#I don’t even fucking like tortillas

[mikasnazz]

Loki did not turn into a fucking tree and give us free will just for me to eat a microwaved tortilla at 7am on a Saturday.

[yourheartinyourmouth]

As a USAmerican, I am so sorry we’re like this.

[wickedghxst]

i need to live in a country besides the us so bad man.

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: another instalment of the tik tok mat series! featuring liana! this was another suggestion from an anon and i just love writing these three and their dynamic so this was fun - i hope you guys enjoy 😊

word count: 3.2k

tw: nothing but good clean fun

summary: during a visit, you and liana convince mat to join you in another tik tok video, with a twist

“What are you two plotting?” Mat’s sudden appearance in the kitchen startles you and you jump a little. Next to you, Liana yelps and smacks her knee against the cabinet.

“Ow, fuck,” she mutters, reaching down to rub at the spot that’ll definitely be bruised tomorrow. She scowls at Mat, which he ignores.

“Jesus,” you sigh, closing your eyes briefly while your heartbeat gets back to normal. “We’re not plotting.” Your tone is slightly petulant.

Mat comes up behind you and slots himself at your back, arms on either side of you caging your body against the kitchen island. He kisses the back of your neck and play humps your ass.

Liana fake gags, sticking her index finger in her mouth. “You’re disgusting. And what she said. Plotting makes it sound so nefarious, we’re just planning something,” she kicks at Mat’s socked foot with her own and he kicks back.

“Plotting, planning. Same difference when it comes to you two,” Mat retorts, keeping his chest pressed to your back when he leans in to grab a tortilla chip out of the open bag on the counter and swipe it through the bowl of guac in front of you. He chomps noisily on the chip, right in your ear, and you reach back to swat at his stomach. Mat takes a small step back so he’s not as loud in your ear.

“Don’t get guac on me,” you complain a little, trying to wiggle out of Mat’s embrace. All it serves to do is get your ass pressed against his crotch. Mat laughs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you back against him.

He presses a kiss behind your ear and mutters quietly, “say the word and I’ll kick Li out right now.”

Your laugh is overshowdowed by Liana’s outraged cry of, “I can hear you, dumbass! I’m standing right next to you!”

“In the kitchen that I own,” Mat shoots back, still hugging you.

Before they start bickering even more and derail yours and Liana’s plans, you hold up your hands and shoot a wide-eye, raised eyebrows look at your boyfriend’s sister. “How about we don’t turn a lovely visit into a Barzal brawl?” You say, tone placating.

Liana immediately relaxes, her lips tipping up in a half-smile. Mat’s arm loosens around your shoulders and you lean easily against his chest.

“Yeah, okay,” they both mutter at the same time and you can’t help but laugh at the identical tone and inflection.

Mat’s hips work lazily against your ass and you know it’s a subconscious movement, a tic that he can’t help when he’s pressed close to you. It used to be insanely distracting, but you’re so used to it by now, you barely even notice anymore.

“Why don’t you join us for a Tik Tok?” You ask Mat, leaning your head back against his shoulder to look up at him. “Liana and I have like a whole bunch of videos we want to make while she’s here.”

It’s a partially true statement. You do have a couple of videos that would be fun to make with her while she’s visiting for a long weekend, but conning Mat into a video is the main plan.

“Your videos always do the best when I join,” Mat brags in an overly smug tone. He kisses your forehead and you know he’s teasing. But again, another partially true statement. You had a solid social media following, but once you started dating Mat, your follower count exploded and the videos that he pops up in are the ones that get shared the most. Especially on Twitter and the random fan cams you stumble on while you scroll.

Liana scoffs. “God, the ego on you is ridiculous,” she tosses a grape at Mat’s head. He catches it and pops it into his mouth, grinning.

“I could boost your following too, Li,” he offers. “I know you get a bump when I appear. It’s my natural charm and charisma.”

Both you and Liana burst out laughing, drowning out Mat’s offended protests. He complains that you’re being mean to him and you turn in his arms to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth, tasting salt from the tortilla chip and cilantro from the guac. “Shush,” you tease, “we’re keeping you humble.”

He scowls at you, nose wrinkling, and you press your lips together to smother a smile because he’s adorable when he’s annoyed.

“If you’re mean to me, I’m leaving the video,” he warns finally. You know he doesn’t mean it, Mat loves being part of yours and Liana’s business too much.

“If you two are done playing grab ass,” Liana interrupts, sure enough, Mat’s hands are gripping your ass cheeks like his life depends on it. “Can we get filming before we have to get changed for dinner?”

You slip away from Mat with a giggle and grab your coffee mug off the counter, your phone in your other hand. Mat grabs the Tostitos and the guac and follows you both to the couch. He plops down, spreading his knees wide, in the middle of the couch with his snack resting on his thigh.

“So what did I actually agree to do?” He asks while you and Liana each take a seat on the floor in front of the couch. You prop your phone up against a pair of coffee table books and the plastic case for NHL 24.

Liana starts to explain, “basically, we’re giving you questions and you have to pick which of us it applies to. Like, you know stuff out of a high school yearbook or whatever.”

“It’ll make sense when we start,” you pipe up, opening Tik Tok. You make Mat shift a few inches to the right so all three of you are in the frame and ask, “ready?”

The siblings nod and Mat digs into the chip bag, just as you’re starting to speak. Liana rolls her eyes at him.

“Hey guys,” you lean in towards the camera, “we’ve got a house guest for a long weekend, I think you’re familiar with her?”

Liana waves at the camera, smiling. “Hey! We figured since this is the first time I’ve been in the same country as big bro since the summer, we should mark the occasion with a Tik Tok.”

“I’m here under duress,” Mat snarks, giving the camera a big, cheesy grin. “And the snacks,” he lifts the bowl of guac. “A Squeaks specialty.”

“Perfect segue to the game,” Liana chirps, pulling out her phone and tapping open the Notes app. “We’re going to ask Mat questions and he has to pick which one of us it applies to. So, first we’ll go with who’s the better cook?”

Mat scrunches his face up in thought for a few seconds before wiggling his hand back and forth in the air. “Toss up,” he says. “Depending on what food it is.”

“Nope, not a valid answer,” Liana shakes her head. “Remember who cooks for you all the time at home.”

“I mean, I cook for him all the time down here,” you pipe up, feigning nonchalance.

Mat jabs his index finger at you, “exactly. Plus, no offense, Li, but your recipes are pretty basic. Squeaks likes to experiment.” He waggles his eyebrows and you reach back to pinch his ankle. He yelps and kicks lightly at your thigh with his socked foot. “Rude.”

“Cooperate, Mat!” You sigh.

“Next question,” Liana taps again at her phone, “who’s funnier?”

Mat hovers his hand over your head and you smile. “Squeaks, for sure,” he nods decisively.

Liana rolls her eyes. “Sarcasm isn’t actually being funny, just so you know,” she comments idly.

“If it makes me laugh, then yeah it is,” Mat retorts, crunching into a chip to punctuate his sentence. He pokes at your thigh with his foot again, affectionate this time, and you wrap a hand around his ankle.

You reach out and, out of Mat’s view, tap on Liana’s thigh, subtly widening your eyes at her. She grins back and tips her chin in a slight nod.

