 90 languages. And I haven't even mentioned the dormant/extinct ones. Do you know which language this name comes from? Have you determined Kazuki’s father’s ethnic group, religion, and language(s)? Do you know just how ethnically diverse Ethiopia is? 

~ ~ ~

To All Looking for Character Names on the Internet:

Skip the name aggregators and baby name lists. They often do not cite their sources, even if they’re pulling from credible ones, and often copy each other. 

If you still wish to use a name website, find a second source that isn’t a name website. 

Find at least one real life individual, living or dead, who has this given name or surname. Try Wikipedia’s lists of notable individuals under "List of [ethnicity] people." You can even try searching Facebook! Pay attention to when these people were born for chronological accuracy/believability. 

Make sure you know the language the name comes from, and the ethnicity/culture/religion it’s associated with. 

Make sure you understand the naming practices of that culture—how many names, where they come from, name order, and other conventions. 

Make sure you have the correct pronunciation of the name. Don’t always trust Wikipedia or American pronunciation guides on Youtube. Try to find a native speaker or language lesson source, or review the phonology & orthography and parse out the string one phoneme at a time. 

Suggestions for web sources:

Wikipedia! Look for: “List of [language] [masculine/feminine] given names,” “List of most common [language] family names,” “List of most common surnames in [continent],” and "List of [ethnicity] people."  

Census data! Harder to find due to language barriers & what governments make public, but these can really nail period accuracy. This may sound obvious, but look at the year of the character's birth, not the year your story takes place. 

Forums and Reddit. No really. Multicultural couples and expats will often ask around for what to name their children. There’s also r/namenerds, where so many folks have shared names in their language that they now have “International Name Threads.” These are all great first-hand sources for name connotations—what’s trendy vs. old-fashioned, preppy vs. nerdy, or classic vs. overused vs. obscure. 

~ ~ ~

Luckily for OP, I got very curious and did some research. More on Ethiopian & Eritrean naming, plus mixed/intercultural naming and my recommendations for this character, under the cut. It's really interesting, I promise!

Ethiopian and Eritrean Naming Practices

Haile (IPA: /həjlə/ roughly “hy-luh.” Both a & e are /ə/, a central “uh” sound) is a phrase meaning “power of” in Ge’ez, sometimes known as Classical Ethiopic, which is an extinct/dormant Semitic language that is now used as a liturgical language in Ethiopian churches (think of how Latin & Sanskrit are used today). So it's a religious name, and was likely popularized by the regnal name of the last emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie (“Power of the Trinity”). Ironically, for these reasons it is about as nationalistically “Ethiopian” as a name can get.

Haile is one of the most common “surnames” ever in Ethiopia and Eritrea. Why was that in quotes? Because Ethiopians and Eritreans don’t have surnames. Historically, when they needed to distinguish themselves from others with the same given name, they affixed their father’s given name, and then sometimes their grandfather’s. In modern Ethiopia and Eritrea, their given name is followed by a parent’s (usually father’s) name. First-generation diaspora abroad may solidify this name into a legal “surname” which is then consistently passed down to subsequent generations.

Intercultural Marriages and Naming

This means that Kazuki’s parents will have to figure out if there will be a “surname” going forward, and who it applies to. Your easiest and most likely option is that Kazuki’s dad would have chosen to make his second name (Kazuki’s grandpa’s name) the legal “surname.” The mom would have taken this name upon marriage, and Kazuki would inherit it also. Either moving abroad or the circumstances of the intercultural marriage would have motivated this. Thus “Haile” would be grandpa’s name, and Kazuki wouldn’t be taking his “surname” from his dad. This prevents the mom & Kazuki from having different “surnames.” But you will have to understand and explain where the names came from and the decisions dad made to get there. Otherwise, this will ring culturally hollow and indicate a lack of research.

Typically intercultural parents try to

come up with a first name that is pronounceable in both languages,

go with a name that is the dominant language of where they live, or

compromise and pick one parent’s language, depending on the circumstances.

Option 1 and possibly 3 requires figuring out which language is the father’s first language. Unfortunately, because of the aforementioned national ubiquity of Haile, you will have to start from scratch here and figure out his ethnic group, religion (most are Ethiopian Orthodox and some Sunni Muslim), and language(s). 

But then again, writing these characters knowledgeably and respectfully also requires figuring out that information anyway.

~ ~ ~

Names and naming practices are so, so diverse. Do research into the culture and language before picking a name, and never go with only one source.

~ Mod Rina

[gloomwitchwrites]

Last one I swear...What If 141...had an American girlfriend and they argued or had to teach them about some cultural differences? Football/soccer...currency...bathroom/loo, etc.

You said last one but we know that's not true. Don't blame you though. Keep them coming.

I love this idea. It's so cute! Translation mixup, confusion about slang, cultural differences, etc. Even though the Brits speak English, it's nothing like American English in a lot of respects, which is why I find this prompt so fun!

Wanted to make this quick and short. Presented in four drabbles. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings: brief swearing, brief mentions of alcohol

Word Count: 400

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Those are cookies, Kyle.”

“It’s a biscuit.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “A biscuit is savory. Cookies are sweet.”

“Your biscuit is a scone.”

“Oh my god,” you groan.

An old lady navigates around the two of you inside the grocery store. Her cart almost clips you.

Kyle glances down at the list in his hands. “What the fuck is an eggplant?”

“We need it for dinner on Tuesday.”

“But what is it?”

You point and Kyle follows. His arm drops to his side and he side-eyes you.

“That’s an aubergine.”

“That’s an aubergine,” you mimic as Kyle laughs.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

The front of the pub is painted all black with intricate gold lettering. A nearby streetlamp casts the front window in a warm glow.

“Remember what I told you?” asks Simon.

You both stare at the pub, neither moving to the door just yet.

“Tell me again.”

Simon clears his throat. “If I’m buying a round, don’t offer money for your portion. Order at the bar but don’t linger. Know what you want. Respect closing time.”

He pauses and you see him turn in the reflection of the window.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it.”

“Let’s get bloody pissed then.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“You’ve got this. Don’t stress.” Johnny grasps your shoulders and squeezes. “It’ll be fine.”

“What if I mess up. Make a fool of myself?”

“You won’t,” he affirms.

“Johnny.”

He sighs and then cups the sides of your face. “You don’t have to say anything but three things.” You breathe deep, and Johnny goes in for a quick kiss. “What are they?”

“Aye,” you say. “Which means yes.”

“Naw,” and this is you emphasize with a terrible accent that makes Johnny wince, “is no.”

“What else?”

“It’s okay to use ‘fuck’ casually in a sentence.”

“That’s my girl,” laughs Johnny.

John Price

“If you’re coming to the game, you’re calling it by its proper name,” says John, pointing at you.

“What?” you ask with pretend aloofness. “Soccer?”

“Football,” he growls with annoyance.

It irritates John when you call the sport by its American name. But you do it anyway just to tease him.

John holds up a jersey. “This is important to me.”

“I know.”

“It’s a game with the boys.”

You pat his shoulder. “I know, John.”

He sighs. “What is it called?”

You remain quite and John arches an eyebrow.

“Soccer,” you answer, grinning.

“You’re lucky you’re so damn cute.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@taysarchive @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @vrb8im

[whetstonefires]

One thing I don't think I've ever seen talked about is how post-apocalypse ideation is largely about homelessness.

Homelessness looms large in the American consciousness. Like, not that it's irrelevant elsewhere, but it's got a particular cultural place in the US that's reflected in Hollywood, and therefore relevant because what makes it into film and TV sets the terms of so many conversations.

We don't acknowledge it if we can help it, but I think most people know they're never more than a few very bad months from winding up there.

Even people who are sure it only happens to people who deserve it, who fuck up and put one foot in the morass of their own foolish volition. Even they know the quicksand is there, waiting to be walked into, and that the odds are stacked against ever climbing out on your own once you have. And that they, too, are capable of fucking up. Of trusting the wrong person. Of getting cancer incorrectly.

And those of us who know damn well we can't be sure we're safe even if we do everything right, we know it even better.

And in that sense it doesn't matter what the world would realistically look like after X kind of apocalypse, what people would do, how society would adapt. Because the anxiety that's being processed is about the reality that's in existence now.

About what if my world ends. And I lose access to the fruits of developed society, to clean clothes and new glasses and running water, to a safe place to sleep where I don't expect to be killed or robbed, or driven out by men with guns and dogs. To my home and work and family and everything I usually use to tell me who I am.

What if every man's hand is against me, and every meal is a small victory, and there's only my own dwindling strength between me and the long night?

Will I make it? Will I hold up under the strain? Will I retain my dignity? Will I be lucky? Will I be able to protect the people I love, in that world, the world where no one is protecting us anymore?

Is there a way to continue to live as a human person, when you're denied the prerogatives of one, and don't know if you'll ever get them back?

Putting this anxiety into the context of a massive apocalypse divorces this scenario from the burden of shame tied up in the idea of winding up in that sort of situation in the normal course of events, by having society vanish rather than expel you, personally, as a washout, and continue on around you.

It also allows you to rule out a priori the question of what resources might be offered but can't in an anticipatory context be counted on; shelters and programs and housed friends and family who may or may not help. And narrow the narrative to only the question of what you can survive, and often a fairy tale about surviving all of it and starting over.

Rehearsing for a loss in a mythologized format is a very normal anxiety processing behavior, and I think a lot of apocalypse scenario building is attached to the buried dread of that personal apocalypse. But I haven't seen that one make the list.

