Awww...haha.

(x)

at the end of the day i can't really judge people's charles ships because i don't ship him with much of anyone. he doesn't have time for all that he's trapped in a haunted house. stop looking for romance route dialogue options because there are none we are trying to escape the dungeon and i think i can hear something moving behind that corner. the only other human presence here is "DON'T WASTE IT" smeared in blood on the wall as environmental storytelling. like why would he concern himself with kissing someone when he's trying to decipher the vague whispers of The Ancient Beast

whenever someone calls a man "of beekeeping age" my mind immediately goes to the man the myth the legend sebastian vettel by the way

Never ever letting this article rest.

you're going to die in your best friend's arms.

crush - richard silken // planet of love - richard silken

carlos: my kind of people, love for free. i'm a free lover.

tagged by @testarossa @crudeoildistillation @magnificentbirb (last week kekekeke) and @seaplease for wip wednesday!

“Uh,” Carlos says, in a poor attempt to stall for time. “Could you let me keep my identification, at least? And one credit card? It’s my turn to pay for dinner.”

Teto’s always told him to get Apple Pay set up. Teto’s going to have the time of his life when he finds out.

His assailant sticks out a hand, crooking his fingers in the universal gesture for, Hand it over.

“Fine,” Carlos says sullenly.

He’ll have to cancel his cards, which is annoying. He’ll have to report his stolen driver’s license, which is even more annoying. Damn this place. And damn Oscar, for even suggesting they get out for some dinner. Carlos should have known better than to listen to him—ever.

“Not my phone,” Carlos says, dismayed. “I’ve already given you what you asked. Por favor, there’s close to five hundred dollars in my wallet.”

Some yelling, some posturing with the baseball bat, the tip of which gets very close to Carlos’s nose. He almost grows cross-eyed trying to track its wayward path. The Gigi in his mind is yelling at him, don’t negotiate, don’t attempt it, give the guy what he wants. Just give it to him! But adrenaline builds up, coursing down from the top of his head to the rest of his body. There’s, well. There’re texts in his phone. There’re pictures. Not just of himself.

Decision made in a second. The burst of charge exits out his feet like lightning, and Carlos stops thinking to pivot and run. More yelling, followed by the metallic clank of the baseball bat narrowly missing him and finding a permanent mark in the alley wall. Fucking hell, have they never heard of a streetlamp in Melbourne? Where the hell is he going? Left first, then right. Huff, huff, breathe deep, breathe even. There’s absolutely no way some random guy trying to rob him can outstrip Carlos in a competition of speed. No way. Never mind that it’s been happening in a different context entirely. There’re no machines involved here. Just the strength of his legs, and a body which hasn’t abandoned him yet. The phone he holds in a death grip in his right hand. Head down, arms swing, go, go, go—

Fuck, ow. Ow. Fuck.

Apparently, there’re curbs and things which serve to trip people when they’re running through the street. Down he goes in a mess of limbs. He scrapes his elbow, forearms, then palms in quick succession. Skin rolled up on the surface like crumpled paper, he’ll start bleeding in a minute. Breath knocked out of him, Carlos barely has time to toss himself around, and raise an arm up to defend against the baseball bat swinging its merry way down.

A shocked gasp, a wounded sound, made by someone other than him. Carlos forces his scrunched eyes open. There’s a patch of dark in front of him, or above him rather, darker than the surrounding night. Half of the dark patch has a face. A mouth grimacing, lips caught in between teeth. Huh. Cute teeth.  

Carlos doesn’t know much about Melbourne’s vigilante, only that he makes appearances in the night and dresses in stylish Kevlar. No amount of padding is going to stop a baseball bat from hurting though.

“Get up,” Carlos whispers to him.

Those lips wobble, and then flatten as if in annoyance, and Masked Man shifts his weight off of Carlos. Like he’s affronted. It appears as though Carlos can do no right, tonight.