“How about, who’s the better dancer?” You ask, leaning over to read off of Liana’s phone.

Mat shifts his hand to hold it over Liana’s head with a laugh. “I love you, baby, but you’ve got all the rhythm of a middle aged dad,” he teases. “Li clears this one.”

You wrinkle your nose and cut your eyes to Liana, murmuring, “I don’t know. Shaking your ass isn’t really dancing, is it?”

“At least I can shake my ass on beat,” Liana shoots back quickly.

On the screen, you can see Mat frown before sticking a guac covered chip into his mouth. His eyes flicker between you and Liana and you can see him thinking before deciding not to say anything. You roll your lips together to avoid laughing. You and Liana are definitely going to have to take it up a notch.

“Best style?” Liana asks and continues before Mat can answer, “oh, obviously me. No question.”

Mat looks down at her, eyebrows drawing together over his nose. “Since when? You’re always in comfy clothes, sweats, that shit.” He gestures down at Liana who’s wearing a cream lounge pants and sweater set that more or less matches your own.

“Maybe when I’m hanging out with you in the house,” Liana hits his other leg. “But my street style is way better, she dresses so Long Island.”

“Long Island fashion is so much better than anything to come out of Canada,” you retort with an eye roll. “Mat clearly made the right choice.”

“And I’m sure that has nothing to do with the fact that he like when you dress all skimpy and slutty,” she shoots you an insincere smile and the couch shifts when Mat sits up straight.

“Hey, whoa, Liana that’s not cool,” Mat snaps, shaking his head. “What’s going on with you?”

You turn your head away from Mat to hide the smile that threatens at your lips. Liana waves a hand at her brother, “oh my god, nothing. It’s true though, you like the way she dresses.”

“Yeah, but she’s not a slut,” Mat’s getting annoyed and it’s sweet, how quick he is to defend you.

“Oh, it’s fine,” you draw attention back to you. “Let’s do another. Who’s smarter?”

Mat squints at you and leans back into the couch, crunching the bag of chips behind his back. “Oh shit,” he mutters, yanking it out and getting crumbs everywhere. You exhale a laugh through your nose - vacuuming before going out for dinner isn’t entirely unusual with Mat’s eating on the couch habits.

“Um, both of you?” He replies to the question. “Like Li is street smart, but you’re book smart. Y’know?”

“Oh my god,” Liana shakes her head. “Are you calling me stupid? You think she’s smarter than me?” She jabs her thumb at you and you frown at Mat.

“Seriously? Like you think I’m not street smart? You could drop me anywhere and I’d find my way home,” you protest, pretending to get heated.

“Please, she’s not even book smart either,” Liana says. “You know she thinks blood is just floating around in the body!”

You burst out a little laugh. That one is actually true, you’d had a “blonde moment” and said something to Liana to the effect of it being weird that blood and organs are just floating around inside your body. She’d stared at you for a solid five minutes with her mouth open at your stupidity, while you immediately realized your mistake and tried to backtrack that you knew veins and arteries exist.

Mat raises his eyebrows at you and his mouth drops a little. “Wait, seriously?” He asks. “You really think that?”

“No!” You yelp, waving your hands in the air. “Like for a second, but I’m not that dumb.”

Liana scoffs under her breath and you cut your gaze at her to see her hand come up and cover her mouth, hiding a wide smile.

“Maybe I should take it back,” Mat laughs, poking at your side with his foot. “Yeah, I’m changing my answer, Liana’s smarter.”

“Rude,” you laugh, unable to actually be offended by Mat’s switch-up. If he had said something as stupid, you would’ve made fun of him until the end of time.

Liana asks the next question - “Who’s more popular on Tik Tok?” - and Mat waffles until he eventually decides that the answer is “whoever features me the most.”

“Well, there’s a reason you’re never on mine,” Liana comments idly. “I don’t need the exposure.”

Mat squints at her, leaning forward so he’s almost bent in half. “Literally what is going on with you?” He flicks the back of her head and she swats at him. “You’re being so weird.”

“I’m not being weird, you’re being weird,” Liana shoots back.

“I never heard you talk to her like that,” Mat grumbles, jerking his thumb in your direction. “What bug crawled up your ass?”

“No bug,” Liana shrugs. “Just calling them like I see them.”

You lean against the couch and watch Mat’s face twist into a skeptical frown. He kicks the side of Liana’s thigh and says firmly, “be nicer. Whatever’s happening here needs to cool off.”

He’s being fairly calm, so maybe the trick won’t actually work. You tap on Mat’s calf, momentarily distracted by the thick cords of muscle, and say, “one more, and then I think we need to start getting ready.”

Mat reaches down and scratches the tips of his fingers against your scalp, making you lean into his touch like a cat, a slow smile taking over your face. With your cheek pressed against his knee, you look over at Liana, who’s rolling her eyes even as she has a faint smile on her face at your antics.

“Okay,” she grins, “if we were all in a sinking ship and you could only save yourself and one of us, who would it be?”

Without hesitating, Mat immediately says, “Squeaks.” There’s a healthy amount of “duh” in his tone and you can’t help but smile, warmed down to your core at Mat’s quick response.

Until Liana does her job and riles him up.

“Seriously?” She scoffs a laugh. “No hesitation, you’d pick some girl you haven’t even known a year over your own sister? Wow.”

You bite at your lower lip to hide a smile and Mat shoots forward again, jostling you.

“Liana, jesus fuck. What is wrong with you?” He snaps. “You’re being a fucking bitch. You know she’s not ‘some girl’ and you need to apologize. Now.”

He’s scowling at her, legs tensed. You don’t usually see Mat angry off the ice, but now he’s angry on your behalf and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t hot. Absolutely worth the prank to get him worked up like this.

Liana giggles and shakes her head. “Oooh, you should see your face,” she giggles again.

“I’m dead serious, Liana,” Mat shakes his head. “You’re not fucking funny and I’m not going to sit her and let you be rude.”

You start giggling now and reach out for Mat’s hand. “Hey, babe, Mat. Seriously, it’s okay,” you say and Mat squints at you, frowning.

“No, it’s not fucking okay. I thought you two got along. I thought you were friends and now Liana’s over here being rude as hell,” he shakes his head. “I’m not going to let you stay here and be nasty, Li.”

Liana catches your eye and the laughter is contagious. Soon enough, the two of you are cracking up, gasping for air. Mat’s confused, you can tell, because he’s spluttering and shaking both of your shoulders with his hands.

“What the actual fuck is going on?” He mutters, reaching down and dragging you up onto his lap. You laugh and protest, wiggling to sit on the couch with your legs draped over his thighs.

“It’s a Tik Tok trend,” you explain, waving at your phone with one hand and wrapping the other around the back of Mat’s neck. Liana leans forward and stops the video on your phone. It was getting too long anyway and no one needs to see you explain the whole thing to Mat.

Liana pipes up, “I can’t believe you’d really think I hate her. I like her more than I like you.”

Mat’s eyebrows scrunch together and you can see the wheels turning in his brain. It clicks all of a sudden and Mat’s mouth falls open, outraged shock written all over his features. “I knew it!” He yelps, grabbing a throw pillow and whacking Liana on the shoulder. She falls over, laughter gasping out of her. Mat smacks her with the pillow again and Liana kicks out at him, glancing the coffee table and yelping in pain.