[coolemmasulivan2]

It's Always You

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: You and Lando share a mutual attraction, but you've kept things professional due to career implications. However, after his first win race, things may change, blurring the lines between friendship and something more.

Word count: 6013

Author's note: First time writing about Lando. I started writing this on the day of the Miami Sprint and then when he won the next day I told myself I would publish it. Tell me what you think.

It's you, it's always you Met a lot of people, but nobody feels like you So please don't break my heart, don't tear me apart

Miami heat wrapped around you like a steamy August day and even if American tracks weren't your thing, the paddock was definitely one of your favourites.

Working with McLaren since 2019 felt like winning the lottery. Travel, new faces, and a taste of different cultures – it was everything you dreamed of. Hospitality put you in the middle of it all – the team, the fans, even the families. Being young, you clicked quickly with the drivers: Carlos and Lando from the start, and Oscar when he joined.

Carlos was your rock, a protective older brother even after his move to Ferrari. Daniel was a blast, always making you laugh with his great sense of humor, and Oscar's calm personality mirrored yours. He became your trackside best friend, sharing everything over coffee and off-track adventures with his girlfriend, Lily.

Then there was Lando. Your relationship with Lando was different. Unlike Carlos, you saw him not as a brother, but as a friend... friends that had feelings for each other.

He was shy at first, stealing glances when you weren't looking. But time made his shyness disappear. Flirting became his game, playful touches here and there and unexpected hugs wherever he felt like it. You ignored the signs until his confession left you speechless in the middle of the night in Monaco.

"I have something I need to tell you." He said.

It was 2020. Monaco was hot that night. Everyone at the team dinner was buzzing about the upcoming classic Monaco Grand Prix. Like always, after the dinner, Lando offered to walk you back to the hotel where the team was staying – nothing new. You even joked about Carlos doing the same thing.

Like all the other times, you didn't think much about the gesture. It was something he used to do, and in your head, it was just a friend helping the other. After all, Carlos did it from time to time. Why should it be any different with Lando?

"What's up?" You asked, the streetlights shining on his face. "Getting nervous about the race? The car feels amazing, right?"

Lando messed with his hair. Your voice, normally like music to him, made him forget what to say. "Uh, no, not the race."

"Then what is it? Now I'm the one freaking out." You tried to lighten the mood with a laugh. "Did you lose your house key again? You're not staying with me."

He wished you'd just be quiet. "Fuck, Y/N!" He blurted out. "I like you." The words came out fast, just like his orange F1 car. Did you hear him right? When he saw the surprise on your face, he knew you had. "I, uh, I mean more than a friend." He stammered. "Like, a lot. You're always in my head, even in my dreams. All the fucking time. I can't even look at other girls because you're all I see. I just had to tell you. I couldn't keep it in any longer."

You suddenly froze, your heart pounding like a drum solo. Time seemed to slow down, with only the two of you and the warm glow of the streetlights as the real things around. You wanted to speak, but the words simply wouldn't come out.

"Please say something!" Lando begged, his voice shaky. "Anything! Even if you don't like me back, just tell me. But don't let this mess up our friendship!"

It didn't destroy your friendship, but it sent your world spinning. You realized your little crush on the driver was a full-blown fire, and with each passing year, the flames only licked higher. But every time Lando flirted, the same words you had said to him tumbled out: "It's inappropriate."

He hated those words. He'd always argue with you about it. "Come on, I like you and I know you like me too. I know it! Who cares about work? We can keep it quiet. It can be our secret." He always had a solution for every worry, but you remained strong.

You wanted to believe that you could remain strong.

The problem was, your feelings were turning into a rebellion. Keeping them bottled up was a losing battle, and you weren't sure how much longer you could resist the pressure from the driver.

Lando strutted into the paddock beside you, his black clothes and crisp white shirt doing nothing to hide his cocky grin. "Finally figured out why I haven't won a race yet." He announced, his cologne a heady wave in your direction.

You peeked over your sunglasses. "Oh yeah, Sherlock? What's the conclusion?"

He leaned close, his voice a low rumble. "No good luck kiss from you, that's what! Maybe we should fix that? Make it a tradition if it works."

A laugh escaped you. "So it's my fault, huh?"

"Exactly!" He grinned. "And if I lose again without a kiss, everyone's gonna hear about it."

"That's your best shot at flirting?" You teased. "Seriously, Lando, you're terrible."

A playful smirk tugged at his lips. He draped his arm around your shoulder, leading you towards the McLaren hospitality area. "The only girl I flirt with is you, love. Guess you'll have to show me how to improve."

Heat flooded your cheeks, betraying your fake indifference. Lando wasn't an idiot. He knew you felt the same way, a truth as clear as the Miami sunshine.

A booming voice shattered the playful tension. "Whoa there, puppet, keep your hands off of her!"

Carlos emerged behind you, clad in his new Ferrari blues. You turned to see him glaring at Lando, who simply scoffed and moved away, the arm around your shoulder replaced by Carlos's protective arm.

He leaned down, a quick peck on your head followed by a wink aimed at Lando, who rolled his eyes with a playful huff.

"Or what?" Lando challenged.

Carlos pretended to consider, then grinned. "Or I'll run you off the track at the race. And don't even think about getting jealous. It's a bad look on you."

Agree to disagree, you thought. Jealousy did look good on him. The way he tapped his foot impatiently, the way he chewed his lip with a focused intensity – those were the subtle giveaways that made your heart skip a beat.

"Leave him alone, Sainz!" You swatted playfully at Carlos' chest, the contact sending a blush blooming across your cheeks.

"Oh, look who's defending the love bird." He teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You blushed once again. "Shut up." You whispered.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lando fighting a smile as you continued towards McLaren hospitality. A quick goodbye to Carlos later, you disappeared inside, ready for your daily tasks. Lando watched you go, his gaze lingering long after you were out of sight.

When he finally turned back to his friend, Carlos was waiting, arms crossed, a knowing smirk plastered across his face. "What?"

"Ugh, the both of you." Carlos rolled his eyes. "All this mooning and staring, it's getting pathetic. Just take her out, will you?"

Lando sighed. "I've been trying for years. It's always 'inappropriate.'"

"Well, try harder!" Carlos pressed. "Last thing you need is someone else catching her eye."

Lando's playful demeanor vanished. "What do you mean?" He pressed, a sudden seriousness tightening his features. Carlos simply offered him a pat on the shoulder before walking away, leaving Lando with a gnawing sense of unease. "Hey, what do you mean?"

The sprint had been a disaster. It all ended so quickly that it didn't give him enough time to think, no chance to catch Max and the others at the front. To make matters worse, the Stewards imposed a heavy fine of €50,000 for crossing the track while the rave was still ongoing.

Later, back at the hotel, he was torn between feeling exhausted and frustrated. A cold shower did little to wash away the bitter taste of defeat. He pulled on fresh clothes and collapsed onto the bed. Closing his eyes, he focused on the tension leaving his body, hoping for a moment of peace.

A loud ringing sound shattered the silence and startled him out of his daze. He groaned as he searched for his phone, buried somewhere in the crumpled sheets.

Y/n: Hey, Oscar and I are planning to watch a movie and grab some food. Wanna join us? We're in my bedroom.

Lando smile, looking at your text.

Lando: You know I like you. You shouldn't tell me when you have other guys in your bedroom. It breaks my heart.

Although he couldn't see you, he was certain you were rolling your eyes after reading his message. 

Y/n: Shut up and get your ass here.

A laugh escaped Lando's lips as he pushed himself out of bed. He stalked over to the mirror, running a hand through his damp curls. With a flick of the switch, the room dropped into darkness, and Lando walked out of his room.

Your room was on a different floor, but soon a familiar knock came at your door. Your heart kicked into a familiar rapid-fire beat as you swung the door open.

"Hi!"

"Hey, beautiful." He cupped your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "Osc!" He jumped in your bed and in one smooth motion, he snagged a chip from the bowl you'd set on the nightstand.

"Hey. What do you feel like watching?" He quickly looked through your Netflix library, skipping over the typical romantic comedy options.

"Anything but that mushy stuff." Lando declared, earning a playful jab from you.

"Take your shoes off the bed, Lando!"

He chuckled, kicking off his sneakers. He leaned back against the headboard, his gaze lingering on you for a second too long. You were a black Simpsons shirt and matching sporty shorts, your bare feet resting comfortably on the cool sheets. A small anchor could be seen on your ankle, sparking his imagination about what other hidden treasures lay beneath your clothes.

The spell was broken by a knock on the door. With a quick smile, you ran toward the door, returning moments later with a stack of takeout boxes. 

You settled next to Lando on the bed, while Oscar sprawled out at the foot like a contented cat. With the Avengers movie playing softly in the background, you devoured your food, a comfortable silence settling around the three of you.

Two hours passed by quickly as the credits rolled. Oscar groaned and got off the bed. You mimicked his stretch, feeling the pleasant ache of a relaxed evening.

"Looks like someone's having a sleepover!" Oscar teased, pointing a playful finger at Lando. The driver was sprawled across your pillow, a peaceful look on his face.

A soft gasp escaped your lips. "Oh, Lando!" you whispered, torn between amusement and a flicker of panic. He looked undeniably adorable, a mess of soft curls framing his face. You glanced at Oscar, who was already pulling on his sneakers. "We have to wake him up, right?"

