#bug writes

sam ♬⋆.˚

sub-leaning switch!!

has zero interest in making any decisions during sex, so anything which helps with this is great

loves being told what to do, tied up, pulled around, etc.

grab him by the jaw he'll start whimpering

embarrass him, make him beg, he gets off on it so much

he's soso needy, "pleaseplease please can i put it in? please baby, i'll be so good, promise"

loves fucking while he's high, too - feeling all hazy and trusting whoever he's with to make him feel good

PRAISE!! call him a good boy, tell him how good he's making you feel

lowkey... soft pet play. get him a collar and a tail plug

loves when you randomly initiate with him - bonus points if you're doing something like talking, cooking, watching a movie

very low-key voyeurism thing, gets off big time on the thrill of almost getting caught

sebastian ᯓ★

switchy but likes to feel in control regardless

loves putting you in cuffs, would enjoy being cuffed if you caught him on the right day

likes getting off alone a lot, big fan of audio porn and hentai - probs would love a mutual masturbation sesh

huge tease and gets off on it - "so desperate for me, hm?"

can be a little mean, loves to call you slut, whore, etc

pull his hair! trust me

very few things are off-limits for him; he gets off on making you feel good and if there's something you want to try he will research and plan it

oral fixation oral fixation oral fixation. loves to suck on your fingers... or something else.

suck him off under the desk while he's playing games or working

harvey ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

a switch. either a very soft, gentle dom or a very needy sub

enjoys praise a lot both ways! super reverent and loving if he's fucking you senseless, will get soso flustered if you praise him while he's under you

sometimes cries during sex & he gets off on it!!

i think he'd be into very soft bondage. no cuffs though, just soft rope! maybe restrain his wrists with his tie

he worships you. lies next to you and kisses at every inch of your body, until you feel like you might catch on fire if he doesn't fuck you soon

loves to get on his knees for you and service you when you get back from a long day of work. use him for your pleasure, he'll go crazy for

elliott ٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ

pleasure dom but will occasionally let you take the lead if you want to

so so vocal and talkative during sex

he's worshipping you, he's praising you, he's kneeling at your feet reciting poetry for you

...good with his mouth in more ways than one. loves to give you head and he's well-practiced

very very generous lover, makes sure you get off at least once before he even thinks about himself

big fan of temperature & wax play! he uses those candles that melt into massage oil, it's very sensual

very serious fan of roleplay and goes all out no matter his role. he set dresses his cabin too so you can fully immerse yourselves

alex ⊹˚. ♡

true switch

will rail the shit out of you but equally please ruin him next time

quite quiet during sex himself but likes it a lot when you're vocal

his stamina is crazy by the way! he can and will fuck three orgasms in a row out of you and he will enjoy it too

he's got a real scent thing. the smell of your sweat makes him go craaaaazy

breeding kink! oh me oh my. ask him to knock you up, see how feral he gets. he's strong enough to get you in a mating press and he. will. do it.

he loves when you grind on him as well! gets him kinda flustered

has so many threesome fantasies

shane ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡

kind of a mean dom. he likes to boss you around

really likes it when you give him head. likes to come on your face <3

brat tamer!! he loves the thrill of the chase, loves punishing you when you've been bad. it helps him feel in control of something

likes to finger you, and he's got really strong, thick fingers so he's good at it

similar to alex, not the most vocal lover but he adores hearing you scream

loves to cuff/restrain you, especially if it's as a punishment for being a bit cheeky

doesn't have the best stamina these days so really likes when you ride him or sit on his face. helps him to keep going longer PLUS it's really hot!!

Urbain

Lunch with Urbain always felt a little like trying to picnic in the middle of a windstorm. There was energy everywhere, but none of it ever quite settled. Today, you’d managed to wrangle him away from the marble-and-glass sprawl of Quasartico’s top floor, all the way down to a sun-warmed bench just outside the office building. The city buzzed around you, and Urbain buzzed right along with it, leg bouncing, fingers drumming the edge of his takeout container. He barely touched his sandwich, eyes darting between you and the screen of his phone.

“Okay, so, after lunch I’ve gotta meet with the finance team and then, uh, the board wants a status report? And I think I might’ve lost the—” He broke off, biting his lower lip, blue eyes flickering with that blend of panic and hope that always made your heart twist. “Sorry, I’m just—there’s so much to remember. I thought being CEO would be, like, more fun? Or at least less… numbers.”