“I knew you two were plotting!” He laughs, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you pinned to his side. Your stomach hurts from laughing and trying to wriggle away. “Fucking menaces, I’m not saving either one of you. You can both drown.”

“No!” Your laugh mixes with Liana’s and Mat’s, the three of you landing in a pile on the floor as Mat continues to whack at both of you with the pillow. Liana kicks at Mat’s shin, fighting him when he rubs his knuckles on the top of her head in a noogie.

“Stop, stop, mercy!” Liana gasps, wheezing. Mat rolls his eyes, but stops, breathing hard when he sits up, keeping you locked securely on his lap. You press your forehead against his shoulder, panting. Mat’s hands are warm on your back and then they slide down, his palm smacking against your ass in a spank.

You yelp and jump in his arms, nearly cracking the side of his jaw with your head. “What was that for?” You grumble, reaching back to rub at the sore spot.

Mat grins wickedly at you. “For being a brat,” he replies simply. He points at Liana, sprawled like a starfish on the floor, and says, “you’re on coffee duty for the rest of your time here. And I want the fancy shit from For Five, not the homemade stuff.”

Liana whines. “No way, this was a clean prank,” she counters, kicking at Mat’s side and missing. “You agreed to be in the video.”

“Last time I do that,” Mat mutters, but he’s laughing under his breath and he presses a kiss to your forehead, so you know he doesn’t mean it. “You two are so fucking annoying.”

“But who would you say is more annoying?” You can’t help but ask, a cheeky smile on your face.

Mat groans and Liana lifts her hand for you to slap. You lean over in Mat’s lap to smack her hand and nearly fall over in the process. Mat’s fingers wrap around your thigh and keep you in place.

“No more Tik Tok,” he vows when you’re settled again, perched happily on his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips.

Liana pipes up from the floor before you have a chance, “okay, and not that i’m supporting you two being disgusting, so please wait until I go home, but what about that trend where the wife’s cooking naked when her husband gets home?”

You bite your tongue to hide a giggle and Mat’s head cocks, thinking. His fingers flex against your thighs. You loop your arms around his neck and trace your fingertips over the back of his neck. His forehead relaxes and you can feel his cock twitch with interest under your ass.

Eventually, he says, “okay, I’ll allow my participation in one more video.”

“That’s what I thought,” Liana mumbles. “Freaks.”

[neiveel3llson]

Obey Me! Incorrect quotes

Diavolo trying to convince MC to continue being the babysitter:

NB Diavolo: "What are you talking about MC? You love it here!"

NB MC: "I'm not sure I do, I think I've just developed Stockholm syndrome."

Solomon being an old ass man:

NB Solomon: "The dinosaurs didn’t rule the earth they were just alive. Stop giving them credit for administration skills they didn’t have."

Satan for no reason at all:

NB Mammon: "Do I sound smart, or am I smart? "

NB Satan: "You sound unbearable, to be perfectly honest."

Leviathan being depressed:

NB Lucifer: "How are you today?"

NB Leviathan: "Please don’t make me think about my life."

Beelzebub being.. Beelzebub:

NB Beelzebub: "My stomach growled super loud in French."

NB Beelzebub: "I would like to clarify, my stomach did not speak in French. It growled during French class."

NB Leviathan: "Bonjour."

NB MC: "Le growl."

NB Mammon: "Hon hon hon, feed me a baguette."

NB MC now that they're a demon:

NB MC: "I am literally evil incarnate."

NB MC: "I’m not actually, I just enjoy being evil."

NB MC: "Which I think actually makes it even more evil because I’m making a conscious effort."

Solomon can't cook:

NB Solomon: "I truly go into househusband mode when I'm someone's soulhousemate- like, I'll make you pancakes and bacon every morning."

NB MC: "This is a lie."

NB MC: "I'm literally living with him. This is a lie."

NB MC: "HE DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO COOK A PANCAKE, WHAT IS THIS."

MC just wants to go home:

NB Solomon: "I think I'm falling for you."

NB MC: "Then get up."

Levi is sick of Satan:

NB Leviathan: "Satan is okay."

NB Beelzebub: "He's okay? He said he was going to break my legs! And don't tell me he didn't mean it, okay?! 'Cause he gave me the mackerel eyes, he meant it!"

NB Leviathan: "Beel, Satan threatened me. He threatens Lucifer every day. He probably threatened Diavolo before breakfast this morning. It's what he does. Grow a pair."

Levi self-deprocating:

NB MC: "I'm going the fight the next person who insults Levi."

NB Leviathan: "I hate myself."

NB MC: "Alright, square up."

When MC first came:

NB MC, referring to NB Mammon and NB Diavolo: "Those guys are dorks."

NB Lucifer: "Yes, but they’re my dorks."

Belphegor annoying Lucifer on purpose:

NB Belphegor: "Lucifer, we have a visitor."

NB Lucifer: "Don't tell me it's our babysitter.."

NB Belphegor: "It's MC."

Lucifer being sick of Mammon's shit:

Lucifer: "The greatest trick the diavolo's father ever pulled was changing his name to Mammon."

Mammon bc he's my fav pookie:

Mammon: "So... what would you do if you were in bed with me?"

MC: "Depends. Is your bed comfortable?"

Mammon: "Yes."

MC: "I'd sleep."

Thirteen is going insane:

Thirteen: "Sometimes I wonder if I’m hearing voices. Then I remember that’s the last bit of sanity I have trying to get me to fall asleep at a reasonable time."

Diavolo is far too concerned:

*after discussing a plan*

Barbatos: "Does anyone have any questions?"

Diavolo: "Is this legal?"

Barbatos: "Does anyone have any relevant questions?"

Satan loves to boast:

Satan: "I’m proud to identify as morosexual. I’m attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively. Someone asked me what the Spanish word for "tortilla" was once, and now I dream of kissing them under the moonlight."

MC: "What kind of animal is the Pink Panther?"

Satan, already taking off his clothes: "God, MC, you’re so fucking stupid."

It probably wouldn't work anyways:

MC: "Here’s the cold medicine you asked for." *dumps 3 shopping bags of wine on the table*

Thirteen: "...Thanks."

Levi and Garfield:

Leviathan: "I once tried to play a pirated copy of Garfield Kart, when Garfield jumped out of my PC! We are currently married with three beautiful children and a summer room in the basement of HOL with Cerberus."

Math doesn't work:

MC: "Which is correct, seven and five is thirteen, or seven and five are thirteen?"

Thirteen: "Niether."

Thirteen: "Because it's twelve."

Venomous or poisonous?:

Lucifer: "If you bite it and you die, it's poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it's venomous."

Mammon: "What if it bites me and it dies?!"

Lucifer: "Then you're poisonous. Jesus Christ, Mammon, learn to listen."

Diavolo: "What if it bites itself and I die?"

Lucifer: "That's voodoo."

MC: "What if it bites me and someone else dies?"

Lucifer: "That's correlation, not causation."

Asmodeus: "What if we bite each other and neither of us die?"

Solomon: "That's kinky."

Barbatos: "Oh my goodness."

