#Doble D

[doble-d-2]

[al3ltrss]

kevinxmarie y kevinxedd

[rogdona]

sabes q juego tendira q volver?? social empires <333 mi imperio era un recontra lio pero yo era feliz

[briannva]

@milcw — las yemas de sus dedos recorren los amuletos con el mismo interés que lo harían con una de las antiguedades de la tienda de nines, buscando algo que logre llamar su atención. ‘ ¿y si me los llevo todos? tienen colores lindos. ’ sonríe. ‘ el de los lupinos incluídos, y me llevo un par más por si se rompe o tengo que dárselo a alguien más. ’ bromea. ‘ creería más en el poder de estas cosas si no fueran baratijas para entretener a los turistas, que les da lo mismo si esto es plástico o un jade. ’ eleva entonces uno de los amuletos. ‘ ¿cuál te llevarías tu, hm? ’

con humanidad volviendo a su anatomía y el recuerdo de extremidades que aún duelen ( menos que antes ), se ha colado entre multitud sobrenatural y humana. visión se pierde en luces como un infante, hasta que se encuentra con tienda de recuerdos. detiene sus pasos frente a la sección de amuletos, cuando se percata de figura que había identificado en pasado. ' ¿y? ' comienza, rompiendo el gélido silencio. ' ¿elegirás el de amor o buena suerte? ¿quizás de amistad? ' chasquea su lengua contra su paladar, mientras sigue la lectura de artículos regados sobre la mesa. ' ¿no tendrán uno contra mordidas lupinos por ahí? ' bromea, porque cuando el buen humor lo ataca, los rencores desaparecen.

[siriusblack-the-third]

HEADCANONS: BILL WEASLEY

Tall. So damn tall. By the time he stops growing, he has reached 6'5, and he gleefully lords it over his younger siblings for years, until Ron manages to match his exact height, not a millimetre here or there. He sulks about it for a few days before inviting Ron to join him in taking the piss out of their siblings.

Wears his hair long specifically to annoy Molly. It was simply because he was so caught up in OWL studies that he forgot to cut it, but then Molly saw him with his hair that reached the base of his neck and freaked. He deliberately kept his hair long from then on, and it kind of grew on him by 7th year.

Speaking of hair, he has fabulous hair. Absolutely gorgeous. Stunning. It's pin straight like Arthur's, unlike Charlie who got Molly's tightly wound curls. He keeps it till mid back and braids it frequently. Bill And Ginny Days™ compulsorily have at least one braiding session.

THIS BOI IS BI! He is very bi and his type is ✨Badass Motherfucker✨ as evidenced by him falling for Fleur like look at her. Enough said.

Quidditch fiend, like all the other Weasleys, and was on the team from 2nd year all the way up to the end of 6th year as Chaser. Dropped Quidditch in 7th year, because being Head Boy and being a Quidditch player while studying for NEWT exams would have been too much for him and he knew it.

Got his ear pierced in 5th year from his best friend after winning a Quidditch match. He was half drunk, and when he woke up the next day he freaked the fUCK out. He managed to hide the piercing from Molly for a record breaking eight months, and the shouting match that happened in the summer before his 6th year was the worst argument he ever had with her.

Has Eldest Daughter Syndrome™. He resents Molly a little, because he never entirely got to be a child. He always had to be the Responsible Older Sibling, even as young as 3 years old. He loves his mother, but living under the same roof as her was suffocating, for him. He said as much to Arthur in a very long conversation, and they both decided with much difficulty that Bill wouldn't be returning home after 7th year— he would immediately leave for Egypt.

In the first year of his stay in Egypt he decided to say "fuck it" and got a tattoo. It's on his shoulder, a falcon in greyscale that spreads down over his bicep and out on his shoulder blade. Molly does not find out about it until the end of HBP when he gets mauled by Greyback, and he does not tell her anything about it, claiming that he is "an adult and can get a tattoo if I want to Mum, back off."

N E R D. Such a huge nerd but people look at his piercings, long hair, muscles and his whole "90s rockstar" vibe and immediately assume he is the "popular jock" type, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. My man freaks out over magical history, ancient runes and languages, transfiguration and arithmancy. A total nerd, I tell you, and scary smart. He got 12 Outstanding OWLs and 8 Outstanding NEWTs, and reduced Molly to incoherent happy crying both times.

The Hat offered him Slytherin, and he seriously considered the option for a good few minutes. "You have a lot of ambition," the Hat told him to his pleasure, "and a thirst to find your true calling." At the age of eleven, he was already sick of being "just one of the Weasleys" and wanted to step out of his parents' shade and figure himself out. In the end, the Hat sorted him in Gryffindor, but many times he has wondered what life would have been like if he ever sorted Slytherin.

Knows a lot of dances. Arthur and Molly are both fabulous dancers, and a few of his favourite childhood memories begin with his parents teaching him how to move his hips and slide his feet and enjoy the music. He's great at waltzing, knows the foxtrot and swing dance, and learnt paso doble and the tango in the seven years he spent in Egypt.

Listens to a lot of muggle rock music. All the cool bands like AC/DC, Oasis, Nirvana, Green Day, and all of those, plus a few obscure bands that he decided he liked the sound of. He's also big on different types of classical music, courtesy of his love for dance.