The baseball bat makes its move again, though the sound of impact is weaker this time, panicked. Masked Man growls, pissed off. Carlos swallows down a squeak. Another attempt at a swing is caught in a gloved palm, and Masked Man jerks the bat out of the assailant’s hands with enough force for the guy to stumble back, wind in his sails all gone. The fight’s pretty much over, which is slightly anti-climatic. Guy Who Used to Have Baseball Bat is already hightailing it out of here.

“Ay,” Carlos says, when it becomes abundantly clear Masked Man isn’t going to say anything. “Dating, am I right? Dangerous scene.”

Masked Man flings himself around, presumably to chastise Carlos for gallivanting in the dark, but any form of lecture dissolves into a hiss of pain. A very small, very unguarded sound. Only now does Carlos notice Masked Man is devoid of Kevlar, apart from the cowl and the gloves. He’s donned in a black, soft turtleneck, and nice, slim-fitting jeans.

“You patrol without armour?” Unbelievable, prioritising fashion over functionality. “What kind of vigilante are you?”

The mouth moves into a scowl. Carlos is no lip-reader, but it isn’t hard when Masked Man’s teeth form around the word Idiot so clearly.

“Yes, yes.” Carlos rolls his eyes. “I shouldn’t have been out, yes?”

Masked Man glares, gesturing indignantly at Carlos’s phone, still somehow nestled in his right hand.

“Hey,” Carlos says weakly. He clutches the phone to his chest. “I have important things in here.”

Masked Man glares even more, batting away Carlos’s attempts to reach out. Guilt niggles at the base of Carlos’s spine, worms its way into his chest. Masked Man had stepped in between Carlos and a baseball bat with no form of protection, whatsoever. Nothing but his bare back, which should be turning black-and-blue right about now. Carlos doesn’t point out that Masked Man should probably seek medical attention, knowing very well it wouldn’t be appreciated.

“Ice first,” Carlos blurts out, before Masked Man can whisk himself away in smoke, or however cool, edgy way superheroes like to disappear. “Ice to reduce swelling. Heat for later to encourage healing.”

The cowl blends seamlessly into the night with how dark it is. Vantablack, Carlos’s brain supplies, somewhat impressed. It only serves to highlight the whites in Masked Man’s eyes, shocked and round, like he can’t believe Carlos would say something even remotely helpful. 

“I get bruises all the time,” Carlos insists, somehow wanting to prove his expertise. Masked Man straightens up agitatedly, and Carlos waves it off. “From seatbelts. It’s a long story. Listen. Ice first, then heat, okay?”

A half shrug.

Carlos nods, satisfied. He turns around, allowing Masked Man the privacy to disappear in a suitably cool way. Takes less than a few seconds, and Masked Man is gone.

It takes Carlos a few more seconds to realize he’s forty-five minutes past when he was supposed to meet Oscar, and also hopelessly lost. He retraces his steps like a baby foal while texting Caco, completely unaware of his surroundings in a way that Masked Man would surely disapprove.

hey could you cancel my cards

What why.

Carlos why

Carlos?

never mind, i am all good. Wonders of wonders, his wallet is safely tucked into his back pocket, as if it had never left. Carlos grins. Masked Man is very sneaky! He has saved Carlos having to make a police report, which makes him ace in Carlos’s book. Carlos should get on the hero forums on Reddit and rate him. He should do that now, before he forgets.

melbourne’s masked man: five stars!

fought off a baseball bat with just gloves and returned my wallet. he should try to wear padding of some sort. cool mask.

Carlos hesitates. Adds: cute teeth. it was all i could see of his face

By the time he makes it to the restaurant, Carlos is so late he’d be surprised if Oscar didn’t throw a glass of water at him. It’s a little sadder to discover Oscar isn’t even there. In fairness, Carlos would be pretty annoyed if his dinner partner were to show up as if he came from a different time zone. All the same, it would have been nice if Oscar at least texted before he left. Even to say, Where the hell are you?

Carlos sulks at his phone. Someone liked his review on Reddit. His stomach growls petulantly. Well, fuck it. Oscar did say the BBQ here was good.