:P done

[fancycat-thesilvertux]

Okay, so I’m a fan of Brain Dead - these two overworked boys who need hugs, melatonin, and to sleep in a comfortable pillow fort while wrapped in soft blankets like burritos (bonus points if it’s actual tortilla-pattern blankets) - and I’m also a fan of petty revenge like -

Tim accidentally getting married to Ghost King Danny because Red Robin got captured and used as a sacrifice by a cult to summon the Ghost King to reign destruction but mishap someone forgot to read up on their runes so the “sacrifice” was actually a “sacrificial bride”, meaning magical contract between GK!Danny and Tim.

And Danny, when he gets summoned and realizes what happened, is like, nope. Takes down the cultists, does abscond with Red Robin just to explain the situation and how right now, the dude is his Queen Consort or co-king because magically enforced marriage at least they don’t have to copulate that would have been even worse. And Tim is just computer crashing as he gets an information dump on how one, there’s another realm that’s, two, filled with dead people who, three, is ruled by a guy his age and who, four, Tim is now married to because, five, cultists really need to do their hOMEWORK WHAT THE HELL -

And did I mention that the contract lets them know no secrets between them? So Danny knows who Tim is meaning he knows who the Batfam is but that’s okay since Tim knows who Danny is and oh wow that explains a lot about Jason now with the ecto-contamination by impure ectoplasm -

And Tim really doesn’t want to tell the Batfam what happened since he still has insecurities regarding his place in the family which isn’t helped by their treatment - and Danny is seething because him and Tim actually get along pretty well as friends and Tim has quickly worked his way into Danny’s Obsession of Protecc because Danny will always protect those he cares about and he doesn’t like how Tim gets treated especially when it came to learning about Tim’s missing spleen.

Now here’s the funny part of this AU - because of the marriage contract between Danny and Tim, Tim gets the perks of being Queen Consort/co-king in having power over ectoplasmic beings, so when Jason’s going in on Tim who has been stressed from the situation despite Danny and Tim’s new friends in Sam, Tucker, Valerie, Jazz, and Dani (and Dan if you want to include him) doing their best to help him destress which he greatly appreciates, is still operating on little to no sleep, AND just found out that somebody replaced his extra strong coffee with decaf, Jason who calls Tim “Replacement” one last time -

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Tim snarled at Jason, his eyes glowing a scarily familiar green to the Batfam. Jason’s own eyes began to glow green in response, but instead of his feeling angry, the Pits encouraging him to hurt, Jason can feel the Pits actually COWERING back instead this time, and an incredible urge to not say another peep.

Meanwhile the rest of the Batfam is also freaking out because holy shit when did Tim take a dip in the Pits?!

[honestsycrets]

querido ii: ¿estás bien? | outlaw!miguel o'hara

Chapter List

❛ pairing | outlaw!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | tripleshot(?); explicit

❛ summary | while miguel gathers gabriella, you have an unexpected visit from aaron. miguel doesn't take his visit well.

❛ tags | mention of murder and minor character death, hidden pregnancy, western au, spanish not translated, outlaw!miguel, baby-mama!reader, slight cursing, angst, threats, implied physical assault, implied molestation, miguel beating a bitch up, mention of alcohol and smoking, f!reader.

❛ sy's notes | a bit long but-- enjoy.

The path Gabriella took was traceable. He wove through the pass of battered grass with efficiency, passing by groups of grazing cattle until he came upon a small wooden barn. It was nestled just in the mouth of the forest. It was clumsily built and even more sloppily painted. Miguel had no doubt that it had to be Peter’s handiwork. It had that look about it, half done but done in love.

“Gabriella?” her name was clumsy on his tongue. Before today, he’d gotten no word of his daughter in smuggled letters from Peter. Didn’t even know you were pregnant. It made sense, after the accident, that he’d step up. That was the kinda man Peter was.

“Go away,” she sniffled between the fallen tears and snot, her sobbing loud and relentless. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Let me take you home, kid.”

“No.” she bit out. “I don’t know you.”

“You know your mama.”

“I don’ think I do,” she said.

“Yeah, well, that makes two’a us.” Crestfallen, Miguel set his back against the wood panneling, folding his broad arms one over the other. His head connected with the aged old wood, staring into the distance at your little house with its peeling paint and tall flowering trees. He takes a swig of his flask of booze, needing something to cut with the sudden reality that he was an instant father. A smoke would do, too.

He should have known his method of pulling out and praying would slip up one day. Apparently, that came sooner than he thought. If he searched his memories way back when, he might have remembered a time or two that he failed to pull out, your beautiful body riding him for all he was worth. All beat up, he was a sad sex partner, clinging underneath layers of your frilly dress to fuck up into you. Coño, that had to be it. A laugh slipped off his lips, empty of his typical sass and mirth.

“Came back to see my girl and end up a father, fancy that.”

“Your girl?” Gabriella said, in between her raw tears. “What’d you mean your girl?”

“Tu mamá. She was my girl. Met her as a cattle hand for her papá. Back when I used to do things right,” Miguel found himself explaining, turning his head over to the tiny window. He couldn’t help but remember the first time you caught his eye-- the day you dropped that ruby-red rebozo into a muddy puddle on the way back from church. Whirling off his newly broken horse, Miguel near flung himself off her saddle to pick it up. Gabriella shifted to look out the empty window at him. “Shoulda seen her then. She had this glimmer, used to bring me out burros no matter how hot it was.”

He remembers the many days sitting on the wooden gate, tearing tasteless dried meat until you came around. You slipped out of your mother’s schoolhouse without fail to bring him something to eat. He hated sopita days the most. You loved those days the most. Beggars couldn't be choosers. He'd eat it, smack on a smile. Listened with an annoyed grin to the other cattle hands when they teased him about having to drop his entire salary back on the man to get your hand in marriage. Like the asshole would give you to a sunburnt, down-in-the-dirt cowboy like him. If he'd known that, he would've just eloped before things got... messy.

“Mama likes sopita,” Gabriella said. At least she knew her mother. “I like frijoles and tortillas.”

Sencillo. She was a simple child. Miguel exhaled a plume of smoke, spotting a dark brown horse out in the distance. He wasn't sure, but it could be Aaron coming to bother you again. He swore that the man had come in earlier when Miguel was feeding Widow in the barn.

“Abuelo y mi tia were shot.” She stated. What'd you do?! She’s not moving! Miguel shook the memory free. Every time he remembered, he hoped he could forget. He brings his cigarette back to his lips as the little girl goes on. “That’s what mamá said. Then, the paper says you killed the sheriff. Real outlaw like!"

“That’s what they say,” he mumbled, finding his mind running.

The days of running from his thoughts were coming to a quick end. He’s traveled far and wide, never married-- though he had certain needs met. It never fit. No one’s body held the quiet calm of yours under his, your fingers dancing the expanse of his muscled back, your soft lips on his chapped ones. He just wanted to make it right, thinking there was nothing more to tie you down. Looking at the curious twinkle in his daughter’s big brown doe eyes, that was obviously wrong.

“Yeah, but did you do it?”