His favourite sibling is Charlie. Don't get him wrong, he loves all his siblings, but Charlie has a special place in his heart because they're both close in age and understand each other better than anyone else. Bill and Charlie are almost like Fred and George, a bit: one look and they know everything the other is thinking. Doesn't have a least favourite sibling, but seriously considered Percy for the role during OoTP.

Loves learning languages. The languages he is fluent in are English, Gaelic, Welsh, Old Norse and Icelandic, Latin, Ancient Greek, Spanish, Arabic (Egyptian and Hassaniya dialects), and Persian.

Has a soft spot for Ginny, like every other Weasley. That's his baby sister who can put him on his back in less than 0.2 seconds and he adores her.

[rubywolffxxx]

Como el sol de verano... (Bjorn x lectora)

Masterlist de mi autoría

Sinopsis: el chatarrero y la mecánica se conocieron cierta tarde soleada, cuando un desperfecto en un carguero y una amenaza por parte de su jefe hicieron que Bjorn se viera obligado a arreglar el desastre solo. No esperaba que un regaño y el miedo de quedar desempleado terminara en él perdidamente enamorado de una soñadora.

"¿Qué diablos le sucedió a tu carguero?"

"Pensé que eras mecánica, no policía."

____ miraba con preocupación el ollin que ensuciaba parte de los rotores de aquel motor. Lo habían sobreforzado. No sería nada raro, de no ser por el hecho de que se trataba de un maldito carguero espacial. Ni siquiera se le ocurría con qué fuerza era posible una sobrecarga.

Pero el chico tenía razón, no era de su incumbencia.

—Bueno, amigo. Esto es complicado.—____ escaneó el motor—. La pieza esta detonada. Necesitas una nueva. O rulemanes nuevos como mínimo para que funcione decente.—

—¿Cuánto cuesta?—por el rostro de la mujer, Bjorn ya se veía venir una locura.

—Dime algo... ¿Eres del nivel D?—

—¿Eso es relevante?—la joven asintió, solo haciendo que Bjorn se sintiera aún más perdido—. Pues si, soy chatarrero ¿Que no ves que te traje un carguero?—

—... Entonces no te alcanza.—____ cerró la puertita, dándole unos golpecitos al metal—. Saca tu trasto viejo de mi taller, chatarrero.—

Bjorn tardó unos segundos en comprender la situación, y no tardó en salir detrás de la mujer.

La idea de volver a su sector con la nave destruida no era ni siquiera pensable. Debía solucionar su desastre cuanto antes.

—¿Y tú qué sabes si puedo pagarlo o no?—caminó a su par, notando como reía entre dientes.

—Siendo nivel C y con un sueldo más grande que el tuyo no me alcanzaría ni para la media docena de los doce rulemanes que necesitas... Menos te alcanzará a ti. Matemática simple, querido. Buena suerte.—

____ entró a la pequeña oficina del taller dispuesta a sentarse a finalmente almorzar algo, cuando la todavía figura presente de Bjorn la hizo bufar sin disimulo.

—¿Quieres que te lo escriba en una carta y se lo llevas a tu posible ex jefe?—

—Por favor. Se supone que esa nave debe estar en funcionamiento para el próximo lunes.—

—Si, el próximo lunes dentro de 20 ciclos solares. Empieza a ahorrar, compañero.—Bjorn se removió ansioso, pensando en algo que pudiera sacarlo de apuros.

—... ¿Hay alguna mínima chance de que esto se solucione y no me quede en la calle?—____ lo miró cansada—. Por favor... Tengo una hermanita.—

____ notó entonces la desesperación en sus ojos.

Ese brillo tan característico de la gente sin esperanza. Había muchos de esos en su sector, pues romper un vehículo en Jackson's Star era una sentencia de muerte si tu trabajo dependía de ello.

—... ¿Tienes tiempo libre?—

Cuando ____ le planteó a Bjorn la idea de ayudarla con el desguace de unas naves, el chatarrero accedió sin dudar.

"alguna de esas naves puede tener los rulemanes que necesitas. Ayúdame y serán tuyos"

Lo que esa tarde empezó como un planteo de ayuda mutua, con el pasar de las horas y días se fue convirtiendo en algo más. Algo mucho más ameno.

—Dijiste "hermanita"... Navarro no tiene nada de pequeña.—____ miró divertida al chico, quien rió sin despegar la mirada del tablero que estaba desarmando.

—Bueno, tenía que darte lástima. Funcionó ¿O no?—

—Medidas desesperadas supongo.—

____ había conocido a la chica esa mañana, cuando Bjorn llegó al taller junto a ella. Le pareció una buena chica. Simpática. Su visita fue fugaz, pues solo estaba de pasada camino al trabajo. Pero prometieron comer algo todos juntos algun día.

—¿Te quedan muchas horas de pago?—Bjorn llamó la atención de la chica, quien tomaba unas llaves y las acomodaba en el bolsillo de su chaqueta.

—En realidad ya las he cumplido, estoy trabajando solo por dinero. El doble.—

—¿Por qué no te vas de éste lugar de mierda entonces? Yo ya estaría en Yvaga, bebiendo una cerveza al sol.—____ rió bajito, abriendo la compuerta de la cabina y comenzando a desajustar los primeros tornillos.

—No es conveniente pedir el pase ahora. No les sirve que me vaya, querrán retenerme.—Bjorn entonces miró a la chica, despegando su atención del tablero.