You smiled, watching as he gnawed at his lip again, worry etching little red lines along the soft skin. His tousled hair caught in the breeze, wild as ever, the sun catching on his platinum bangs and illuminating the faint freckles across his nose. Even now, with his trademark grin nowhere in sight. He looked every inch the golden boy, just a little more frayed at the edges.

You reached into your bag, fingers closing around a tube of cherry lip balm. Urbain didn’t notice. He was too busy worrying his lip, voice trailing off as he tried to remember the next item on his endless list. You uncapped the balm and smoothed it across your lips, thick and shiny, the scent drifting up in a gentle, sweet note in the city air.

He glanced at you, a question forming, but you didn’t let him ask it. Instead, you leaned in, cupping his jaw in your palm, and pressed a kiss to his mouth, slow, soft, and lingering, letting the balm transfer from your lips to his, coating the chapped skin with gentle pressure. He blinked, startled, then melted beneath your touch, shoulders loosening, the tension draining from his body as you kissed him again, slower this time, your thumb sweeping across his cheekbone.

You pulled back just enough to see the dazed, sheepish smile blooming on his face, lips shiny and pink, eyes wide with surprise. His fingers came up to touch his mouth, and you caught them, lacing your hand through his.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice barely above the hum of the city, “you’re doing better than you think. You’re still learning, Urbain. No one expects you to have it all figured out already.”

He flushed, laughter bubbling out of him, sweet and grateful. “Yeah? Even when I’m screwing up the lunch schedule and chapping my lips to death?”

“Especially then,” you said, grinning. “That’s when you need someone to remind you to take a breath. And maybe kiss you until you remember you’re not alone in this.”

He grinned, wide and real. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his whole face light up, careless and boyish as ever. The stress didn’t vanish, but it faded for a moment, softened by the warmth of your touch and the taste of cherry on his lips. Urbain leaned in for another kiss, this one clumsy and a little desperate, but sweeter for it, as if he’d just remembered how to be himself again.

“Thanks,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, voice soft and sure. “I…I needed that more than I knew.”

And for a little while, the city noise faded, and it was just you and Urbain, the world slowing down to the steady, unhurried rhythm of your hearts.

Corbeau

You slipped through the door at the edge of noon, arms full of lunch. Fresh bread, a lacquered box of onigiri, something sweet from a back-alley bakery—hoping to coax him out of the storm he always carried behind his eyes. But Corbeau was already in the throes of battle: reports scattered across the desk, a mountain of grunt rosters, and a ledger bristling with crimson tabs. He sat rigid in his high-backed chair, sharp suit pristine, but the muscle in his jaw flickered, and his fingers, long, elegant, usually so precise, kept raking back through his dark, wave-streaked hair.

He didn’t notice you at first. His glasses caught the light as he hunched forward, reading a report, then tossed it aside with a soft, venomous curse. His hand went to his hair again, twisting a lock and pulling it taut, tension bunching at his temples. You set the lunch down without a word, crossing the room on silent feet. The scent of bergamot and ink lingered around him, sharp, cool, and so very controlled.

He startled a little as you came up behind him, but didn’t protest when you laid your palms on his shoulders. “I brought lunch,” you murmured, voice gentle, as if soothing a wild Liepard. “You’ve been working yourself to death.”

He shook his head, the motion stiff, but you didn’t let him argue. Instead, you leaned in, letting your fingers drift up to the back of his neck, finding the corded tension just at the base of his skull, where stress pooled and hardened. His hand, still tangled in his hair, trembled faintly.

“Stop,” you said softly, catching his wrist before he could twist another strand. “Let me.”

He let you guide his hand down, his long fingers uncurling, resting against your palm. You cradled it gently, then slid your other hand into his hair, working slow circles into his scalp, smoothing the wildness back from his forehead. The movement was deliberate and tender, tracing the wave-shaped locks, soothing each tensed root until the urge to pull faded, replaced by your steady, grounding touch.

Corbeau’s breath left him in a slow, shuddering exhale. His eyes fluttered shut behind those angular glasses, the sharp lines of his face softening, the shadows retreating. You kept your hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing slow arcs against the knots, your other hand carding through his hair with gentle persistence.

“You work too hard, Beau,” you murmured, close enough to feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingers. “Even you need to be cared for sometimes.”

He let out a low, reluctant laugh, a sound rarely heard in this office. “If only my subordinates could see me now,” he murmured, voice rough, but no longer fraying. “The mighty Corbeau, undone by a gentle hand.”

You pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, letting your lips linger. “Perhaps they’ll be jealous then,” you teased. “Not everyone can have a loving and caring girlfriend like me.”