Oscar chuckled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "We? Seems pretty comfy to me, Y/N. Let the man enjoy his rest." He started towards the door, but you reached out.

"Wait, where are you going? He can't stay here." Panic bubbled in your chest. The thought of him sleeping in your bed sent shivers down your spine.

"So wake him up!"

Your cheeks flushed crimson. "I… I don't want to wake him." The words came out a soft mumble, barely audible.

Oscar leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Then don't. Trust me, asleep is the only state he'll stay put. Besides, wouldn't you rather wake up to a grateful cuddle buddy in the morning?"He winked, leaving you speechless, alone with the British driver.

Oh my god, you screamed to yourself.

You tiptoed around the room, unsure of your next move. Finally, drawn by a strange magnetism, you found yourself kneeling by the bed.

Lando's serene face was illuminated by the soft bedside lamp. His chest rose and fell gently in sleep, a single black curl escaping the gentle mess of his hair.

An irresistible urge to touch him washed over you. Without thinking about it, your fingers reached out, tentatively brushing against the perfect curl. As if sensing the intrusion, Lando stirred, and his brow furrowed slightly. You quickly retreated to the bathroom, heart pounding as you slammed the door carefully behind you.

Leaning against the door, you let out a shaky breath. You hurriedly changed into pyjamas, suddenly aware of how thin they felt compared to your day clothes. But it was hot, and you hadn't brought anything else.

Peeking through the crack in the door, you peeked out, praying for the best. Relief flooded you when you saw Lando, thankfully still asleep, but now facing the other side of the bed.

You were wondering if that little couch in the corner was worth sleeping on. It looked quite small and uninviting. Sleep on that uncomfortable excuse of furniture, or share the bed with Lando? The answer, realistically, was obvious. 

You climbed in, scooting over as far as possible to create a respectable amount of distance from the body next to you. Sleep, thankfully, came quickly. Maybe it was the exhaustion from the day, or perhaps the unexpected warmth and sense of security that came with having Lando beside you, but you drifted off faster than usual.

Sunlight, snuck into the room, painting stripes across Lando's face. He blinked, momentarily disoriented. Hadn't he closed those curtains last night? He sat up, surprise jolting through him as he realized he wasn't in his own bed.

Even more shocking was the sight beside him. You, cuddle against him, your thin pyjamas offering little to make him look away. One of your legs peeked out from under the discarded sheet, and Lando felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the morning sun.

What in the world? How had he ended up, tangled in your sheets? A quick glance around revealed his phone abandoned on the nightstand. It was still early, but Jon would be expecting him in his room soon. He needed to get out, get cleaned up and get ready for the day. But leaving felt like ripping himself away from something precious.

He stole a glance at you. Your face, relaxed and peaceful, was turned towards him. A stray strand of hair tickled your cheek. Hesitantly, he reached out, tucking it behind your ear.  The touch, light as a feather, was enough to stir you awake.

Lando didn't flinch and when you fluttered your eyes open, his face was inches away. A wave of yearning swept through you, a desire for more mornings waking up beside him.

"Did I die and go to heaven last night?" His voice, husky with sleep, sent shivers down your spine.

"You fell asleep." You admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "And I didn't have the heart to wake you up."

"Right." He breathed the word out, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. His hand reached out, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that both surprised and delighted you. A blush crept up your neck as he murmured, "Lucky me." Then, a sigh escaped his lips. "I have to go. Jon will be at my room any minute."

You nodded and smiled, despite the disappointment tugging at your heart. You watched as he hesitately rose, groaning at leaving your bed. His hair was a mess of adorable curls, and his rumpled clothes added a touch of vulnerability that made him look even more adorable.

He grabbed his phone and sneakers and then paused, a playful smirk on his face. "So, about that lucky kiss for good luck?" He teased, a hint of hope lacing his voice. "We already slept together!"

"Go!" You muttered.

"Fine, fine." He chuckled. "See you later, love."

He turned towards the door, and an impulsive urge surged through you. Before you could overthink it, you were out of bed and racing towards him. He reached for the doorknob, but you were faster, grabbing his arm and spinning him around.

For a moment, confusion clouded his features, but it quickly melted into surprise as you planted a kiss on his cheek. It was a chaste kiss, lingering just a beat too long to be considered entirely platonic. When you pulled away, his eyes held a mixture of shock and something deeper.

"There's your lucky kiss." You whispered, your voice barely above a breath. "Now go."

Lando stood speechless for a moment, the kiss still tingling on his skin. Then, a slow smile spread across his face "Today is a day full of opportunities." He declared.

With one last lingering look, he opened the door and disappeared into the hallway. You leaned against the wall, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You had never felt more nervous before in a race. At the start, it seemed like Oscar could give Verstappen a run for his money, but then the safety car came out and it felt like you were barely moving until the end of the race, with Lando being P1. It wasn't until the checkered flag waved that you finally exhaled, a shaky breath that escaped with a nervous laugh.

The McLaren hospitality buzzed with excitement. Lando had finally done it. His first F1 victory, a triumph long overdue. You joined the celebrations, a wide smile plastered across your face, not just for the team, but for Lando himself. It was a moment he deserved.

"Great race, Oscar!" You exclaimed as the Australian driver entered the hospitality area and hug you. "You had Red Bull sweating for a while there!"

He chuckled, pulling you into a brief hug. "Thanks, Y/N. I gave it my all, but the real winner tonight is Lando." He winked. "I'm sure your champion will be here any minute, looking for his girl."

You slapped his arm playfully, a blush creeping up your neck. "Don't say that in here!"

"Everybody knows." He whispered back.

As if on cue, Lando appeared. His eyes scanned the room, a triumphant grin splitting his face when they landed on you. You saw as he and Oscar hugged each other and the rest of the team.

He weaved his way through the crowd, a trail of congratulations and backslaps following him, but it was you he was drawn to. Everyone else faded into the background as he reached you, his victory grin melting into a tender smile reserved only for you.

You welcomed him into a hug, a sweet and loving embrace. He buried his face in your neck, the scent of champagne and his signature cologne an intoxicating mix.

"We did it!" He murmured, his voice filled with emotion.

"You did it!" You corrected, pulling back to cup his face. "I'm so proud of you."

Everyone was engaged in their own celebrations as he took your hand. He led you away from the loud crowd, a silent understanding passing between you. As you slipped inside his driver's room, he locked the door behind him, a thrill of nervousness ran through you.

He closed the distance between you, his eyes roaming your face before settling on your lips. With a tender touch, he cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing a seductive path across your lips.

"Please!" He pleaded, his voice low and urgent. "Just this once…" You knew exactly what he craved.

"Lando--" You began.

"Please!" He repeated, his voice laced with a desperation that mirrored your own.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. A part of you, the part that had spent months pushing him away, hesitated. But the other part yearned to give in. You nodded.

He cupped your face in his hands and pressed you against the wall. The next moment, his lips were on yours, the taste of champagne a sweet surprise against yours. The kiss was hungry and desperate. You clung to his fireproof shirt. The world melted away, replaced by the intoxicating sensation of his lips moving against yours. All the reasons you'd held back faded away. 

But just as the kiss deepened, a knock on the door jolted you both back to reality. You broke away, gasping for breath.

Lando groaned. "Yeah?" The voice from the other side told him they were expecting him. Lando rolled his eyes. "Just give me a minute."

When you heard the footsteps fade away, you reached for the doorknob, but Lando's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist.

"Stop it, Lando." You whispered.

"Don't!" He pleaded. "You can't tell me you didn't like it. I could feel it, Y/N. Don't deny it."

"I'm not denying it." You admitted your voice barely a whisper. "But you know why this can't happen."

Lando's jaw clenched. "It's NOT inappropriate! Look," he said, his voice softer now, "I waited this long for my first win. I can wait for you, just as long."

He cupped your jaw and before you could react, he leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips. He unlocked the door in one swift motion and stepped out, leaving you breathless.

You'd politely declined Lando's after-party invitation at the strip club near the hotel. You weren't the nightclub type, and deep down, Lando knew that. You assured him that you hadn't rejected it because of the kiss, but the way the call ended, left a pit in your stomach.

"He's mad! I know it." You mumbled to Oscar, who sat beside you at the hotel bar. The rest of the team was split between a game of darts in the back and loud conversations over drinks by the pool. "He didn't say 'bye, love' or 'see you later, beautiful', we just said bye."

Oscar facepalmed as he looked at his drunk best friend rambling about their mutual friend who was likely doing the same thing at the party.

"You're his friend, Y/N, not his girlfriend." He teased, sending a blush creeping up your cheeks. You stammered a reply, but the words got tangled up in your throat. "He's probably getting lucky tonight." He continued. "Deserves it after that win."

The implication hit you like a punch to the gut. "Lucky? You think he'll...?"

A mischievous glint danced in Oscar's eyes. "Oh, absolutely."

You downed the last of your drink, feeling a hollowness in your chest. "Good for him." You mumbled, the words lacking conviction.

Oscar groaned, frustration etching lines on his forehead. "Jesus, Y/N! The only girl he wants to get lucky with is you. Stop playing these mind games and making yourselves miserable!"

You rested your head on your hand, a wave of emotions crashing over you. "Oscar," You confessed, looking him straight in the eye. "I really like him. Like, never liked anyone this way before."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Then do something about it."