--

He will never go as far as to say he’s “good” at media, but with this many fan stages under his belt, the questions are no longer as tricky to navigate. How are you feeling about your chances this weekend? Anything you want to say to the fans? When will you go on a golf date with Alex? Carlos smiles and answers in half-truths, all the while tracing the chicanes of the Shanghai track in his head. The first two bends lead immediately into turn three and four. One and two are more difficult, requiring lift on entry, but a good exit is necessary on four. Yes, I gave some good advice to the rookies. Keep pushing always.

It takes Carlos a surprising long time to notice. Surprising because he’s been priding himself on noticing, lately. Whether the swoop of hair on Oscar’s forehead falls to the left or the right, how many freckles he’s accumulating as the weeks go by. On stage, Oscar’s gone ahead and dissociated so hard he isn’t even on the same planet. Staring out at some spot between the crowd and the ground, mouth soft in its slackness. Carlos recognizes the look. He can only hope he’s never been this obvious.

“Oscar,” he says, voice hovering between teasing and tentative. “You haven’t talked.”

Oscar’s scowl disappears so quickly no one else would’ve caught it. But, well. Carlos has been noticing.

“I was quite happy just standing here,” Oscar says, almost resigned, but then media personality kicks in and he launches into a suitable answer.

Oops, Carlos thinks, and certainly enough, backstage, Oscar yanks him away into a corner.

“Mate,” he says, looking this close to stomping his foot. Carlos might go so far as to say he’s whining. Imagine that, Oscar whining. “You, like, shift into a separate dimension all the time during interviews and I’m nice enough not to point it out in front of hundreds of people.”

Carlos juts his jaw out, catches Oscar’s eyes following the movement. He’s trying to stall for time. In truth he could’ve left Oscar to his own devices. Why didn’t he? Saying he wanted to hear Oscar talk was going to scrape a little too close to his ribs for his liking.

“You stood me up,” he blurts out. It’s possible he’s panicking a little. “I didn’t know what to order! They gave me the giant barbeque platter. Do you know how sad that made me look? Eating all the chicken wings by myself?”

Oscar’s face makes some ridiculous shape, eyebrows shooting up, eyes growing wide, mouth forming around outrage.

“You—that’s why you called me out on stage?” Oscar says. He’s being so incredulous and Carlos probably shouldn’t laugh. “You’re. You’re the worst!”

“Aw,” Carlos says, somewhat unaffected, but now growing equally incredulous. “So why did you?”

Oscar flushes, all the way down from his hairline. It’s not not cute. “I was—I mean, there was. An incident. And I. Couldn’t get to you in time.”

“Oh-kay,” Carlos says, shrugging as nonchalantly as he can. It’s not as if Oscar was the one getting mugged. “Don’t tell me then. You’re lucky I’m very forgiving.”

He claps Oscar on the back vigorously to show how forgiving he is. What he doesn’t expect is the way Oscar stiffens, so hard it looks painful. The planes of his face shift, and colour leeches out of his skin quicker than litmus paper in acid. From pink to pallor. In a failed attempt to stop any noise escaping, Oscar catches his bottom lip with his two front teeth, so hard he might draw blood.

Huh. His teeth.

If. If Carlos had. Retired last year. He doesn’t like thinking about that, how close it felt to coming true. But if it had happened. It’s possible he could’ve transitioned to another role in the garage. He might have struggled with algebra, according to his old math teacher, but he’s good with statistics, data. He knows how to put pieces of a puzzle together. And he knows when they fit just right.

Carlos takes Oscar’s trembling elbow, very gently. “Gigi keeps some painkillers in the motorhome, c’mon.”

There’s a moment in which Carlos thinks Oscar will try to refuse him, and he’d have to sling Oscar over his shoulder somehow to force his compliance. But then Oscar clenches his jaw, and obediently allows himself to be led away.

“I shouldn’t have,” Oscar says, midway through Carlos cramming a pill down Oscar’s throat like he would an uncooperative cat, “been out late last night. That’s, uh. That’s why I’m in. Such rough shape.”

“Oh yes. Partying with Lando usually results in aches and pain and tears the next day. You know what else results in aches and pain and tears?”

Oscar stares at him, stiffening.