____ sacaba sin mucho esfuerzo los componentes, dejándolos a un lado. No se molestó en mirar al chico que se acomodaba a su lado.

—No pueden retenerte.—

—Oh, sí pueden. A un colega le sumaron diez mil horas de trabajo en cuanto pidió el pase a Yvaga... La gente sigue muriendo en Jackson, se quedan sin trabajadores. No les sirve que nos mudemos.—Bjorn entonces lo entendió. La chica tenía un punto.

—¿Y qué harás entonces?—la ayudó con unas piezas, acomodándolas a un lado.

—Esperar el momento justo. Mientras tanto sigo ahorrando dinero.—____ entró al pequeño hueco que acababa de despejar, asomándose un segundo para ver a Bjorn—. Cuando vaya a Yvaga, tendré una bonita casa. Prometo invitarte una cerveza cuando me alcances en 40 ciclos, asi veremos las estrellas en el jardín.—

La chica volvió a desaparecer en el hueco, y Bjorn se quedó ahí, pensativo. Ella tenía todo su futuro planeado. Pero él... Él solo tenía en mente trabajar, cumplir y largarse al diablo ¿Era un plan tonto acaso?

—¿Cómo piensas agradecerme si te consigo tus repuestos?—____ se asomó apenas, y Bjorn sonrió al ver su revoltoso cabello, sus ojos divertidos lo miraban desde el hueco del suelo.

—Estoy haciendo tu trabajo hace cuatro días ¿No es suficiente?—

—Me gustan las pizzas... Con mucho queso.—

—¿Es un pedido?—

—Tal vez...—

—Bueno. Entonces te pagaré con pizza y unas cervezas.—

—Bueno, entonces que sea hoy.—____ sacó con algo de dificultad una caja metálica. Dentro estaban los pequeños artefactos redonditos que tanto buscaban—. Tesoro encontrado, chatarrero. Y se ven como nuevos.—

Bjorn gritó eufórico, y la mujer no tardó en reír.

—¡Eres la mejor, cariño!—

—Lo sé, lo sé. Ya, deja eso y salgamos de aquí.—

El par dejó la nave en ruinas, volviendo al taller principal. En el corto trayecto caminando, el par siguió hablando de Yvaga. Dejando volar su imaginación.

Bjorn se sintió la persona más aburrida y básica de la galaxia al escuchar los planes y anhelos de la chica. Al escucharla hablar con tanta ilusión y esperanza de su futuro, sus ojos se iluminaban, y su voz parecía encenderse. A Bjorn le gustó eso...

A Bjorn le gustaba ella.

—¿Sucede algo?—

____ miró confundida a Bjorn, quien se detuvo por un momento en medio del camino. Ese último pensamiento repentino lo tomó por sorpresa.

—... ¿A qué hora vamos por las pizzas?—desvió el foco de atención, volviendo a caminar.

—Ahora que lo recuerdo, hoy tengo que cumplir horario nocturno. Asi que vamos mañana ¿Te parece?—

—Claro, cuando terminemos la nave.—la chica rió bajito—. ¿Qué?—

—Ya cumpliste tu parte del trato, y ya tienes tus rulemanes. No debes seguir viniendo.—a Bjorn esa aclaración no le gustó mucho. Disfrutaba pasar las tardes en el lugar. Incluso si lo analizaba bien, nisiquiera pensaba en las refacciones. No. Él iba a compartir un momento agradable con la mujer.

Otra vez los pensamientos lo desorientaron un poco.

—... Pero debemos reparar el carguero, vendré igual a ayudarte.—

—No hace falta. Mis compañeros del taller se encargarán de eso. No quiero quitarte más de tu tiempo libre.—

—No lo haces.—____ lo miró confundida—. Es... Agradable estar contigo, supongo.—

La evidente sorpresa en el rostro de ____ fue acompañada enseguida por un suave sonrojo, algo opacado por las manchitas de grasa que adornaban sus mejillas. Los labios de Bjorn se curvaron en una pequeña sonrisa al ver que un comentario tan simple la había avergonzado tanto.

—Bueno... Para mi también fue divertido... Tú eres divertido.—se paró frente al taller—. Como sea, ya cumplimos el trato. Cambiar las piezas llevará unas horas, para mañana temprano ya tendrás el carguero.—

—... Pero igual iremos por las pizzas en la noche.—____ sonrió al ver que Bjorn parecía más interesado en la cena que en conservar su empleo.

—Si, Bjorn. Me debes las pizzas.—

—¡Es una cita!—palmeó las manos emocionado—. Nos vemos mañana entonces.—

—No es una cita, es una paga... podríamos invitar a Navarro.—

—No, ella no irá... y es una cita, una de paga.—

El joven comenzó a alejarse antes de volver a escuchar una negativa por parte de la mujer.

Durante todo el viaje hasta su sector de trabajo, Bjorn no dejó de pensar en qué haría la próxima tarde.

¿A dónde irían a comer? ¿De qué hablarían? ¿Le contaría a Navarro sobre la cita?

Sin darse cuenta, Bjorn le dio mil y un vueltas al asunto. Y por primera vez en mucho tiempo, una tarde hurgando chatarra no le resultó tan agobiante.