Lando was having the best time of his life, celebrating his first win with his friends. He felt his chest vibrate with every beat of the bass, as he laughed with his friends. Despite the fun he was having, he was also experiencing a dull ache. Your absence stood out.

He'd downed a few too many drinks to drown the disappointment steaming inside. When you declined the club invitation, his frustration boiled over into a harsh goodbye, which he quickly regretted. 

"Did you see who just walked in?" Max shouted into his ear over the loud music.

"What?" Max pointed towards the entrance, causing a frown to appear on Lando's forehead.

Your arrival sent a jolt through him, he felt a surge of adrenaline and his earlier frustration vanished as a smile stretched across his face.

"Go get your girl, champ!" Max patted his shoulder with a wink.

Lando needed no further encouragement. He navigated his way through the crowd, his eyes fixed on you.

You scanned the room with a hint of apprehension. Even in your tipsy state, a voice of reason whispered in your head, questioning this impulsive move.

Just as you turned to leave, a warm hand closed around your wrist. You didn't need to see his face to know who it was. His familiar touch sent a familiar spark across your skin.

He wore a playful smirk, but his eyes held a hint of concern. "I thought you weren't coming."

You tried to appear casual, but your voice betrayed you. "I wasn't."

"How much did you have to drink?" He asked you, and you furrowed your eyebrows. How did he know what you had been doing? You stuttered in response, unsure of what to say. "Did Oscar let you come here drunk?"

"I'm not drunk! And how do you know I've been drinking?"

"Then why the sudden change of heart?" His gaze softened, searching your face. "And Oscar's been keeping me updated."

"Why doe--"

"Why are you here, Y/n?" He asked you.

You felt your face getting hot as you looked around the club, the among of bodies suddenly overwhelming. "I, uh..." You cleared your throat, the words catching in your tight throat. "I need a drink."

As you made your way towards the bar, Lando followed closely behind. You approached the counter and asked the bartender for a drink. He nodded and began to mix your order. Lando stood by your side, looking a you. 

"How did you get here? Does Oscar know?" The concern in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

You nodded and then drank the entire drink that was placed in front of you all at once. "Yes. He called me an Uber and told the guy to drop me here." Lando looked surprised as he noticed the empty glass in your hand. You hadn't intended to drink it so quickly, but your nerves got the best of you.

 "Whoa, slow down there."

"I thought you wanted to celebrate!" You said to him as the bartender handed you another drink. You took it and walked away. Lando's face was adorned with a smile, but worry still lingered in his mind. Despite that, there was a sense of happiness as the night was finally complete.

You leaned heavily against Lando, his arm wrapped securely around your waist, as the elevator ride made you feel dizzy. He, somehow, seemed frustratingly sober.

"Hey," He chuckled, his voice warm despite the coolness of the metal walls. You managed a watery smile, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. "What are you thinking about?"

"Dogs." You mumbled. "Do you think they dream about bones?"

Lando's laugh filled the small space. "Maybe. I don't know beautiful."

"Do you think I'm beautiful?" You blurted out, smiling innocently.

He stopped in front of your room, his gaze holding yours. The concern that had flickered in his eyes earlier was gone, replaced by something more intense. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." A giggle erupted from your lips. Lando reacted instinctively, clapping a hand over your mouth. It was late, and the last thing they needed was a noise complaint. "Shh." He murmured. "Gotta be quiet, love."

You nodded. "Okay!" 

"Where's your key?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation. You shrugged, the simple action requiring more effort than you cared to admit.

"Lando?" You whined. "Sleepy..."

He cursed under his breath, scanning the empty hallway. Walking up to the front desk for a key wasn't exactly his ideal scenario.

"Alright, you're coming with me." He said gently, scooping you up in his arms. A sleepy protest tumbled from your lips, but you clung to him instinctively as he carried you back towards the elevator.

"Can we go to the beach?" You mumbled as the doors closed.

"The beach will be there in the morning." He replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "It's almost five am."

A giggle escaped you. "Naked swim?"

He cleared his throat, the sound a little rough. You'd been a delightful firecracker all night, and he was struggling to keep his cool. "The shower's a much better option right now."

The elevator doors slid open, and with a sigh, he carried you out, your head chilling against his shoulder. He fumbled with his keycard, finally pushing the door open with his foot.

In the room, he gently laid you on the bed, the soft sheets making you relax and close your eyes.

For a moment, he stood there, watching you. The urge to pull you close, to feel your warmth against him, was killing him. But your vulnerability state held him back.

"Hey, love?" He said softly, his voice laced with concern. "Can I take off your shoes?"

You mumbled something incomprehensible but managed a weak nod. He carefully removed your heels, his fingers brushing against your ankle for a fleeting moment that sent a jolt through him.

"Maybe a shower would be good." He suggested, his voice gruff. "You'll sleep better."

"With you?" She asked him, excited.

Lando, still feeling the effects of alcohol, ran his fingers through his hair, feeling hot.

"You can't imagine how much I want to say yes... But no, not tonight." You pouted. Grabbing your hands, he pulled you up. "Ask me again tomorrow!"

He gently led you to the bathroom and helped you sit down. He waited for the water to warm up, and when it was ready, he turned around. Suddenly, Lando's breath caught in his throat.

Without him realising, you had taken off your clothes. You stood bathed in the soft glow, vulnerability etched on your face, wearing only your black lace lingerie.

He tore his gaze from you. His heart beat a frantic rhythm against his ribs, mimicking the feel of the alcohol in his veins. Only if you weren't drunk...

"Are you okay?" Your voice was so gentle and innocent, nothing like it normally sounded. You reached out and touched his back. He flinched the innocent gesture a powerful trigger for his already steaming desire.

"Y/N, please!" He pleaded. "If you keep touching me..." The sentence trailed off, the implication hanging heavy in the air. The more he looked at you, the more his willpower crumbled. Shame washed over him. "Love, just take a shower. You need to sober up." He gestured to a pile of clothes on the counter. "There are some of mine there. I'll be outside when you're done."

You stayed in the shower for a while, the hot water feeling good against your skin. You weren't completely sober, the world still held a gentle sway, but the edge of drunkenness had dimmed.

Stepping out, you wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel Lando had left out. 

As you dried your hair, you caught your reflection in the mirror. Even in the state of mind you were, you knew you were going to regret it in the morning. You put on the clothes he had left you and shoved the feeling down. 

Lando, scrolling through his phone on the bed, looked up when the bathroom door creaked open. Relief washed over him as he saw you wrapped in his clothes.

"Feeling better?" He asked. You offered a small nod, leaning weakly against the doorframe. The playful energy that had fueled you earlier had dimmed, replaced by exhaustion. "Good!" He said, a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sleepy?" You simply nodded again. He cleared his throat, the silence growing heavy in the room. "So... Are you comfortable sharing the bed, or...?"

"It's fine." You mumbled. A playful glint flickered in your eyes. "And I promise I won't, uh, bite."

Lando chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Don't get me wrong, love," He said, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper. "You could do whatever you wanted most nights, believe me. But not tonight."

He gestured to the empty spot beside him on the bed, inviting you to join him, an unspoken tension lingering in the air.

You waddled across the room, the oversized t-shirt hanging loosely on your body. Climbing onto the bed, you scooted closer to him, a nervous feeling running through you, despite the lingering effects of the alcohol still dancing through your veins.

"Can we at least...?" You trailed off, your voice barely a whisper. "You know... a goodnight kiss?

"You're a menace when you're drunk, you know that?" He teased, a playful sparkle in his eyes.

You batted your eyelashes in a way you knew usually worked. He sighed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Alright, alright!" He complied. "But on the cheek. Lips are off-limits tonight."

You couldn't help the grin that spread across your face. As he leaned in, the faint scent of his cologne filled your senses. He placed a soft kiss on your cheek, sending shivers down your spine.

"Goodnight, Y/N!" He murmured, his voice sending a flutter to your heart. "Hope you'll remember this tomorrow morning."

"Goodnight, race winner." You replied, a hint of sleepiness in your voice.

Sunlight pierced through the blinds, finding your eyelids and forcing them open with a groan. Your head felt like a maraca that had been shaken all night, and your mouth tasted like a desert. Sitting up cautiously, you winced at the throbbing in the back of your head.

Memories and fragments started to come back. The kiss, the club, the dancing, Lando's strong arm around you... and then... a complete blank. Panic started to rise in your chest. What had you done? Had you said something stupid or done something worse?

The bedroom door creaked open and Lando entered, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. He looked like a vision with his rumpled hair and a smile breaking out on his face as soon as he saw you awake.

"Good morning, sunshine!" He said, his voice sounding awful to your pounding head.

"Don't yell!" You mumbled. "Water?"

He chuckled, handing you a bottle of water. He sat on the edge of the bed, his concern evident in his eyes. You took a grateful sip, the cool liquid easing the dryness in your throat.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" He asked you, sitting on the edge of the bed, his concern evident in his eyes.

You took a deep breath. "I remember... bits and pieces." You admitted, shame creeping up your cheeks. "Lando, I am sorry if I did something or said something wrong... I must have been awful. I was very, very drunk."

He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Honestly? I wish you felt that comfortable around me all the time." Lando reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch sent a jolt through you. "You know how much I like you... Y/n, I'm in love with you."

Your heart hammered against your ribs at his confession. A real and pure confession.

"Lando--" You breathed, your voice thick with emotion.