“Don’t think your mamá would appreciate me talking out of turn.” Miguel unfolded his arms, knowing that he already said too much. He doesn’t know how much of the event you’ve told her. It’s easy to want to tell her things, to be more honest, and to invite open conversation like a papá should. He let Peter handle it all for years.

“What about me?” she asked, curious. “Did’ja come back for me?”

“You?” Miguel peeped over. “I didn’t even know you were alive, kid. Besides that, you won’t even talk to me man to man.”

“Man to girl,” she pushed open the door and popped out with her hands square on her hips. She’s a little spitfire, standing there proudly, fractured in some beautiful way, through moments of grief. It still wears in her girlish eyes, but it's smoothed over some by Miguel’s presence. He suddenly has a terrible fear of letting her down. He caught the tail of a frown before it dissipated. She presented him with her hand.

“My papá’s gone, so you’ll just have to do.”

Great, he’s a second-rate father. He knows he’s no Peter, who could run off with the smallest joy a child had. He could make it seem like the most amazing thing he’s ever heard. Miguel has a cold demeanor, his aptitude in things outside gunfights is questionable, and he has a fat ass bounty on his head-- no doubt spearheaded by Aaron. The deaths were so old. The sheriff was another issue. Why else would he keep chasing him?

“I’ll try.”

He could do this. Whatever having a child entailed, he wanted to do it. To one day bring that smile to Gabriella’s lips. A smile warmed his hardened face as he took hers. It’s the only thing that a newfound father could wish for his daughter-- to be the source of her happiness.

By the time they trek back home, there is no sight of Aaron. Widow is tucked kindly in your barn, out of the sweltering sun that beat down her little face to keep her safe. They take the backdoor in.

“Mamá?” Gabriella stepped in first. Miguel followed after, his hand on his gun out of habit. Too many sleepless nights in the middle of nowhere, nights sleeping in caves and rocky ground. “Mamá, are you there?”

Your clothes are thrown over a wooden chair, forgotten. Your cleaning water is used and indicates that you cleaned up in their absence. Miguel stepped past a broken dish in the kitchen that Gabriella thought fell off on its own accord. He set the sherds on top of one another and continued on in his inspection of the kitchen.

“Oh, mama made pie!” Gabriella picked up the forgotten peach pie from the window and set it on the lace tablecloth that covered the table. Miguel promptly shut the window behind her. He recognized Peter’s old pistol on the table, still holstered up in your thigh wrapping. Night had fallen on the home. Had they been gone so long?

Something’s off-- Miguel decided.

“I’m upstairs,” you called from up the steps. Your voice sounded strained, suppressing something Miguel didn’t quite understand.

“Eat n’ bed,” he told Gabi.

"Can I eat the pie?"

"Eat what'cha want." He minded how she took the pie up to her room with a shake of his head. He wasn’t getting him any of that any time soon. He checked her room first, shooing her off with the awkwardest hug. Not on his part, but hers. She squeezed his waist the tightest she could before she disappeared inside.

On his last visit here, he hadn't gone into depth exploring the home. It was beautiful. Warmed by your touch with well-framed family portraits and knick-knacks he recognizes from a decade ago. It’s terribly domestic, but that’s the beauty of a lifestyle he is alien to. Miguel hovered before a wedding photo. Unlike the typical wedding photos he saw town to town, you were clearly pregnant behind that tight white dress. Peter was clearly grinning like the idiot he was. He draws his knuckles over the heavy wooden door with a silent knock. He doesn’t want to fall into a trap with his daughter next door.

“Adelante,” you whispered, inviting him in. He pushes the door apart.

There’s no sign of Aaron. You sat at a small vanity, combing your hair out with a hand-me-down brush. Your hair fell over a heavy welt on your cheek that wasn’t there hours ago. His eye trained on the bruise. For a few long moments, he was silent. He eventually clicks the door shut and takes several steps forward, peeling your tiny palm that obscures the heavy bruising on your cheekbone.

“Did you find her?”

“What happened?” he asked, plain and dry. No room for debate, no way to deflect. You turned your head to one side, stroking your nightgown for a semblance of comfort. He removed your hand and set it on your lap, his large hand tilting your face in gentle concern. You abandoned your brush on the vanity. The spot was hot and angry, burning with a blotchy color that painted your face in a watercolor of bruises. “Was it Aaron?”

“You saw him?” He met your eyes and kept his gaze steady and strong. That was his answer. You sighed. “It’s not important.”

“Did he put his hands on you? Did he-- touch you?”

Miguel knew how Aaron looked at you in the past. Even back then, married to your sister, his eyes always wandered to any pretty thing. It wasn’t enough that the rumors that spread were full of talk of Miguel and you, ever the hot topic at every dance he took you to. Not because it was unique but because your father had clear objections to the match. Aaron took his presence as a threat. Right now, it was.

“Did you find Gabi?”

“She’s safe in her room,” he cropped his words. “I want to talk about you.”

“Y yo no,” you looked away. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Mi amor,” Miguel brought his hand down, supporting your soft jaw in his hand. Miguel doesn’t beg, but he will this time. It was all he could do to make you tell the truth. To soothe the sick feeling in his gut, to make sure that you were well taken care of. In a surge of concern, Miguel tried to push the issue further. “Don’t shut me out.”

“You’ll get all worked up and that ain’t gonna do nothin’ but raise that bounty on your head.”

"So." It doesn't matter that you had a point. There was a warning hanging in his eyes-- he wouldn’t let it go. Not without an explanation first. It was impossible. "I already got a chunk of change on my head. What's one more gonna do?"

“He’s been pressing me to search the ranch for you every so often,” you admitted, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I left the front door open and he came on in while I was changing. I was about sick of it, querido, so I told him to go away. I guess… he didn’t like that much. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Miguel cut you off. That was closer to a version of the truth than he knew you wanted to admit. He knew you enough to know it wasn’t the full story. Miguel slipped onto his knees, his worn slacks scratching the floor beneath him. He held your hands in his, reminding himself not to lash out, throw something, or hit something for not being there. There was no outlet for his rage right then. He'd take it out on something later.

“He didn’t violate me if that’s what you’re thinkin’.” Your lip pursed, struggled to make words that don’t hurt so much. Your tongue was fat in your mouth as you explained. “He just… grabbed on me a bit.”

Grabbed on you a bit? Miguel searched your fingers with an intent expression for an answer that made sense. You were being cryptic. He doesn’t particularly like weighing the options of what it could mean. He could have grabbed the door and forced his way in. He could have grabbed you and tried to force himself on you. The thought burned low in his stomach, simmering the need for revenge.

“What’d he grab?” he drew your name out in a soft, puff of a thing. Your fingers left his, smoothing over your nightgown again in an effort to soothe yourself. Your breath quickened, a clear signal that he was hitting his limit with you.

“I don’t--” you struggled. “I don’t want to talk about none of that. You just came back today, Gabi learned the truth, Peter-- I can’t do it. Can’t you let it go?”

He knew that the tears pricking your eyes weren’t over something like Peter’s death or the bite of dust in your eyes. Shame and embarrassment dangle before him, fueling his enmity with a man that he’d not run up against in many years. If anything were going to force him into action, it would be this.

“If that’s what you want, amor.”