He leaned back further into your touch, tension melting from his shoulders, the urge to fidget, to pull, twist, and control, quieted by the steady rhythm of your care. For a moment, he was simply a man, not the syndicate boss, just yours to soothe and care for.

When he finally opened his eyes, they were clearer, the storm receded. “Stay,” he said, low and certain. “Lunch can wait a little longer.”

You smiled, hands still buried in his hair, and stayed with him in the hush, your presence the antidote to every poison in his veins.

Grisham

The Café Nouveau’s Truck No. 1 was parked beneath the striped shade of a patchwork awning, steam curling from the vents as the breakfast rush faded into a lazy late morning lull. The scent of dark roast and almond croissants hung in the air. You found Grisham perched on the metal step at the back, just outside the open service window, the midday light catching the orange-and-gray sweep of his ponytail and the neat triangles on his pale shirt. He looked calm, almost serene, bow tie perfectly straight, glasses glinting. But his hands were hidden, folded in his lap, tension humming beneath the cool exterior.

You passed him a pastry and coffee, slipping onto the step beside him. He thanked you with a quiet smile, lifting the croissant with careful fingers. But when he reached for his cup, you caught a flash of red—a strip of gauze wound neatly around his index finger, another on his thumb. You frowned, thinking of oven racks and sharp knives. “Rough morning in the kitchen?”

Grisham’s expression didn’t flicker. “A small mishap, nothing more. The almond paste was particularly stubborn today.”

You accepted the answer, but something about the way he held his hands, the careful way his right thumb pressed into the pad of his left palm, set a spark of worry in your gut. You watched as he absently rubbed his cuticle, then quickly tucked his hand beneath the fold of his napkin, fingers tight. He changed the subject, asking after your day, and his voice was smooth, but a little too quick, like a page turned before the ink was dry.

It wasn’t until Griselle breezed past, ponytail swinging and eyes bright with mischief, that you got the truth. She leaned in, voice pitched just for you: “He does that all the time, you know. Worries himself raw. Won’t stop picking ‘til he bleeds. Used to drive Lysandre mad back in the day.” She winked, then slipped inside with a tray of cups, leaving you with a new lens on Grisham’s quiet injuries.

You waited, letting the silence stretch between you, the city noise drifting in from the curb. When Grisham finally looked up, you reached for his hand, catching it before he could tuck it away again. Your touch was gentle, thumb brushing over the fresh wrap. He stilled, sharp eyes searching yours for judgment.

“You know you can always come to me, right?” you said softly, voice edged with warmth but no accusation. “You do so much for everyone. You should let others do something for you, once in a while..”

For a moment, he hesitated, pride and habit warring behind his glasses. Then he exhaled, long and slow, letting his shoulders drop as you unwound the gauze. The skin beneath was red and raw, the cuticle chewed, but you only pressed a kiss to his knuckle, soft and deliberate. You reached into your bag for a little tin of balm, smoothing it over the sore skin, careful and thorough. Grisham watched, color rising high across his cheeks, his posture melting into something looser, his free hand trembling in his lap.

“I… It’s a difficult habit to break,” he admitted, voice gone soft, vulnerable as you’d ever heard it. “I never realized you noticed.”

“Well, for a while I thought it was just general mishaps in the truck. But I started getting suspicious when you’d come home with more fingers wrapped,” you said, finishing the wrap with a new, clean bandage, your fingers lingering against his palm. “Next time it gets too much, come to me, alright? Let me help before you hurt yourself.”

Grisham nodded, lips pressed tight, but this time there was no quick retreat—no hiding, no deflection. He leaned into your touch, letting your hand cradle his, the sharp edges of tension blunted by your care. You stayed like that, the world slowing around you, the city’s noise fading to the gentle rhythm of breath and heartbeat, until someone called for another round of cappuccinos and Grisham, with a grateful glance, pressed a gentle kiss to your fingers before slipping back into the bustle of the café.

Ivor

Ivor was standing where he usually was, watching his students spar but his hands never stilled, knuckles popping, one after the other, the sound sharp as thrown pebbles in the city hush. You wandered over, drawn by that familiar staccato. 

The girls were running drills, and Ivor, though outwardly relaxed, cracked his knuckles again and again, tension rippling through his massive frame like a restless Machamp. When you sat beside him, he grinned, but his hands kept moving. 

Left, right, back, twist, pop.

“Ivor,” you said gently, reaching to still his fidgeting hands, “you’re gonna run out of knuckles if you keep that up.”