He took your hand in his, his eyes filled with a gentle understanding. "I know..." He said, his voice a soothing balm. "Just know that I'll wait for you. However long it takes." He squeezed your hand.

Tears welled up in your eyes. The years of running, of pushing him away, suddenly seemed pointless. All you wanted was to be here, with him.

Leaning forward, you met his gaze. Then, you cupped his face gently and placed a soft, sweet kiss on his lips. It was a kiss filled with apology and relief.

"I'm tired of running." You whispered against his lips. "I'm in love with you too. I've always have."

Lando couldn't help but grin as you hugged him. First, the win, then the kiss and now the girl of his dreams confessing her feelings. Yeah, you could definitely say it was a very good day for Lando No Wins.

"I love you, Y/n." You smiled, a genuine, heart-melting smile.

"I love you too, Lando." You knew, at that moment, hugging the person you had been in love with for years, that you were finally home.

[yenqa]

SO AMERICAN! | where you meet tsukishima and—wow you are so american.

♫ – currently playing… olivia rodrigo

warnings – profanity, reader is learning japanese and is american if u couldnt tell! reader is called pretty

pairing – tsukishima x fem!reader

a/n – hashtag semi hiatus! anyways i was reading an ao3 fic while listening to this song and it sparked smth in me so enjoy! (did my research on culture shocks btw guys!!)

word count – 571

You’re smiling at him like you know him.

Tsukishima doesn’t know you. He’s just seen you for the first time when you walked into the gym–presumably to become the manager for the club next year.

It’s starting to worry him, you haven’t been properly introduced, only your eyes have met a few times, yet you don’t hesitate to smile every time you make contact.

You’re not in the same class. But he can tell by your mannerisms that you’re a foreign student. You talk a little louder than most, and your Japanese is accented but not enough where he can’t understand.

He knows he’s spot on when you go to greet Daichi with a handshake, he can see you firmly grip his hand which catches him off guard.

Y/n. That’s your name.

It’s a pretty name he admits to himself, you’re a pretty girl so it fits. He doesn’t acknowledge that–or tries not to.

You’re standing in front of the whole team being introduced to everyone, waving and smiling like you’re old friends.

He can see from his peripheral vision when they all bow that you’re unsure of what to do. You awkwardly tilt your body down too, and he lets out a quiet chuckle.

It’s cute.

He’s disgusted by himself, he thinks that something is up with him.

Shaking his head, he starts his warmups.

He tries not to keep his eye on you, but he can’t help it.

You’re holding a clipboard now, there's a paper on it he can’t see, but he can tell by your furrowed brows that you’re still struggling a bit with reading.

Making an excuse for himself, he walks up to where his water bottle–luckily right next to where you are, turns around and takes a sip of it. He’s standing right next to you now, reading the same paper as him.

Your eyes scan left to right on the paper, he laughs.

Whipping your head over, you ask, “Is something wrong?”

“Right to left, we read right to left.” He speaks a little slower than his usual pace—hoping you wouldn’t be offended.

You aren’t a smile grows on your face instead. “Oh my gosh–I was wondering what was wrong this whole time!” You laugh at yourself, thanking him quietly before restarting, eyes moving right to left this time.

“You’re so american.” He mutters, a chuckle comes out of him as he says it.

“Is that a compliment?” You ask, the paper is discarded now, your full attention is on him.

“Whatever you want it to be.”

You roll your eyes, hitting his shoulder with no real force behind it, “Whatever Kei.”

He doesn’t miss the fact that you’ve called him Kei instead of his surname. He brushes it off as another mistake, you’re new to the country after all.

Later he hears you complimenting “Kageyama and Hinata”, your voice is still louder than what a normal student speaks, and you’re gushing about their skills, to their faces. But then he looks over at you, and you two make eye contact.

He almost misses how you wink at him, it's a teasing one but it still makes his heart flutter. Then as quickly as you looked over, you looked away, a bright smile present on your face while you talked to his other teammates.

It’s definitely not fair of you to make him feel this much. Because he might just fall in love.

yenqa © please do not copy, steal or translate.

[teaboot]

How do Canadian schools teach about indigenous Canadian history and culture? -a curious USAmerican

In my experience we learned about colonization at the same time as we learned about the formation of Canada. At first it was "European settlers came and pushed out the indigenous population", then in the higher grades we learned more about the how and the why.

For example, how carts full of men with rifles would ride around shooting Buffalo, then leaving the meat on the ground to rot, because "a dead Buffalo is a dead indian", which was so fanatical it almost wiped out wild Buffalo entirely

Also how Canadian settlers were lured in with beautiful hand-painted advertisements for cheap, beautiful, fertile land that was unpopulated and perfect, if only you'd sail over with your entire family and a pocket full of seeds- only to be met with scared, confused, and angry lawful inhabitants already run out of ten other places, and frigid winters, and rocky, forested, undeveloped dirt.

also, smallpox blankets, where "gifts" of blankets infected with smallpox were intentionally given out

And treaty violations- Either ignoring written agreements entirely, or buying them out at insanely low prices and lying about the value, or trading for farming equipment that they couldn't use because they weren't farmers.

Then in the first world war, where they told indigenous peoples here that they'd be granted Canadian citizenship if they enlisted

To Residential schools, which was straight up stealing kids for slavery, indoctrination, and medical experiments

But we also covered the building of the Canadian Railway in which Chinese immigrants were lowered into ravines with dynamite to blow out paths through the mountain for pennies on the dollar

And the Alberta Sterilization Act, where it was lawful and routine procedure to sterilize women of colour and neurodivergent people without their awareness or consent after giving birth or undergoing unrelated surgeries

But I'm rambling.

We kind of learned Aboriginal history at the same time as everything else? Like. This is when Canada was made, and this is how it was done. Now we'll read a book about someone who lived through it, and we'll write a book report. And now a documentary, and now a paper about the documentary. Onto the next unit.

And starting I think in grade 10 our English track was split between English and Aboriginals English, where you could choose to do the standard curriculum or do the same basic knowledge stuff with a focus on Aboriginal perspectives and literature. (I did that one, we read Three Day's Road and Diary Of A Part-Time Indian, and a few other titles I don't remember.)

There was also a lunch room for the Aboriginal Culture Studies where Aboriginal kids could hang out at lunch time if they wanted, full of art and projects and stuff. They'd play music or videos sometimes, that was cool

And one elective I took (not mandatory cirriculum) was a Kwakiutl course for basic Kwakwakaʼwakw language. Greetings, counting to a hundred, learning the modified alphabet, animals, etc. Still comes in handy sometimes at large gatherings cause they usually start with a land recognition thanking whoever's land we're on, with a few thanks and welcomes in their language.

And like- when I was in the US it was so weird, cause here we have Totem poles and longhouses and murals all over and yall... don't? Like there is a very distinct lack of Aboriginal art in your public spaces, at least in the areas I've been

My ex-stepfather, who was American, brought his son out once, and he was so excited to "see real indians" and was legitimately shocked to learn that there weren't many teepees to be found on the northwest coast, and was even *more* shocked when we told him that you have Aboriginal people back home too, bud. Your Aboriginal people are also named "Mike" snd "Vicky" and work as assistant manager at best buy.

If you'd ask me, I'd say that the primary difference is that USAmerica (from what I've seen, and ALSO in entirely too much of Canada) treats our European and Aboriginal conflicts as history, something that's tragic but over, like the extinction of the mammoths, instead of like. An ongoing thing involving people who are alive and numerous and right fucking here

But at the end of the day, I'm white, and there are plenty of actual Aboriginal people who are speaking out and saying much more meaningful things than I can

So I'm just gonna pass on a quote from my Stepmum, who's Cree, that's stuck with me since she said it:

"You see how they treat Mexicans in America? That's how they treat us here. Indians are the Mexicans of Canada."

[st0ryf1lms]

home, that's a weird word ➳ ken sato

pairing: ken sato x reader

word count: 1.5k

genre/warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, undertones of xenophobia, basically how i interpreted the last thing kenji said to ami on their first interview, grammatical errors (most likely), no beta we die like men, personal assistant!reader

synopsis: the word "home" always left a weird taste in kenji's tongue when he said it.

a/n: AAAAAAAA I'VE FINALLY WRITTEN A THOUSAND WORD FIC AFTER 2 YEARS IM SO HAPPY!!! and i'm really hoping u guys like this bc i really am so proud of this sooo enjoyyy!!

It had been a long day, as far as Kenji is concerned. Way too long for his liking. All the cameras and microphones pointed at his direction, all those flashing lights-- a man could only take a few for so long, and Kenji has had enough of his share for the day. As he gets off his bike, all he can think of is the comfort of his own bed, how his pillow would feel against his head and how the duvets would feel covering his skin.

He opened the door to his house, surprised to see you sitting on the couch with the living room lights turned off. Your back was facing him, and with your laptop's glaring LED screen being the only source of light in the room, all he could see was your crouched silhouette.

"Already settling down, huh, Y/N?" He spoke, breaking the silence in the room. "Oh, Mr. Sato, you're home," you say unfazed, as if the only thing that was powering you right now was your laptop's battery. "Just wanted to stay for a while to catch you so I can brief you for your schedule tomorrow." You stated, closing your laptop and standing up to turn on the lights on the dim setting. Kenji sighed and closed his eyes as he plopped down on the couch in front of you, serving as a signal for you to start.