“Getting a baseball bat to the back,” Carlos says wisely. “And then underdosing on painkillers so you can appear lucid on stage.”

“Not that lucid,” Oscar mumbles. “You caught me.”

Carlos wants Oscar to un-porcupine himself. Wants some softness for his poor, bruised back. “I have nothing against doing the, vigi--vigilante?”

“Vigilantism.”

“Thank you. Nothing against that. Just against illogical, unpadded, nonsense armour.”

“I know.” Oscar rolls his eyes. “I read your review. Someone saves your life and the first thing you do is to complain online. Typical.”

“Typical Carlos,” Carlos says, smiling.

“Yeah,” Oscar says, though his shoulders are less hunched now, and he’s smiling right back. “Typical Carlos.”

10 + botapinto 😁

brargentina yaoi served fresh.

Franco is only ever available when he’s bored. 

A 2am ‘u up?’ text and a quizzical emoji, sometimes a kissy face, sometimes a devil. Gabriel considers ghosting him, but Franco sends a pic, shirtless in a bathroom with droplet stains all across the mirror. The waistband of his shorts dips below his adonis belt, a trail of hair getting lost in the nether. And Gabi is only a man…

wanna come over

The question should get a no for an answer. It’s tiring being the casual hook up, the one night stand for the boring weekends. But Gabi stares at the picture again, thinking of the warmth of his mouth, the hunger of his body. His cock twitches in sympathy and he texts ‘only if you pay the uber’. One e-transfer later and he’s pressing the little call up button to let Franco know he’s downstairs, a buzz, a door opening and then two flights of stairs. 

“What took you so long?” Franco asks as he opens the door, naked save for flimsy boxers and white ankle high socks. 

Gabi doesn’t have time to answer, the door closes behind him and Franco’s mouth is on him, a desperate chase of lips and tongue, a hand cradling his neck, another reaching for his ass. 

The zipper of his jeans falls and so do his pants with them, his underwear is already strained, and Franco makes him take off his shirt with nails that feel like knives at his back. 

“God you are so hot,” Franco says before he’s leaning in, dragging teeth down his chest, kissing, licking, biting every inch of skin he can find. Franco’s painfully hard, his erection rubbing against Gabi’s thigh. He’s so fucking desperate, it’d be sort of pathetic if Gabi wasn’t so fucking turned on by it. 

“Let me fuck your mouth,” he blurts out, breathless by the sight of Franco’s flushed chest. 

“Another day,” Franco winks, taking Gabriel’s hand “I already prepped, come on.” 

The bedroom smells of vanilla air freshener and axe deodorant. Franco pushes Gabi to the bed, shrugs off his underwear like it’s on fire and climbs over him.  

“Are you even clean?” Gabi asks. 

Franco looks at him with a frown, deeply offended. “I’m not a prostitute, mate,” mate… you are trying to ride my dick and you are calling me mate, alright. “I’m clean as a fucking plate, you could eat off my ass.”

Gabi grimaces. “I’d rather not.”

He rolls his eyes, fumbling diva catching his breath before a performance. “Shut the fuck up.” Franco places Gabriel’s hands on his waist before he settles in, hand reaching for Gabriel’s cock, guiding it into the heat of his puckered hole bit by bit. 

Every time they do this, Gabi wakes up feeling like the world's stupidest clown, honking nose and all. But this is all he ever wants, this warmth, Franco crying out his name as he bounces on his cock, desperate, wanton moans as precums leaks out of him. Gabi kisses his neck, the column of his throat, the scar across his collarbone, takes into his mouth the silver cross he always wears and sucks as he tries to jerk him off while Franco loses track of himself, mumbling and cursing and shouting. 

Gabi wonders how soundproof the walls are, how likely they are to get an angry neighbour pounding on their door, how likely someone is to be jealous, to want what he has now. He’ll regret it in the morning, but for now his lips part and his teeth sink into the junction where shoulder meets neck and Franco shouts, leaking all over Gabriel’s stomach. 

The bite was deep enough to draw blood. Gabi comes from the sight of it alone.