Primera publicación. Yeiii ✨

[pascalispretty]

The Poetry of the Body: One

Miguel Galindo x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Discussions of pregnancy, implied age gap, hair pulling, choking, biting, scratching, dirty talk, breeding kink, D/s vibes, Miguel being himself, heavy petting, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, daddy kink. AU where Emily doesn't exist.

Summary: You and Miguel discuss the possibility of expanding your family, and negotiate the details.

A/N: thanks to my beloved @misscharlielulu for all her love and support in getting this finished. Title of the fic is from 'La llama doble. Amor y erotismo' by Octavio Paz. Title of the chapter comes from the Pablo Neruda poem 'My Lovely One', which is quoted within the fic (see end of work for translation). Written to fulfil the 'breeding kink' prompt for @storiesofsvu2-0's bingo!

One: My Homeland Is In Your Eyes (ao3)

It’s late by the time you and Miguel come home. The house is quiet; the guards near-silent as they patrol the perimeter, the rest of the household fast asleep. As soon as you get through the front door you kick your heels off, wanting to preserve the peace that’s settled over the house. At the top of the stairs, where Miguel makes to turn left, you tug on his hand. 

“I wanna see Cristóbal,” you whisper, aware that the wine from dinner makes you sound as tipsy as you feel. 

“Don’t wake him,” he says after a moment and follows your lead down the hall, your footsteps muted by the thick carpet. Your husband’s hand is warm in yours as you carefully push open the door of your son’s room. The light from the hallway spills into the nursery, just enough to illuminate Cristóbal sleeping soundly in his bed. The tangle of his dark curls stands out starkly against his light sheets – you feel an overwhelming urge to tiptoe across the room and press a kiss to his head. 

Instead, you hover in the doorway with Miguel and content yourself with blowing him a kiss. Any more would risk waking him.

“See?” Miguel whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Safe and sound.” He squeezes your hand reassuringly, and you both watch as Cristóbal nuzzles closer to his stuffed rabbit. The nursery door closes with a soft click and this time you let Miguel lead you by the hand to the other end of the house and your bedroom. 

“It’s unfair, you know,” you start once your bedroom door closes behind you. Miguel half turns on his way into the en suite, raising an eyebrow. 

“What’s that?” 

“How much he looks like you.” You boost yourself up on the bathroom counter, getting comfortable as you undo Miguel’s cufflinks for him. Miguel smiles at you, chucking you playfully under the chin once you’re done. 

“You say that as though it’s a bad thing,” Miguel replies, toeing his dress shoes off. The bathroom always looks a mess after a night like tonight, clothes thrown in the vague direction of the hamper and your makeup strewn everywhere until you can be bothered to straighten everything up. 

“It’s not bad,” you protest, watching intently as Miguel takes his phone out of his pocket so he can shrug his grey blazer and vest off. “It just feels very unfair that I did all the hard work, but he’s the spitting image of you.” 

“Sorry, querida. You’re going to have to take that one up with God.” You roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing, hopping down from the counter. 

“God’s got nothing to do with it. Certainly not where you’re concerned.” It’s a mischievous jab, one that takes you dangerously close to precarious ground. You at least have the wherewithal not to call him ‘el Diablo’ to his face. Turning around, you glance up at Miguel’s reflection in the mirror to study his reaction, pleased that he seems more amused than annoyed. 

“I’m not about to let anything else take credit for my exceptionally good genes. I just hope he has his mother’s brains.” 

“And his father’s humility.” You flick the tap on, and open the drawer beside it to get your pills. The alarm had gone off on your phone at dinner, prompting you to take it, but that had been hours ago. Only the topic of conversation reminded you of it. 

Before you can attempt to wrest one of the tiny pills from the package, you feel one of Miguel’s arms loop tightly around your waist, his body moulding against yours. He reaches forward to turn the faucet off again.

“Don’t take it.” Miguel rests his chin on your shoulder, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. For a long moment, you just look at him, wondering if you heard him right. This time, there’s no teasing in his expression; his lovely dark eyes are full of sincerity. 

“Miguel-” you start, not even sure where to begin. 

“What? We’ve talked about it. We could see if this one looks more like you.” He presses closer, his beard prickling your neck and his gaze unwavering. 

“...in a vague, ‘someday’ kind of way. We should at least have an actual, sober conversation about having another baby.” You fidget idly with the pack of birth control pills still in your hand. Miguel was right; you had talked about it, on-and-off since before Cristóbal was even born. 

Before you had gotten pregnant with your son, the answer had been an unwavering ‘yes’. Two children had felt like a good number; little siblings who could play and grow together. And even now, the idea tugs on your heartstrings, the thought of your precious family expanding to welcome another perfect baby. 

And yet. 

“I- Miguel, it was so hard with Cristóbal.” It’s a severe understatement. He sighs softly, arms squeezing you tighter. 

“I know, amor. But we’ll know what to expect this time. And you know I’ll always take care of you.” Miguel dips his head to press a kiss to your bare shoulder. Your hesitation is weakening by the second, soothed by Miguel’s touch and his promise. 

“Even when I get fat and hideous again?” You ask, running the fingers of your free hand along his forearm. 

“You weren’t fat, you were pregnant. How could you possibly be hideous, full of our baby?” He trails more kisses along the curve of your shoulder and neck, and you tip your head back to allow him better access. 

