Patrick loves the tentacle beds. Bob is not so sure.

You try to dress nice. How do you dress nice for a sex club? You have no fucking idea. But you've got the greaser cool guy look down pretty good, and you think it works for you. You wear your tightest t-shirt. You spend like fifteen minutes in front of the bedroom mirror trying to decide which pair of jeans is the most flattering for your glutes. This is your chance.

One might think that after spending six years serving as a Galaxy Garrison senior officer, leading dozens of dangerous missions into enemy territory, personally overseeing the deaths of Zarkon’s highest generals, and getting his arm blown off only to be replaced by a weaponized prosthetic against his will, Shiro would be prepared for anything the Universe threw at him. He was not prepared for Keith and Lance.

Short fics originally posted to my Tumblr, edited and collected here.

Mingjue’s thumbs stroke gently against the wings of his shoulders as he leans in, setting his mouth to Jiang Cheng’s ear. “Qingqing wants this, too. All three of us. You, me, her.” A shudder runs down Jiang Cheng’s spine; he’s dizzy, breath coming too fast, and he’s shamefully hard just from this, his erection trapped against the edge of the sink. “Would you like that, Cheng-di? It’s fine if you don’t, but if you do –” “Yes.” The word rasps out of him, echo-y and desperate. “I want that.”