He couldn’t let it go. But if it helped you relax, he’d just let you think he could. Miguel sprung up on two feet and kicked off his dark brown boots under your wooden vanity. He slipped off his suit jacket and vest before offering you his hand.

“I should… check on Gabi. She might be hungry.”

“She took up with that pie you made her. Menudo’s on the stove.”

“Pero… I should make sure she’s okay.”

“Amor, are you okay?” he asked, his voice terribly mild, but bore a seriousness that struck a cord in you. His words hung like the blade of a scythe, cutting through the strength you had to have day to day since Peter passed. First death. Now as Miguel suspected, a molestation?

No, you choked out, your face pale of its usual warmth. You didn’t fight as he brought you into bed, his hand underneath your neck to draw you close. He knew his smoky scent would reek the sheets, yet you did not seem to care, burrowing in the space between his neck. Your hand slipped underneath his slightly unbuttoned shirt, curling in his chest hair. He caressed your back in soft circles.

“Miggy?”

“¿Sí, mi hermosa?”

“Make it better.”

Take care of it, he thought bitterly. That’s what you meant. Miguel slid his other large hand over the back of your neck, working you through the tears. The flood of your tears against his neck reminded him of how pathetic of a job he’d been doing, caring for his new little family, for you-- the woman he came to take away.

For this moment, he could only cradle your cheek and distract you with a salty kiss. He clumsily nudged his nose against yours to force you to pay attention to him. He probably tastes of booze, smoke, and a little bit of dried meat, but if he does, you don’t seem to mind it. Your lips shuddered, lips opening slightly to allow him to kiss you more fully. Your kiss held its own familiarity, a signal that he was home despite the years that passed.

“I don’t think I can do this alone,” you murmured against his lips. “I ain’t that strong.”

“You’re plenty strong. Got through a whole pregnancy without your man around, raised her up good.”

“I knew I was with child before you left,” you peered up. Emotions flickered there: a rush of anger, uncertainty, disappointment, most of all, sadness pooled in his eyes. “I just… I ain’t know how to tell you, what’d it change with papa not liking you the least bit after Lupe’s shooting.”

“I would’a wifed you up quick.”

Now-- what would he do? Miguel wasn’t stupid. It wouldn’t be just Aaron who would come around the longer he spent in this town. Bounty hunters of all kinds would be breathing down his neck. There was no future for him here. The only alternative was to take his family out of this tiny town, carve out a new life elsewhere. Miguel brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss there.

“I still would.”

Your cheeks are warm as they get, “Who’d marry an outlaw and a widow?”

“Someone out west that ain’t know about us.”

“There such a place?” you asked.

“'Course there is,” he assured you. “Think ‘bout it.”

You looked at him for a long time, considering if Miguel was telling you the truth, but he’s never lied before. Not where it counts. Miguel’s hand wandered, pulling your thigh over his, content with your consideration.

“Think that’d make me a bad mom, whisking my kid off to be with an outlaw, ain’t it?”

Miguel arched his brow at you, his eyes glossy and warm, teasing. In any other case, he might have agreed. But it was his child you cared for. He wasn’t about to abandon you— no way to make money, no way to take care of Gabriella but to remarry or sell off everything and try a life in the city. You liked rocking on a rocking chair at the end of the night, running through the wildflowers, and the taste of honey in the warmer months. You were no city girl.

“Ain’t like they don’t know whose kid it is.” Miguel laughed, a tuft of pride spilling into his words. “She look like she's mine.”

“Peter’d say that too.” The thought made you smile in a way you knew it shouldn’t. As good as a man Peter was, he brought up that fact the day you gave birth, when he abandoned the fields to be by your side. How we gonna hide this? He’d laugh. She ain’t look Anglo. She look just like Miguel. He always did say he hoped that it wasn’t too obvious. It was. Peter was a one-of-a-kind man. The memory brought a twinge of a smile to your face, looking over your marital bedroom. Speaking of others--

“Didn’t you meet other girls out there?”

Miguel forgets the kind of woman you were. A very jealous, terribly protective woman. He knew the question would come up eventually. You were a woman who loved to be the center of his world. Every man and woman wanted to be the only one in their lover’s eyes. He traveled the grassy roads for years and saw all there was to see. All types of women. Native women who lived on the land and slept in longhouses. Anglo women seemed to love to run their fingers down his swarthy skin but never considered bringing him home-- even if he wasn’t interested. Black women always fed him, even if they distrusted him a little. And, Hispanic women whose fathers did not like him prowling around their land. He couldn't blame them. He wouldn't want someone like him for Gabi, either.

“I met my share.”

“And you still came back?”

“Yeah? I came back for you. What, you want me out?” Despite your brilliant, soft smile, your mind ran like you’d taken the first ticket on the railroad out of town. He knew what you were thinking. You were wondering how many women he’d been with, what they were like, what--

"You're so sassy," you teased. He slid on top of you, his fat belt buckle catching on your nightgown. His lips peppered gentle but scratchy kisses down the expanse of your neck. The soft bruising there reminded him of Aaron’s mistakes. He'd take care of that next.

“Miggy,” you giggled, tugging on his thick dark brown hair. “Stop it.”

“Todavía te amo,” he lifted off your neck enough to utter the words. Your cheeks flooded with an unfamiliar warmth. You'd not had someone to make your heart soar in a really long time. Your hand curled up his head, dipped along the curves of his face to his sharp jawline, and tugged him to look at you. He complied, a tilt in his head.

“I wanna see you naked. You’ve gotten so big,” you said. “Take off your clothes.”

Well-- he had to know that one was coming. Miguel suppressed a small snicker from leaving his chest as he pushed off the bed and brought his fingers against the buttons you hadn’t undone. You scooted up on the bed, dragged your gown over your knees, and watched him undress. He drew the shirt off his massive arms and threw it in on your chair. His skin was memorable, still as dark and swarthy as you remember, but cut in more defined musculature. You brought your nail to your lip, suckling on the nail as he threw you a half-lidded look.

“Well?” he hooked his thumbs onto his belt buckle, waving a little closer. “You're not saying anything.”

“You’re so big, querido.”

“Believe you already said that,” Miguel teased.

He knew he looked good. It was how he attracted so many different women. You twiddled your fingers to urge him closer. Something about you loosening his belt filled his belly with a distant excitement. He watched you unlatch the fat buckle and draw his belt free of the loops with a whirl of leather. He held his thick leather belt in one hand as your trembling hands came up to unbutton him. The firm fabric slid down over his hips, revealing nothing beneath but his hirsute legs and a flaccid cock that settled on a tuft of nearly black pubic hair. If he wasn't mistaken, you moistened your lips.

Selfishly, he wonders how many men you’ve been with since he ran off. He wouldn't have blamed you if you wanted to be with a hundred. He left you pregnant, without a family, and likely terrified.

“How long’s it been?” Miguel stepped out of what was left, standing there as naked as the first day he came into this world, exposed without his rifle or his handgun. Your cheeks flared with warmth, gliding a hand up his hip. “Since you've been with a man.”

“Eight years.”

He knew that Peter had no interest in you, and you had no interest in Peter. He was simply a good man doing what he thought was right. If not for Peter-- he’s not sure what would have become of you. Yet, illogically, he thought you could stomach to be with another man.