“You just say that because you were into it,” you huff, but Miguel ignores you in favour of nipping your throat. He could hardly deny it anyway; from the first shy curve of your belly, he had been intensely preoccupied with the changes his baby was wreaking on your body. 

The relentless assault on your reserve escalates when your husband presses his leg between yours, providing the barest amount of pressure at the apex of your thighs. Your cocktail dress isn’t so accommodating; you’re certain you hear some of the stitches pop as he tries to force your legs further apart. It’s so hard to think straight with his mouth at your neck and his thigh against your centre, that familiar tightness in your core just starting to build. 

You let go of the pills, the packet clattering as it falls from your fingers and into the sink. 

“I want a real conversation about this tomorrow. Sober. Uninterrupted,” you manage between shaking breaths. The hard line of his cock presses insistently against the curve of your backside, and your eyes practically roll back in your head at the feeling. 

“Fine,” Miguel says between kisses, backing off just enough to turn you around to face him. 

“I mean it,” you try even as he encourages you up to sit on the bathroom counter. Your fingers grip the front of his black shirt, and you have to fight the urge to pull it open and send buttons scattering over the floor. 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight’s mine.” Miguel steps between your legs and tries to kiss you, but you lean back. 

“Tonight’s yours, jefe. But if we’re trying again, I want to be seduced. Make it something I want.” Your fingers start working open the buttons of his shirt as he gives you an amused smile.  

“I can’t conjure up another thunderstorm, mi amor,” he starts, and you pout up at him. In a hormonal haze when you were pregnant with Cristóbal, you had become convinced he’d been conceived during one of the rare thunderstorms that rolled across the desert. The oppressive August heat had broken for a little while, and you and Miguel had made good use of the time. 

“If you don’t like my terms-” 

“The terms are fine, I’m just tempering your expectations. Short of arranging an act of God for you, what kind of seduction do you want?” He trails his fingers up the inside of your thigh, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw gently. You swallow thickly, the way he’s looking at you making you feel delirious with need. 

“Do you want me to be sweet with you, baby?” The hand on your thigh slides under the hem of your dress, higher, until his fingertips brush against your silky underwear. He knows you, knows what you need; for him to supplant your anxieties with something dark and thrilling. You don’t miss the brief, smug smirk when he registers how wet you are already, and he makes a soft, contented noise in the back of his throat. 

“My pretty baby. I can be sweet with you if you want me to be. Bring you roses and compare you to poetry. ‘Mi patria está en tus ojos, yo camino por ellos, ellos dan luz al mundo por donde yo camino…’” Miguel leans in to kiss you again, and you don’t pull back this time. Using Neruda and pet names against you is underhanded at best, but you can’t argue with it, not when you’d asked for a seduction. 

Miguel’s mouth slants over yours, stealing your breath with the depth of the kiss. You can taste the whiskey from dinner on his lips. His fingertips press more firmly against your cunt, finding your clit through the silk, and you whimper against his mouth as heat radiates through your body. You’re so caught up in the way his hand between your legs is petting at you that you don’t notice his other hand shifting. He grabs a fistful of your hair with no warning, the sharp pain in your scalp eliciting a stunned cry from you. The feeling dances right along that knife edge of pleasure-pain, one that you’ve become intimately familiar with since you met Miguel. 

“Or do you want a different kind of seduction?” He asks, ignoring your needy whine when he stops stroking your clit. The hand in your hair tugs down, forcing you to arch your back and expose your throat to him. More stitches pop as he steps closer between your legs, your dress riding up your thighs as you try to accommodate him. He leans down until your noses bump, his dark gaze unwavering. 

“Should I be mean to you, mi amor? Cruel, demanding?” His free hand finds your throat, his palm burning hot against your skin. Your nails catch at his black undershirt, clawing at the soft fabric. The silk of your dress and the slick marble of the counter leaves you feeling like you’re slipping inexorably forwards, towards Miguel. He gives a little shake of your throat; he’s barely applying any pressure, but your breath hitches anyway. 

“I know how much you like it, mijita. You like it so much it makes you feel wretched,” he murmurs, and you can’t argue with him. Even the condescending way he calls you ‘mijita’ does something inexplicable to you, sending heat rushing through your veins, scorching you from the inside out. 

“Fuck, Miguel-” you gasp out, your eyelashes fluttering closed. He could have you right here on the unforgiving bathroom counter and you’d only urge him on. Instead, he hauls you upright, steadying you when your knees nearly buckle under you, and kisses you again. His beard rasps against your skin, his tongue dips between your lips, and it all works in concert to make the ache in your core feel so overwhelming that you might cry. 

The two of you stumble towards the bedroom together, neither of you willing to break apart for long enough to find your way more easily. You manage to get Miguel’s shirt and undershirt off finally, and you feel immensely gratified by the soft groan you pull from him when you drag your nails down his chest. You stop at the foot of the bed, Miguel reaching behind you to try and find the zipper of your dress.

Part of you wants to tell him not to bother - with all the sounds of stitches ripping earlier, the delicate silk is probably beyond saving - but you take the opportunity while his hands are occupied to run your fingers through his dark curls. He’s always so put together for the rest of the world, but you adore messing with his hair; on rare occasions, he’ll let you comb your fingers through it while he rests his head in your lap. 