"Okay, so, first thing in the morning, Mr. Sato, you have baseball practice which Coach Shimura insists you attend, an interview scheduled…" Your voice becomes buzzing in his head as he looks out the window, a view overlooking the city. The sound of laughter and joy drifting out from the street below, making him feel very alone in this somewhat new town. "…Sato. Mr. Sato. Are you even listening to a word I say?" You say exasperatedly, not sure if your asshat of a boss actually understands that you came from a 12-hour flight, too, and want nothing to be in the comfort of a nice and comfortable bed. You follow where his gaze is at, looking out the window where the busy streets of Tokyo are hustling and bustling as the nightlife slowly rises. You look back at your boss, sporting a solemn yet longing look on his face- earning a tilt of confusion from your head.

"Can I ask you a question, Y/N? Off the record, please." He asks, eyes remaining trained on the window. "Have you ever felt like you've never belonged? Like, no matter where you go, no matter who you are, you'll never find yourself home?" He finally looks at you, noticing your once tense figure now replaced with a relaxed yet calculating stance, figuring out what to say to him. The silence feels like forever as he awaits an answer from you, Kenji letting out a sigh as he hangs his head down low.

"Ever since I had moved to LA, I lost all sense of the word 'home.' Hah, even saying it right now leaves a weird taste in my tongue. All those kids back there, they always told me to 'go back home,' and when I did go back to the house where my mom and I lived, she'd always tell me that we were right at home. Now that I'm actually back in my 'homeland', it feels so weird to even call it that now." He blurted out, his previously relaxed figure on the couch is now one of a crouched one, his head still glued facing down on the floor. "In LA, I felt too Japanese to fit in. The culture shock hitting me every single time I try to do something I was used to. Now, here in Japan, I feel too American now to even call myself a local. Even speaking in my own tongue feels weird to my mouth and my throat."

He finally looked up at you and saw a blank yet somehow shocked expression adorning your face. His eyes slightly widened and his breath hitched in his throat as he quickly realized the gravity of his words and who he was speaking to about a sensitive topic. You, on the other hand, was internally slack-jawed. What the helllll, is this really happening???? You rhetorically think to yourself as your boss, The Ken Sato, the egotistical baseball superstar, literally just spilled his guts in front of you, his personal assistant whom he keeps at an arm's length.

"I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" he stuttered as he racked his brain, trying to make up an excuse for what he said. You still stayed silent and eerily still. "A–are you still there? Hello? Earth to Y/N?" He asked, cautiously waving a hand.

"Yes," you cleared your throat, "yes, Kenji." You say, his contorted face relaxing as he hears his name slip your mouth. You clear your throat once again before starting.

"You know, if I may, I'd like to believe that home is a construct you make and that a place doesn't really define it. Sure, in kindergarten, we get taught that the definition of home is a place where you live in but as we get older, don't some things actually change? And I'd like to say that the word 'home' is one of those things. As a child, we would say home is where our parents live. As teenagers, we'd say home is with our friends as we laugh and joke with them on various different occasions of our lives at school. As adults, I believe we can be left to define 'home' what we fit it deem to our liking. After all, home is where the heart is, am I right?" You ramble on, pacing around the living room as you animatedly explain with your hands as Kenji follows your every move.

Realizing your mouth once again moved with a mind of its own, you straightened up and cleared your throat. "Ahem, sir. Right, well, I better get going. Long day tomorrow." You nervously chuckled, refusing to look your boss whose privacy you've seem to have invaded as you spoke without filter. You tentatively grab your things and slowly head to the front door, feeling your boss' eyes on you follow your every move as if saying you've overstayed your welcome.

As Kenji trains your every movement, he realizes what you're about to do and stands up abruptly from his place in the couch.

"Y/N, wait."

Your hand hovers above the door handle, eyes closed as you brace for the impact of what your boss is about to say. Please don't fire me, please don't fire me, please do-

"Do you mind if you stay the night?" He says and your head snaps back to look at him, as if he'd grown another head.

I- I mean, not like that, b- but, well… Well, you know what I mean." He sheepishly clarifies, his hand bringing up to scratch the nape of his neck. The silence is awkward and deafening, and he was about to open his mouth to take back what he said but you beat him to it.

"Sure. I'll stay the night, Mr. Sato." You face him with a soft smile.

"Please, Y/N, Kenji's fine."

He leads you to the spare bedroom he has in the house and asks Mina to deliver a fresh set of clothes where you'll stay.

"I just want to say thank you, Y/N. I know I don’t say it enough and I'm sorry for that. I appreciate everything you do." He sincerely told you, looking into your eyes with nothing but pure admiration and gratefulness. "It's all in the job, sir." You say before realizing, wincing as the honorific accidentally leaves your mouth. You open the bedroom door before saying,

"Good night, Kenji."

"Good night, Y/N."

BONUS:

Kenji wakes up to the noise of cooking downstairs, with a pair of voices talking back and forth. He rubs his eyes free of sleep and lifts the duvets off of him, getting up from his bed and out of his room.

The voices become clearer as he goes down the stairs on the way to the kitchen, where he makes out your voice and Mina's, seeming to be guiding you as you follow a recipe she reads out. "Y/N, he's awake." Mina alerts you as you turn to face him.

"Oh, good morning, Mr. Sato. I hope you don’t mind, Mina told me you barely use the kitchen anyway." You nervously chuckle as you focus your attention back on the stove. "Please, Y/N, what did I tell you?" He visibly cranks up at the mention of his last name early in the morning.

"Right, Kenji, I mean." You quickly recall, still stirring the pot. "That smells amazing, what's that?" He says as he walks over you, looking over your shoulder.

"I know it isn't really for breakfast but Mina told me how it was your favorite, so I made curry. Or, at least, attempted to make it." You explain cautiously, slowly looking over to your boss who's currently sporting a look of surprise.

"M-may I?" He gestures to the spoon. You nod and hand it to him, scooting over to give him a taste. His eyes close and you start to feel anxious, building up an excuse in your head to tell him.

"Tastes just like home."

[zyafics]

TE AMO | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (oneshot) | x Mexican!Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — After a fight with his father, Rafe shows up at your door for comfort. He didn't expect to be loved so deeply. Word Count — 4.6K.

Content — 18+, angst, fluff, smut, established relationship, brief mentions of Ward's abuse (implicit), dry-humping, fingering, gags/muffling, unprotected p in v sex, position: doggy style, and semi-public sex (almost-caught), and mentions of Mexican-American culture.

Dedication — to @rafestaurusgf for inspiring this idea and for your continual support of my fics, ily <3 (or, more fitting, te amo)

lıllılı Cariño by The Marías

Rafe feels like he's going to die.

His heart beats fiercely against the puncture of his sternum, threatening to cut out of his chest. Each inhale he takes constricts his airway, wheezing its way through the narrow pipe, as if he's choking on his own oxygen.

His mind is another problem. The way it feels like nothing and everything at once. Wiry strings tangled together, a static noise humming in the background of a broken television. He's losing his own grip on reality—and his first thought is to go to you.

When you open the door, your eyes widen, lips part into a delicate pout. You're wearing nothing out of the ordinary; an old red tank top that cuts above your naval and pajama pants that drags over the glazed wooden floor of the foyer.

His rigid shoulders instantly fall upon seeing you and he can take his first real breath. The buzz humming in the back of his head drops to a hush. Rafe can't believe how much you eliminate his problem by simply being here.

"Are you okay?" is the first thing you ask because Rafe rarely shows up unannounced. He hesitantly nods and in that brief second of delay, you catch his truth.

Taking a step outside, bare feet scraping against the fine ridges of the concrete slab, you eye him carefully. "Are you sure?"

Nothing in his head feels right.

"I just—" Rafe stammers, throat dry. "I just needed to see you."

Your eyes soften and before you get the chance to ask further, your abuelita's voice carries through the house, fluid and swift Spanish reminding you to close the door before the mosquitoes are let in.

You obey, using your clean hand—free from the dried masa crusting your fingertips—and pull Rafe into the house. Instantaneously, the sharp aroma of spice hits him, accompanied by the savory scent of stewed pork.

Without further instructions, Rafe slips off his shoes. His eyes briefly scan over your living room that's across the stairwell and notice the peeled and worn-down leather of your brown couches, the bundles of handmade quilts and woven blankets sitting on the armrests, and the plentiful candles stationed all around the room—from the coffee table with the Bible to the television stand carrying old VHS tapes behind the cabinet's glass.

Tugging Rafe along, you lead him through the hallway fitted with your family portraits and a pinned crucifix on the wall. When he enters the kitchen, the aromatic smell strengthens tenfold.

Abuelita spares a glance over her shoulders at your arrival. “Hola, Rafe. ¿Has comido?”

He doesn’t understand. “W-what?”

“She asked if you ate yet,” your mother translates with a sweet smile.

Directing his timid gaze on her, he shakes his head. Feeling small. He met your family before but he's nervous, especially now—after his fight with his father—that he'll somehow fuck it up. "No, ma'am."

She nods, translating back and the elderly woman huffs, shaking her head as her frail hand stirs the pot, muttering something quick under her breath.

Rafe's hands are trembling. Afraid that he's done something wrong. Turning to you, he asks. "What'd she say?"

“That you’re too skinny and need to eat more.”

Rafe's stomach turns. He didn't like that he was also disappointing your family but before he can dwell on it further, your mother affectionately pats his shoulder. Her voice gentle when she says, "It's a good thing. It means she cares about you."