“You never been with another man?”

“I married Peter. I’d never do him like that,” you shook your head, inching your hand over his cock. After eight years, you deserved a good fucking. He can’t bring himself to force you into it, not after what you’ve been through tonight. He allows you to lead, milking his cock with your small hand. Your other crawls up to his scarred stomach, tracing the line of hair to his navel. There were countless scars on his body, never afraid to leap head first into a battle.

“I bet you had needs,” Miguel murmured. "You use your hand?"

“‘Course I did, Miggy. I’m a woman, ain’t I?” You looked up at him, your bruised face beautiful as it was. Despite what other men liked to say, that women ain’t need to do nothing but lay there and take them, Miguel knows better. His mind is full of distant memories of sex with one another. Sneaking out in the deep of night to fuck in the fields, snatching you midway through your chores to kiss and finger you in the barn, or exchanging the smallest of glances around town. "Now don't talk so nasty, Gabriella is right next door."

“Downstairs. Lemme take care of you,” Miguel found took your hand, lifting it away from his cock and forcing you to stand. You complied, following his hand that slipped between your legs, stroking up your thighs to your neglected core. He imagines that on nights like this, quiet and alone when Peter was on a cattle drive, you’d come into your bed just like this. Slip over your bed, stroke your long fingers over your puffy lips, maybe dip one inside, and think of him.

“What if she comes in?”

“She won’t.”

“But I don’t know how to--”

“Mujer. You don’t need to think of anything short of what I’m about to do to you.” Miguel lifted your nightgown up and off your body. Your hands snapped to your midsection, covering whatever it was that was so offensive.

"Stop that." Miguel tilted his head to the side, flicking your hands away from appreciating the sight of your belly, littered with softly discolored stretch marks.

“But I ain’t pretty no more,” you told him. “I got--”

“You got marks from bearing me a baby. I know. Now, hush up,” Miguel teased gently, the pads of his fingers swooping over the marks. They had gone silvery with age. Perhaps, he thinks, you thought you'd never be with a man. Now, you seem so suddenly self-conscious of the marks that litter your skin. He curved his hands around to squeeze your plush hips, flushing his body against yours. You felt his cock rub up against your belly, soft to the touch. Miguel's cock stiffened against your navel, a feeling that brought a crack of arousal through your core. You rubbed your thighs together for the friction. As relief pooled in your belly, Miguel seized your jaw to kiss you, his hands slapping your ass to force you to move. You shifted forward, crying out into his muscular chest. “I’m after a woman, not a girl. Get on all fours. It’s my turn to see you.”

You complied by sliding onto the bed, memories of what Miguel liked flooding your mind: chest against the sheets and ass up. Despite the very real concerns you had about his attraction, Miguel seemed no worse for wear when you looked over your shoulder. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he grabbed your ass, massaged your cheeks between his palms, and separated your lips. He licked a long band up between your tender lips, enough to wrench free a soft gasp. He suckled on them with a wet pop, the puff of his lips musing hot air onto your cunt.

“That’s cute,” Miguel murmured, letting his palm come on your ass for a teasing slap. You groaned, the hot redness burned in a sweet and unfamiliar way. His lips began to moisten with your lubricant spilling over them, tasting of a woman he hadn’t had in too long. His tongue prodded at the entrance to your gentle hole, pushing in one of his thick digits. Your walls protested the intrusion, clamping over the foreign finger.

“Ah Miguel,” you curled your toes, his finger stretching you in preparation for his fat cock. “I ain’t sure I can take you.”

“Sure you can.” Miguel hummed, inserting another alongside the first. You were tight, that was for sure. He was sure that you hadn’t been with another man in years, just as you said. It made his cock leak to think of it-- your virginity was his, your child was his, and… now you’d be his again. He spat on your hole, his wet saliva squelching with your lubricant around his broad fingers as he entered your body. Your hips rutted back onto him, instantly making Miguel release a husky laugh. "Your pussy knows you can. Look'it eating me up."

"Por dios Miguel, don't talk like that." You stiffened around his fingers. His mouth had gotten nastier in his time away. He knows you like the way he worships you, finger flicking lightly over your walls, making sure to stretch you wide. Another slipped alongside the first, twisting his wrist for a deeper thrust, working you nice and loose, enjoying the gasps of decadent pleasure. Miguel whispered beautiful words of praise, remarking on how easily you took him, how well you'd be in only a few minutes. Your hands ruffled the sheets, cantering your hips back onto him. You needed his words, so tired after years of sexual frustration.

"That's it. Tell me you missed it," he fucked you a few more times before his rhythm would die off, leaving you empty of him. His hand shifted to your breasts, molding them between his big palms, waiting for an answer that sounded right.

"I missed you, Miggy."

Miguel momentarily paused. Then, he stepped up, the hair on his legs brushing your thighs as he mounted you. The blunt head of his cock nudged along your lips.

“I’ma fuck you now,” Miguel murmured into your ear, letting his chest rest on your own. He pushed into you. Your walls stretched with his long stroke, Miguel's face tightening up. He was seated against your cervix, pushed up as far as you would let him go. For all your whining about his language, the obscene cry that left your lips was loud. Loud enough that Miguel slapped his hand over your mouth. He hooked his thumb in your mouth, forcing you to suck him as he sped up his deep thrusts, pushing you closer to your limit.

“Just gorgeous, mi hermosa.” Miguel found himself grinding forth. The repetitive squeaking of the bed made what he was about to say real stupid like. “But you gotta be quiet. Gabi don’t need to know what we’re doin’.”

Your tongue coasted around his thumb, suckling him nice and wet. Your walls clamped back over him, unused to the feeling of having a man inside. Miguel found himself rutting against your cunt, his tightening balls slapping your ass as he moved. Again and again, Miguel set a soothing, quick rhythm, filling the emptiness from years ago.

He'd been with many women over the years. None felt so easy, so like home. He curses himself for not doing it sooner. Your fingers dipped between your bodies, filling the emptiness, and causing your pleasure to blossom under your fingers. Pleasure explodes in your core, battered by his frantic thrusts, and your mind goes over the edge into some distant land of warm pleasure. Your walls spasmed violently, and Miguel's gasps became thin, adjusting his hold on your hips under the clench of your muscles against his length. He holds onto his decency poorly, strain bundled in his brow.

“Could you-- inside?” you said between his thrusts, muffled by the fingers hooked in your moist mouth.

“I do that-- and-- you'll get pregnant,” you’re both older now, he wants to think wiser than being two stupid kids fucking one another without care. Not that his pull-out game was particularly great back then-- Miggy please, you cry his name out, a tone that is stretched sweetly thin, walls spasming tightly over his fat cock. He muffles a curse, his pace jagged and uneven, desperate.

“Please, I miss it,” you cry, a litany of please threatening his ability to be well-behaved. He never was good at that in the first place, never good at saying no. Miguel drags you onto his cock, complying with a groan that he didn’t mean to be quite so loud. Thick streams of cum fill your tight little hole, bubbling out around the site of your union. He rides out the tails of his orgasm, earning you desperate little snaps of his shaking hips.