More stitches pop when Miguel finally gets the zipper undone and shoves your dress abruptly down your body, leaving it in an expensive pile on the floor as he focuses his attention on your bra. By the time he has you completely stripped, your chest is heaving as you try to catch your breath between kisses, your heart beating a rapid tattoo against your ribcage. 

“Bed,” he orders, even as he pushes you back onto the mattress. You do as you’re told, moving back until you reach the pillows and kicking the heavy duvet out of the way. Sitting with your back to the tufted headboard, you watch with hungry eyes as Miguel undresses the rest of the way. Your reaction to the sight and sound of him undoing his belt is practically Pavlovian; you can feel more slick pooling between your thighs as he does it. 

You drink in the sight of him greedily, eyes trailing over tanned skin and firm muscle. It’s a mutual act of voyeurism. He’s eyeing you predatorily, like he’s deciding on how best he wants to devour you. Neither of you takes your eyes off one another for a long moment, even as he moves to kneel on the bed at your feet. 

Miguel’s large hands cup your ankles first, his thumbs sweeping over the delicate jut of bone before sliding up your calves, your thighs, higher. You’re pliant for him, letting him open your legs so he can kneel between your thighs, so agonisingly close to where you want him most. It’s only as he spreads his hands over your hips that you realise what he’s looking at, and you squirm in discomfort. 

“Miguel, don’t-” you start, automatically trying to bring one of your hands down to cover your c-section scar. He ignores you, batting your hand away before grasping your hips again. His thumbs rub circles over your hipbones, just inches away from the scar you can’t stand. 

“Oh, mijita,” he murmurs, condescension creeping into his voice again. “This is Galindo territory. If I wanted to keep you in this bed until something stuck, I could.” As distractions go, it’s excellent. Your mind spins off in half a dozen directions at once. By the tone of his voice, you know he’s not referring to Santo Padre when he’s talking about territory. 

Whether he means either your bed or your body, you’ll gladly cede control to him like this. 

The feminist in you should feel ashamed at the way you crave his dominance and displays of strength, but you’d abandoned yourself to it years ago. He’d long since discovered that it was the perfect way to get you out of your own head. 

Miguel’s hands move up from your hips, coming to rest on either side of your head as he stretches his body out over yours. You wrap yourself around him eagerly, cradling his hips with your thighs and wrapping your arms around his broad torso so you can clutch at his back. The warm weight of him on top of you sends you squirming, seeking some sort of relief for your aching cunt. 

You surge forward and kiss him hard, whimpering against his mouth when you feel one of his hands slip between your bodies. He wraps his fingers around his cock, his knuckles brushing your slick folds and you flick your hips to try and chase the brief touch. 

“You’re so wet,” he manages, dragging the head of his cock through your slit. The feeling makes you wail, your cunt clenching pathetically around nothing. “I’m going to fuck you full, baby.” 

“God, do it, do it-” you gasp out, cutting yourself off with a sharp cry when he finally stops teasing and slides into you, burying himself to the hilt. Wet as you are, it’s still a stretch as he fills you, dragging you right back along that pleasure-pain knife edge. The two of you groan together when he bottoms out, your hands skittering along his back as you search for purchase and your eyes squeezing closed. 

Your nails sink into the skin of his shoulders when he pulls most of the way out, as though you can claw him back down to you. He doesn’t need the encouragement to sink back in again, but you swear you feel him pulse inside of you when you scratch your way down his back. Normally scratching at Miguel like that would get you punished, but he barely even falters as he starts to fuck you properly. 

Every hard thrust of his hips sends more heat licking through your veins, pleasure coiling so tightly in your belly that you can barely breathe. You can feel every low groan rumbling through Miguel’s chest as it escapes him. It’s impossible to tell where he ends and you begin, his cock pushing up against the very end of you. 

His hands, his huge hands that you love so much, settle on your waist and hold you tight so you don’t shift up the bed. The way he moves you so easily makes you feel helpless in the most thrilling, perverse way. He could crack you in two, and you’d only thank him for it. And now, with the weight of him on you and his grip on your waist, all you can do is lie there and take what he gives you. 

“Miguel-” His name escapes you as a pathetic little mewl between moans, and when you force your eyes open you nearly black out. He’s looking down at you with an intensity that makes you want to sob, a vivid reminder of the pleasure he took in trying to get you pregnant the first time. You’re agonisingly close to the edge, the muscles in your core cramping from being held taut for so long, and you try to shove one of your hands between your bodies. 

It doesn’t work. There’s not enough space between you, you can’t move Miguel’s solid chest enough to get room to slide your hand down, and you really do sob this time in frustration. 

“Miguel, please,” you manage, grabbing at one of his hands. “Please, please, I’m so close, I just need your fingers, please.” You’re in no state to eloquently ask for what you want; you’re surprised you can even recall your own name right now. You throw your head back in anticipation when Miguel takes your cue, his pace unchecked even as he slides his hand between you to find your clit. 

A ragged sound rips out of your mouth as he strokes your clit. There’s no technique to it, but it doesn’t matter; every pass of his fingers sends you spiralling higher, your body bearing down on him as you teeter on the brink. 

“Oh fuck.” Your voice sounds wrecked even to your own ears. “That’s it, ‘m so close, please Daddy, please Daddy-” you chant, until the tension in your belly suddenly snaps and sends you hurtling over the edge. Heat washes over your body, radiating out until you find yourself balling your fists and curling your toes at the intensity. 