All tension in his shoulders dissolves. Your mother returns back to her work, and Rafe finds himself able to take another breath.

He thought your family would hate him. For something, anything, but they didn't. Instead of being met with criticism and disappointment, they were concerned for his well-being. It sank into his chest how he didn't know how to respond to that.

“Hey,” your soft voice draws him away from his thoughts and grounds him. “Where’d you go?”

Rafe swallows hard. You're recognizing the heavier signs of his defense mechanism and know that, right now, all Rafe needs is some space.

You're about to pardon yourself but your abuelita cuts you off to ask for help. Momentarily shifting priorities, you seat Rafe over at the circular breakfast table shoved to the corner of the kitchen, covered with a white frilly lace tablecloth and various jars of salsas, and move towards the elder.

A distinct, low-volume sound of Spanish opera plays in the background, where your abuelita occasionally mumbles along to the lyrics. That is before she's done cooking with the pork and steps back, directing you to carry the large metallic pot to the sink.

Rafe tries to settle into the wooden chair but his shoulders return to their rigid stance. He's recognizing that you're in the middle of cooking with your family and all his presence does is disturb that time.

Once you set the pot into the basin, you grab one of the colorful washcloths on the counter—the dark blue one, not the yellow one that's strictly reserved for water spills—and clean your hand of the crusted masa before sitting down on the empty seat next to Rafe. His head hung low with guilt.

You bump your knee against his, gravitating his attention back to you.

"Don't think I forgot about you," you whisper lightheartedly, but your soft smile fades when your eyes meet his shameful ones. "What happened?"

Rafe's voice is rough when he finally answers. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"You're busy."

"I'm fine," you reassure, glancing over to your mother, who's filling in your role of flattening the masa on the corn husks. "Three's a crowd anyways."

He knows you're trying to comfort him but he feels nauseous. He doesn't deserve your kindness, much less your family's warmth and consideration. Goddammit, he should be acting like a man and get his shit together—not drag you into it.

It's pathetic and cowardly for him to come here.

With a perpetual frown, Rafe doesn't say anything. That's when you realize that whatever's going on is worse than you imagine. You reach out and lace your fingers through his calloused hand, pulling him back to Earth once more.

Your words are gentle, like a summer breeze, and you raise his knuckles to your lips before brushing a chaste kiss against the roughened skin. "What's wrong, mi amor?"

His heart buzzes. He always loved that endearment, the way the accent falls off your tongue. Whenever you call him that, it makes him feel like he's worth something.

But not right now.

He feels like absolutely shit. Rafe can't seem to articulate how he doesn't deserve you. That if anything, he's a darkened cloud in your life, constantly forecasting a future of pain, misery, and obsolete. All he wants to do is retreat and isolate, pulling himself away before he brings you any more trouble.

It doesn't help that he can't vocalize it. The words caught in his throat, thick and enormous. You can see the frustration behind his gaze, his mouth slackens but no words come through. Rafe clenches his jaw out of anger, eyes piercing and filled with self-loathe.

You recognize that it's because of the additional people in the room.

Turning to your mother, you ask, "Ma, voy a ir a mi habitación, ¿vale?"

She stops what she's doing to look at you. That silent—only a Mexican mother could converse with their daughter—look. Not wanting to hear a refusal, you added an additional por favor, to which she conceded with a nod.

Quickly pulling Rafe's hand, you haul him out of the cramped kitchen before racing up the carpeted stairs, careful not to step on any of the little trinkets scattered around. Before you make it to your bedroom, your mother shouts her warning: "Don't close the door!"

You reluctantly oblige, leaving your bedroom door cracked open as Rafe enters through the familiar space, taking a seat on the edge of your mattress. His legs are parted and he bounces one of his knees, hands brushing over his knuckles as an anxious tic.

You take the seat next to him, but the distance is too far. His hand immediately circles your waist and pulls you onto his lap.

His restless leg stops and he lifts his gaze to yours. Using your free hand, you cup the underside of his jaw, running your thumb across his cheek. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

He wants to, but he doesn't know if he can. His voice is still lost to him, and a small frown replaces his face.

"It's okay, I'm here," your words are tender, and the gentle strokes of your thumb across his skin feel good, contrasting the burning of his face. Rafe continues to answer with his silence and you decide to fill in the gaps, recounting how you spent your day. How you were preparing tamales for the upcoming church mass, how you cut chilis from your own backyard garden, how your abuelita added so much spices you had to beg her to crank open the backdoor to let some of the smell out.

Rafe listens as the words cascade out, carefree and smooth, and how your descriptions of mundane activities still captivate him. He could listen to you talk for hours.

You inform him that you missed him. That, after finishing the last batch, the first thing you were going to do was call him. But he came anyway. It's like he knew you wanted him here. That he can read your soul from miles away.

The last comment you made was meant to let him feel at peace. To let him know that he was never a bother to you—now or ever. That you, with your whole heart, will always want him.

It broke off a piece of his walls. His heart swells with your trust and you grin, running your thumb across his jaw to feel the short pricks of his fresh shave. You sigh lovingly, burying yourself into the crook of his neck. "Amor de mi vida."

Rafe recognizes those words. You've said them before, and after constant badgering, he finally learned of its meaning: love of my life.

God, he truly doesn't deserve you.

For the new few minutes, there's nothing but the stillness of your bedroom. The soft sounds of your breaths, the slow thumping of Rafe's pulse in his chest, steady and calming. Your eyes briefly close from the rhythmic beats.

Finally, he confesses. "I'm fucked up."

You don't pull away from your position, curled up in his arms—as if you were the one in need of comfort instead—and wait for him to continue. You knew he always talks better without the scrutiny of a gaze. "Why would you say that?"

His hand grazes your waist, squeezing, needing to feel you. To know you're real. His next words come out with a sharp exhale. "Because I'm a fuck-up. Everyone thinks that. Even my dad said so."

You scoff.

"That pendejo doesn't know anything, okay?" You declare, a subtle bite behind your emphasis. You're always soft and gentle, with him and everyone else, but there's a side of protectiveness that comes out whenever you hear how Ward treats his son. You pull back enough to meet his gaze, using both hands to cup his face. "I know you. And believe me when I say that's absolutely not true."

Even though he trusts you, he doesn't agree.

"You're only saying that because you love me."

"And I'll keep saying it until you believe it," your tone goes delicate, wishing he could see himself through your eyes. "You deserve so much more, mi amor."

The conviction behind your words fizzles out any of his remaining arguments. It's always easy for Rafe to doubt himself, to see all his mistakes as an atrocity committed to humankind. How could he not? He grew up hearing it said by the one person he loves most.

But not you. Never by you.

His hand captures your profile, warm palm pressed against his cheek. "You're too good for me."

You smile. "I think I'm just right."

Rafe feels lighter. Better. Real. He can't believe your simple presence dissolves all the things he hates about himself. When he sees the way you look at him, with this pure, unadulterated love, he knows he will stop at nothing to preserve it.

Rafe draws you closer, slowly, steadily, until you're nothing but a breath away. His darkened blue eyes trace your features before landing on your lips. Your heart stutters and, with a brief hesitance, Rafe leans forward to kiss you.

Gently at first, as if to taste your air, before deepening it. His hand falls to your waist while your arms loop around his shoulders. His fingers splay over your warm skin, grabbing the soft plump flesh, and causing a quiet moan to slip out of you.

He feels good. You feel good. You know where this leads and before it can proceed any further, you shut the door.

Rafe watches as you return to his lap. "Your mom's gonna kill you for that."

"Yeah," you smile teasingly, "so let's make it worth it then."

Pulling off your tank top, revealing your bare tits underneath, Rafe sheds his shirt. His eyes follow the dip between the valley of your breasts before capturing a nipple between his teeth, grazing the sensitive bub, making you arch into him.

"Rafe," you gasp, threading your fingers through his tousled hair. "That feels good."

He loves hearing how he makes you feel, reveling in your praises. Moving to the other breast, Rafe takes his time to drag out your pleasure, teeth pinching the sensitive tip in a manner that intensifies the ache between your legs.

You're going greedy. Mind blurred with a lustful haze, you pull back slightly, separating from his mouth, and Rafe pouts at the loss of contact. The image makes you giggle and when you sweep your hand across his heated skin, you mumble in sweet reminder, "This is supposed to be about you."

"Me making you feel good is enough for me," Rafe whispers and a flame licks its way up your naval, making your reservation harder to control. He delivers another kiss against your swollen lips. "Please, baby."

"No," you shake your head, lowering your hands to mess with the buckle of his belt. His erection presses directly against your core. "I want to make you feel good first."

Refusing to take no for an answer, Rafe takes your wrists and throws them back around his neck, pulling you into another deep kiss. This time, it conveys more urgency and desperation, needing to taste you and feel you flush against his chest.

Instinctively, you roll your hips over his bulge, causing a groan to slip out from him. The low rasp that comes from the back of his throat drives you wild that you part from his lips to deliver hard kisses along the curve of his neck, sucking his sensitive spots, just for a chance to hear it again.

"Fuck, baby," Rafe grunts, feeling his cock twitch beneath you. His hands descend to claim your hips. "Keep doing that, just like that—fuck, that's a good girl."

Rafe's loud. Always has been, that you had to slap a hand over his mouth, muffling the noise from reaching your family downstairs. His dark brows wrinkle in surprise, but with one clever rock of your hips, his eyes roll to the back of his head, forgetting your gag.