He blinked, sheepish, then let you take his hand. The size of it amazed you every time, callused but warm, the palm easily engulfing yours. You started massaging his fingers, slow circles over the joints, kneading the thick muscle at the base of his thumb. The tension bled away beneath your touch, his knuckles relaxing, his breath coming a little slower.

“That feels good,” he rumbled, a little shy beneath all that bravado. 

A soft smile touched your face as you worked your way up, hands gliding over his broad wrist then kneading the dense muscle of his forearm before tracing the pronounced lines of strength and effort that years of training had carved into him. His skin was hot beneath your palms, his arm heavy but yielding, the muscle shifting under your touch like a coiled spring finally unspooling.

A slow, contented sound vibrated in his chest. He shut his eyes, tipping his head back, wild blond hair falling even messier. “Wow. You got magic hands, huh? If you keep that up, I might fall asleep right here.”

You grinned this time, sliding both hands up to his biceps, which were broad, iron-hard, but softening as you kneaded deeper, coaxing away the tension. His breath hitched, a flush rising on his tanned cheeks. The chatter of the dojo faded, your world narrowing to the heat of his skin and the quiet gratitude in every little sigh he let slip.

You leaned in, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to his shoulder, then another at the corner of his mouth, right beside the little mole. “You don’t always have to be hard as steel,” you murmured against his skin. “Even the strongest need to take a break and relax sometimes.”

Ivor turned to you, eyes bright with surprise and delight. Then, in one swift and exuberant motion, hooked his big arms around your waist and swept you up off the ground. Your breath caught in a startled gasp as your feet left the cracked pavement and you instinctively flung your arms around his neck, holding tight, laughter bubbling up as his wild golden hair brushed your cheek.

He held you close, grinning wide enough to light up the entire Jaune district, his chest rumbling with that deep, happy laugh. “With you? I could get used to that,” he crowed, spinning you once in the golden afternoon light before settling you against his shoulder—safe, weightless, and fiercely cherished in his embrace.

George huffs, tapping at his phone before shoving it in Max's face again.

"It's Oscar's Hinge profile, Max," George says like it explains everything. It takes Max a second to understand, but eventually his brain dredges up the relevant info from its depths.

"The dating app?"

George nods, shaking his phone again, and Max scans the info on it.

Looking for long-term, bisexual, open to non-monogamy—

Max's brain skitters to a halt. He blinks at George.

"How did you even see this anyway?" is the first thing that comes to mind.

"I'm not on dating apps if that's what you're asking," George says pointedly, and Max averts his gaze, caught. "Lando sent me these."

Max nods, he hadn't even seriously thought George was on dating apps, he knows George better than to ever doubt him in that way. He just isn't really sure how to process the information presented to him. George, clearly, has opinions.

"I just don't know why he's resorted to apps. It really doesn't seem like his style of meeting someone to me."

Max agrees, Oscar isn't great at small talk, and from Max's limited experience, there is an awful lot of small talking involved with dating apps.

"Furthermore," George continues, "he's being so incredibly self deprecating in this. It's like he has no idea how much of a catch he is! Not that I would trust anyone on these apps to fully appreciate him anyway."

Max squints down at George, who is almost obsessively swiping through the handful of screenshots he was obviously sent by Lando. He runs a soothing hand through George's curls, and it seems to help ease the tension somewhat. George looks up at him, big blue eyes pleading for him to somehow understand whatever it is that's going through George's brain.

"You think this is ridiculous too, don't you Max?"

And the thing is… Max does understand. Perhaps even better than George does. Max is very familiar with the burning, roiling mass of possessiveness deep within his chest. He's well acquainted with the itching desire to have, to claim. Neither of them have voiced it yet, though they have been dancing around the topic for months at this point. This is perhaps the closest that George has come to acknowledging this shared interest, this shared want. He's always been the more anxious one, clearly worried about how wanting Oscar could possibly upset the balance of the relationship that both George and Max have worked so hard to achieve. Frankly, Max thinks George has been utterly blind, if he hasn't yet seen how much Max's blatant interest in Oscar leaks out of every pore.

Or perhaps not as blind as Max had thought.

George looks at him, unspoken questions dancing in his gaze. He's so open with Max now, every thought written across his face in such a tender display of vulnerability that Max treasures, having fought tooth and nail to earn it. There's a hesitancy there, and Max knows that George is asking for more than his opinion on Oscar's Hinge profile. He grins, predatory.

"It is ridiculous. We should invite him round for dinner so we can tell him that."