Before you’ve even stopped trembling, Miguel’s hand finds your throat again and squeezes. It’s not enough pressure to cut your air off completely, but it’s enough to turn your moans into weak gasps. Your hands catch his wrist, urging him on, trying to get him to press tighter. You hope he leaves bruises. The sharp movements of his hips turn savage and he fucks you harder into the mattress as he presses down on your throat. You feel drunk on him, your head swimming as you try to clench down on him, to help him find his release the way he’d helped you. 

Miguel comes with a loud groan, his fingers tightening on your neck as he forces himself closer, trying to come as deeply in you as he can. The hand on your throat slackens, and you take a deep, gulping breath as you wait for your husband to come back to himself. His weight drops onto you as his muscles slacken and you wrap your arms around him. 

You let your eyes fall closed and run your fingers down his back, smiling to yourself when you feel him press kisses down your sternum. 

“Good girl,” he whispers against your breast as he pulls out of you, rolling off you and onto his side. You whine at the loss of him, still trying to catch your breath. It makes you jump when he touches your thigh unexpectedly, tugging it towards him. Still, you don’t bother to open your eyes until you feel his fingers at your cunt again. 

“Miguel-” you start, opening your eyes and looking down just in time to see him catch a drop of his come that had leaked out of you with his fingertip, and push it abruptly back into you. He must register the surprise on your face because he gives you that smug smile again. 

“You promised me that tonight was mine. Give Daddy half an hour and he’ll be able to go again, there’s my good girl,” he murmurs, half-dragging you into his arms. As much as you want to relax against his chest, you can’t help but pout up at him. It’s so casually condescending, but he had it right earlier; you like it so much, beyond all sense. Miguel notices the expression on your face, and the smirk on his face widens. 

“It’s not my fault you’re a terrible negotiator.” Miguel smooths your hair down and runs his hand down your back. You concede, letting yourself go boneless as he palms your ass, pressing you closer to him. “So smart, but so susceptible to my charms.” 

Taglist: @misscharlielulu, @avengersfan25

Poetry Translation: Mi patria está en tus ojos, yo camino por ellos, ellos dan luz al mundo por donde yo camino // My homeland is in your eyes, I walk through them, they light the world through which I walk.

[thequietkid-moonie]

I keep and keep adding prompts to the list of prompts you can request and honestly the requests i recive doesn't follow the rythm of my mind to come up with more ideas

I mean, my mind is a mess, sometimes it goes a lighting speed and other times simply exist, thats list has the doble of prompts of how originally was !!

Thanks everyone who has requested from that list! You are making Moonie-chan feel happy and motivated :D

But nooow my silly depressed mind is making me doubt a little, so i wanted to ask

[eddy25960]

El albur, como forma de juego verbal en México, se caracteriza por su ambigüedad sexual y su creatividad lingüística. Desde una perspectiva sociocultural, el albur permite a quienes lo practican establecer una jerarquía de poder basada en la habilidad verbal, donde la insinuación y el doble sentido son cruciales. Sin embargo, un análisis más profundo revela también una dimensión homoerótica que resulta a menudo ignorada o velada por la misma sociedad que lo practica.

Investigadores como Carlos Monsiváis han señalado que el albur, a través de la "penetración simbólica" de uno hacia el otro, configura un espacio donde lo masculino es constantemente puesto a prueba en su fuerza y virilidad (Monsiváis, 2001). En este contexto, el lenguaje se convierte en un vehículo de "dominación fálica simbólica", lo cual paradójicamente genera un espacio homoerótico, pues las alusiones sexuales involucran al propio emisor y receptor masculinos (López, 2008). Como explica De la Garza (2014), el albur no solo subraya la masculinidad, sino que al mismo tiempo explora una complicidad entre los hombres, en la que el homoerotismo se sugiere pero nunca se asume abiertamente, funcionando como un "rito de paso" en ciertos entornos masculinos.

Esta práctica, al final, no solo habla del ingenio y la picardía mexicana, sino también de los límites y contradicciones de la homosocialidad en una sociedad donde lo homoerótico es a la vez fascinante y reprimido. Así, el albur se convierte en un juego de poder donde la línea entre el compañerismo y el deseo es difusa y paradójica, funcionando como una válvula de escape para la expresión de deseos que, de otro modo, serían inaceptables en una cultura profundamente influenciada por el machismo.

Referencias:

- Monsiváis, C. (2001). *Aires de familia: Cultura y sociedad en América Latina*. Era.

- López, G. (2008). *El arte del albur: Juego de poder y masculinidad*. UNAM.

- De la Garza, D. (2014). *Homohisteria y machismo en la cultura mexicana*. Editorial Académica.

[doble-d-2]

[al3ltrss]

Sin comentarios

[shoko3000]

Branch (Normal)

Empezando con nuestra protagonista aquí tienen algunos datos sobre ella

Personalidad: Seria, sarcástica, brusca, brutalmente honesta (de forma intencional y no intencional), enojona, gruñona, sensible (no lo admite), determinada, terca, amable (cuando la conoces bien), divertida (por accidente), humor negro, cínica, algo masculina y atlética

Apariencia: Cabello negro y largo normalmente recogido en una coleta alta o moño algo desordenado, piel grisácea, delgada, baja para su edad y ojos azul grisáceo casi gris.