Noises escaping through the slits of your fingers, you're losing your restraint with each roll. Thighs burning, you persist, separating from his neck to ask, "Do you feel good?"

He nods, eyes glazed over with lust and need, and a whimper escapes when you grind against his hard-on just right.

"Baby, you know anything with you feels good to me," Rafe compliments under your palm, before gently pulling your hand away and delivering chaste kisses behind your ear, making your eyes flutter shut and your hips go faster. Wanting him deeper. "God, you're killing me here."

He needs you. He needs to be inside you.

Having enough, Rafe wraps a strong arm around your waist before flipping you over, causing you to gasp. He pins your back against the mattress as he settles on top, quickly stripping you of your pants and panties. When he has you completely bare, he reels back to admire your naked perfection.

"You're so fucking beautiful, baby, you know that?"

You blush, "You always say that."

"Because I mean it," Rafe declares earnestly, lowering himself to your level. His voice drops to a delicate whisper. "How do you say beautiful in Spanish?"

Dios mío, he can't get any more perfect.

You mumble the translated word in his ear and he repeats it back, full of conviction, with an American accent that slices through the letters. "Did I say it right?"

"Sí," you land a soft peck on his lips, causing his smile to grow, eyes bright.

Rafe descends, planting wet kisses on the valley between your breasts, to the space under your naval, to the open spread of your inner thighs. Each kiss complimented with the accented hermosa rolling off his tongue, reminding every inch of you is a sight for worship.

When he enters the space between your legs, Rafe places a sweet, lingering kiss against your dripping slit, the sensitivity of your body causing you to arch upwards, into his face.

His laugh is soft but taunting. "Need me, baby?"

"Por favor, Rafe, please," you whimper, craving him so desperately, that you draw him back up into a hungry kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips. Heat spreads through your core, needing stimulation.

Rafe fucking loves kissing you, capturing your bottom pout between his teeth and tugging it with a sweet pull. His free hand roams down to your cunt, fingers entering you with a slow and steady pump.

"You're so wet for me," Rafe teases with a whisper, swallowing your moans with a hard kiss, and quickening his pace until the sound of squelching is heard throughout the small room.

Your hips buck. "It feels so good, mi amor," you moan, eyes fluttering shut from pleasure. "Please don't stop. Please, please, don't."

"I couldn't if I tried," Rafe laughs with a tinge of condescension, his thumb rotating small circles over your swollen clit. "Baby, you're clenching around me so hard, I don't even think I can pull out."

"Don't you dare," you grab onto his arm, the one between your thighs, holding him in place and needing some sense of stability. The familiar tightness in your stomach coils and your legs shake. "Rafe."

Encouraged by your needy voice, he goes faster, pumping you, rubbing you, till you're pushed over your edge, and that thin line of restraint snaps. His free hand slaps over your mouth to cover your erupted moan, just as Rafe slows down, guiding you through your climax.

When you come down from your high, Rafe pulls out, the loss of his fingers makes you whimper. The sound itself makes him impossibly more hard, and he needs to be in you, now.

Landing another kiss on your lips, your eyes flutter open from exhaustion. "You gonna take care of me now, baby?" Rafe whispers, gaze flicking across your face to read your willingness.

You nod, and he flips you over on your stomach before hauling your ass in the air. He slips out of his boxers, red and swollen, dripping with beads of pre-cum, and pumps a couple of shots before spreading your knees apart.

Your heart is hammering when he slips it in, tip teasing your wet entrance before sliding through your folds, and a hiss escapes from Rafe's throat. "You're so fucking tight, baby," Rafe groans, filling you to the hilt. "So fucking good for me."

His thrusts start slow, your walls enveloping him in such a tight vice, that he has to move with precision, or else he'll come in seconds. Rough hands find your hips, guiding his movements, and the muscles in his thighs flex with each pump.

"My perfect girl," Rafe whispers in your ear, each roll of his hips punctuated by a heavy breath fanning against your cheek, "too good for me. Too fucking good."

Your hand flattens over his profile, his chin digging into your shoulder blades. With one hand up to grope your breast, Rafe fucks you harder, bringing you closer to your orgasm.

"Harder," you demand, and Rafe obliges, his fingers toying with your sensitive nipple, his penetration hitting your g-spot. A moan slips out of you once more, mind numb with pleasure. "Dios mío, yes."

Wrapped up in your own chase, both of your heavy breaths saturating the air, you didn't even hear that your mother was calling you.

You still as the familial Spanish alert you that dinner is ready, and to come downstairs. But you're still mid-thrust, the embers of your climax just within the horizon, and your fervent desire sizzles out.

Rafe stiffens behind you, halting to a stop, waiting for her voice to flatten out into oblivion before starting again. Rolling his hips. Controlling his thrusts. His speed quickens.

"Rafe," you whimper, eyes fluttering shut from pleasure but knowing you have other business to attend to. "We have to go."

He shakes his head, "Not until you come."

"Mi amor, please," you moan, just as he lands a hard thrust, and you attempt to pull away.

But Rafe won't have it.

"Why are you arguing with me?" He grunts, grabbing your throat and hauling your back against his chest. His strokes are erratic and passionate, bottoming out with each pump. "I thought you wanted to make me feel good."

You're losing your senses. Your walls flutter around his cock and you cry out. "I–I do."

His head lowers till his lips are right next to the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning against your skin. "Then let me fill you up."

That does it for you, and you finally snap. Another orgasm crashes into you, so powerful and sharp, that Rafe uses his free hand to cover your mouth and muffle your loud moans.

Your walls clench around him and his thrusts go faster, harder, more desperate, until his own orgasm rolls over, his hot cum spurting, filling you up.

Both of you fall onto the mattress, with heavy breaths, eyes closing shut for recovery. Nothing but the sound of harsh breathing is heard throughout the air, and Rafe's fingers trace up your spine before collecting a strand of your hair.

You wish you could stay like this forever, in this moment, nothing but the separation of skin, but reality quickly shatters your bubble when the locked handle of your door rattles.

Your mother's Spanish comes through quick. In warning. In threats. She's coming up with vivid imagery about what she will do if she catches something inappropriate in your bedroom, promising a chase with chanclas.

You have no energy in you to come up with an excuse, grabbing a nearby pillow off your bed and throwing it over your head. "I'm going to die," you mumble into the plush, and Rafe chuckles, consoling you with delicate patterns against your backside.

"I'll protect you," Rafe promises, lowering himself to plant a tender kiss behind your shoulder.

"You've never had a Mexican mother before,"

"How bad could it be?"

You remove your pillow to glare at him, but it is half-hearted and you can't stay mad at him for long. The remnants of your mother's threats fade out and she parts with a final warning; yelling at you—and Rafe—to be downstairs in five minutes. That was said in English.

"Come on, baby, let's go," Rafe scoops you up and takes you to your ensuite bathroom, turning on the faucet before helping you clean up.

His hands roam all over, and after both of you are free of the post-sex smell, you find your clothes and quickly redress before heading downstairs.

But just before you descend down the steps, you catch Rafe's bicep, holding him back. He's just a step ahead, leveling your height with his, and your eyes soften as you ask: "Do you feel better, mi amor?"

His smile is soft and gentle, but the buzz in his chest is indescribable. He leans forward to place a kiss on your forehead, before mumbling into your skin, "Always with you."

When you reach the dining table, Rafe makes some bullshit excuse about what took you so long and the reason behind the locked door. It was impressive, enough that your mother eyed you carefully before accepting the lie with a firm nod, gesturing for you to take a seat.

There are cases of tamales over the wooden dining table, each with its separate fillings, and a selection of sauces to choose from, such as red and green salsa, queso fresco, crumbled cotija cheese, and fresh limes with pickled red onions on the side.

The moment Rafe steps foot into the room, your abuelita shoots from her chair to grab a plate, selecting everything off the menu and putting it on his dish. She coos, in quick Spanish, about how Rafe needs to eat more. Adding that she'll take great offense if he doesn't try everything on the table.

Rafe laughs, but nods respectfully, taking the plate from her hands as she resettles. You pluck a dish off the side and start selecting your own choices, picking your favorite types of tamales and sauce.

Independently, Rafe attempts to unwrap his tamale and it falls apart. Your mother laughs, "Mijo, you're supposed to set it on the plate," she instructs, demonstrating how to properly unfold the corn husk. "There! Felicidades! You got it!"

You laugh softly beside him, and he turns his head, meeting your contagious smile with his own grin.

Rafe leans over to watch what you're doing, following the steps of how you usually eat and mimics them himself. When he takes his first bite, your abuelita watches him intensely, waiting, for his following review.

Which has to be a solid 10/10, or else she'll throw a fit.

He agrees, nodding to her brilliance, and your abuelita gestures for him to try the next. He hasn't even finished half of the tamale before she's forcing him to taste-test the other stuffing—from the pork to the chicken, to the vegetarian options she cooked. All of them gaining a raved five-star appraisal from your boyfriend.

And you're laughing at this. So, he is. He's having a grand time with your family, with the way your abuelita is insistent on him eating, on him trying every food she'll ever make, and how your mother refers to him as mijo. While you're trying to eat your dinner, you feel something squeezing your thighs, and you look down to see Rafe's hand connected to it.

You raise a brow, wondering if something happened, if something is wrong, but when he leans over, his lips brushing the curve of your earlobe, he mumbles, in absolute fondness and appreciation, "Te amo."

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