Vestimenta: Suele usar ropa holgada mayoritariamente (especialmente cuando sale), siempre tonos opacos y sombríos, botas negras de combate, cuando está en casa o practicando deportes suele usar ropa más pegada como blusas y shorts.

Gustos: Leer, deportes, la poesía (secreto), su privacidad, ir en skate (a veces), el boxeo, Poppy (Branch: Mentira! >:v), estar con su pequeño grupo de amigos, el pastel de Fuffleberrys, el café y dedicar tiempo a su secreto

Disgustos: La música muy fuerte, que la toquen sin su consentimiento, cantar (al menos en público), Creek, Brozone, los dulces y bebidas empalagosas y la gente falsa

Amigos: Suki, Cooper, D, Smidge, Guy Diamond y Kismet

Dato extra: Cuando era pequeña (unos 3 o 5 años) sus hermanos se fueron de gira con su boy band y la dejaron al cuidado de su abuela Rosiepuff, al inicio mantuvieron el contacto mediante llamadas, mensajes e incluso cartas, pero con el tiempo estas disminuyeron hasta que dejaron de llegar (Actualmente ya no es así, pero rara vez les contesta o lee las cartas), después de un tiempo Rosiepuff falleció cuando ella tenía unos 7 años y fue acogida por la familia de Suki quien la quiso como a una hermana, pero ya no volvió a ser la misma, se hizo retraída y callada y su color se desvaneció, ocasionando las burlas de varios y las malas miradas de otros, a los 13 conoció a Hype que la había escuchado cantar mientras estaba almorzando en la parte trasera de la escuela y le pidió/suplico unirse a una banda que iba a hacer con sus amigos, tras pensarlo MUCHO (e insistencia de Suki), acepto y crearon Kismet, junto con la imagen de superestrella perfecta para ocultar que era Branch (cosa que agradeció, lo último que quería eran bichos raros acosándola) y su fama subió como la espuma, creando así una doble vida con una banda donde no abundaban las discusiones y con amigos que aprecia mucho.

P.D: Para facilitarme la escritura, los trolls tienen rasgos mas humanizados, pero siguen teniendo sus tonos de piel y cabello color fantasía, pero para compensar en mi AU los trolls tienen cola 😋

[idon-twannabeperceived]

Q linea pete de colectivo dios xq no se ponen de acuerdo en cómo hacer los coches

Viene uno viejo, uno nuevo, uno con la fila doble de asientos a la izquierda, el otro a la derecha, el otro son LAS DOS doble fila, con más espacio en el pasillo, con menos espacio en el pasillo, sin pasillo, asientos mas altos, asientos mas bajos, SIN ASIENTOS mueran todos, ventanas gigantes, actually nvm ventanas de 20x20 cm, le hicimos una casita a este chofer :D, pero el del otro colectivo nos cae mal así q le dimos uno con el motor roto BASTA

[comfymoth]

Oh Moth you’ve really done it with the dance au… From someone who’s been dancing for 12 years: Oh My God. So like I’ve never done ballroom but I’m Super into it in concept. ESPECIALLY swing. Have you seen all the west coast swing improv videos?? Like actually one of the coolest things ever.

Ok my rant aside,, do you have any other ideas about the other characters in this au? Anyone who does other styles like ballet or jazz or is everyone in the ballroom world?

Sorry you just managed to find my special interest :D

i actually hadn't seen those videos before, but i did look them up and ohhhh my god that's so fucking cool!!!! holy shit that stuff is just so insane to me i have no clue how people learn to do that, i'm just in awe

haha i'm really glad you like it!!! honestly, i don't have too many ideas, mostly just because i feel so un-confident in my dance knowledge? but i have a few!

foolish and vegetta are legends in the international latin category, they've never scored lower than a 1 on their paso doble

slime and mariana are swing dancers who are almost as famous for the amount of times they've broken up as they are for their actual performances

i'm not settled on what style of dance pac and mike would be into tbh, but i am settled on them owning a dance studio together!

felps no longer competes in ballroom, but he helped train cellbit before he quit. he didn't have any huge reason for quitting, he just wanted more free time tbh

jaiden is a jazz dancer! she and roier moved in together before having any idea the other one was a dancer, and now they go to all of each other's events

i'm kind of torn with baghera, because on the one hand i think ballet would be fun for her? but on the other iiii just think it'd be cute to have her and forever attend the same dance academy as kids, and ballet kids are pretty sequestered off... so maybe she does ballroom? or maybe he did ballet before switching out? idk, gimme time to rotate this one, but know that i am rotating it

[sula0kim]

This comic is call abandoned! Yay

I recommended using the transcript for the dialogue due to be in night time and the words are harder to read

Surprise doble update >:D i betcha you didn’t expect that

first/ previous/ next

[kiss-colors12]

La verdad

Cuando dicen: Te voy a querer en tus días buenos y malos, incluso cuando no quieras a nadie te voy a querer y apoyar el doble, pero siempre estaré para ti.

Pero, ¿qué pasa cuando esa persona no te permite estar ahí?, cuando no te permite ayudarla o brindarle tu apoyo.

La verdad es que, suele ser desgastante, agotador, te hace sentir mal y culpable.

En el peor de los casos, solo te rindes y ya...(aunque en el fondo te sigues preocupando).

Y esa es toda la verdad.

-┊D┊✍︎