“Ay dios,” Miguel came down from his high with a slap to your ass, ripping his other hand free from your mouth to comb through his hair. He didn’t just-- he did. Miguel threw a glance at you, your shy eyes hiding behind an embroidered pillow. “I came inside.”

Coño. Great. Just-- great.

“I can feel it,” you teased him. He was stressed out, seeing a stream of his cum dribbling out from your cunt. He didn’t even know how to take care of one. How was he going to take care of two? His eyes narrowed.

“You best pray that it don’t take.”

“Don’t think I control that, Miguel.”

He pieced himself together smoothly, failing to notice anything but the emptiness that settled in your chest. A sigh left his chest and Miguel would set a kiss on the top of your head, looking toward the clothes-covered chair. Your eyebrows drew together in the realization that Miguel did not intend to stay.

“Are you leaving already?” You whined, pulling his name out from somewhere deep and lonely. He knew what it was. He just fucked you-- and now, he was going to run off. “Where you off to?”

“I got something to do. I’ll be back another day.”

A frown marred your soft features, lips slapped shut. You pushed away the warm quilt and slipped below it with your head on pillows that still smelled of Peter. You took one, propped it under your arm, and hid your lovely face from view. Silence filled the suddenly stuffy room. Other women would whine and complain about his fuck-and-run attitude. He didn't usually care.

Miguel dropped his pants, drawing closer to look at you. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see an ounce of the grief in your watery eyes. Panic, embodied in sparks of anxiety, spilled down his chest. Filled his stomach full with a fear of aggravating your already damaged state.

“Hermosa…” he began, his voice tender and soft. He slipped behind your back, his fingers running across your waist. "What is it?"

“I’m-- I don’t want to be alone. I didn’t want you to go,” you stammered into the pillow, blinking back tears that fell so readily. You didn't want to say what happened, but you needed his comfort more than sex. Your words were heavy, hard to make out, almost as if you were suffocating. “Not so soon.”

“Then I stay,” he said, husky and soft.

“You’ll stay?”

His muscular arms bunched around your waist as he set a kiss on the top of your head. He was careful, sliding you away from the hunched position on your bed onto his chest. He’d stay if that was what you wanted. Not permanently. He could never afford you such a promise here, where many a man had 2099 reasons to chase him down. You were his reason to stay, to keep you safe. The other slept next door. Or, he hoped she was sleeping.

“For tonight.”

He forgot what this felt like, the ability to stay in bed with someone you cared for, no pressure to run. Miguel was disheartened without his gun in arms reach, instead combing his fingers through your hair, watching the moon draw overhead. At some point, your breath faded into a gentle rise and drop in your chest to the tune of the whistling wind against the side of your home.

He found himself awake for minutes after, focusing on the bright moon multiple times that night, her embrace cool and welcoming. The constellations pale in comparison to the bright light that streamed into the room. He could almost imagine doing this every day, in another world, where his head wasn’t on a wanted flyer in your biblia. Sleep claimed him, restful and horrible, and hours passed.

The gun was hot. Miguel's fingers trembled, wrapped around the grip of his mother's old gun. "Lupe! Miguel, oh glory, Miguel what did you do?" He hears your distant scream, the desperation rooted in your voice. There was a pool of blood by his feet, dripping out from a woman who gave him nothing but grief.

"What I had to," As much as he'd tell you that killing her, rather than wounding her, was wholly an accident, he knew it wasn't. It was another something he had to do. He knew the next something would be your father wielding that ancient rifle and putting a claim on his head.

Shit. He wakes with a start. Miguel soothes the bags under his eyes. Not a day had gone past that he had good dreams-- less so when he was in a proper bed with a woman. Not any woman, but his woman. You're dead asleep against his chest, his arm having long since gone numb. Still as beautiful as hours ago, blissed out and well fucked, the bruising on your face reminds him that he has shit to do.

There is little disrespect like the disrespect of a man molesting your love, the mother of your child. But you don’t want a body from him. So he would be gentle with this, unpeeling himself from your warmth and striding into town while the moon still howled in the sky, knowing where a useless scum bag like Aaron Delgado would be. He’d be drinking up, his liver fat and useless.

The saloon was still somehow rowdy, stuffed to the brim with men who sought relief from family life and women who knew the easiest way to make a buck off pretty lies. Popping into the saloon was stepping back into his usual life, one of little value other than the skills it gave him. Namely, his hand hooked around the gun.

“Hey handsome,” a maid cooed, trying to call his attention. But he’s not focused on the breasts in his face as he veered past, pushing through groups of standing men. He came up behind Aaron, who was dead asleep on the bar. It never failed that he looked sloppy, his booze soaking his ruffled shirt.

“What can I get you?” the barman said.

Miguel gripped Aaron’s collar and what little hair wasn’t balding, lifting and cracking the man’s head hard on the bar. Aaron may not have been awake before but he was sure now, blinking the stars out of his eyes.

“The hell!”

The sound of feet against the squeaky old floor marked the rush of steps out of the bar. Miguel kicked Aaron’s bar seat out from underneath him, sending him careening onto the floor with a heavy thump.

“Miguel?” he snapped, bright-eyed, eyes trained on Aaron. Aaron snapped his hand to his hip. Miguel leveled his gun at Aaron, threatening him to touch it, just try. Blood flowed free from Aaron’s nose. He pushed it away with the back of his hand, smug smile like he knew Miguel would show up.

“It is you. I knew you’d be around.”

That's him. Some stragglers, friends of Aaron’s no doubt, lurched forward. Miguel shot into the ground by Aaron’s hip as a warning. It burst into the floor with a booming pop. He had no qualms about making double murder a triple, quadruple if he had to. Aaron pushed himself onto one arm. Miguel’s foot connected with Aaron’s ribs, sending him soaring across the floor. He connected with an aged piano, a bundle of keys singing under the small man who stumbled past Aaron's poor, shitty friends.

“C’mon,” Aaron pushed himself up on his palms. "Kicking a man while he's down?"

“You didn't think twice about breaking in and hitting my woman."

Miguel knelt down, checking the urge to blow his face off, but not now. Not while you had a stake in this shit of a town. Aaron's face quivered, what little friends he had gossiping in and among one another, others slipping the fuck out. Aaron has nothing useful to say.

"You so much as think of touching my woman again and you won’t be so much as crawling out of here. The undertaker be putting you under, you hear?"

“Gimme a break. What I did was nothing compared to what you did to Lupe."

"Don't you fuckin' dare bring her up."

"I just touched on her. You killed my wife. She felt mighty nice, Miguel, bet you’re mighty proud--”

Miguel considers himself good up til that point, walloping the butt of his gun across Aaron’s face to force compliance. Once, twice, maybe three times. After the third, he lost the thin hold he had on his control. He just knows it's enough to where the bruises that formed on his face would make yours seem like gentle love taps. He beats the man bloody and slips out to the sound of calls for Sherriff Morales.

He never was good at handling disrespect.

[larevoluction]

good pookie i don’t want to share my tl with racist, xenophobic, misogynistic and sexist who supports a character with same behavior played by an actor who also is pro-life, pro-trump, zionist and fatphobic who took pics of women at the gym to make fun on them when he was a 30 YEARS OLD FULL ADULT WITH HIS FRONTAL LOB FULLY DEVELOPED

im so full of you and your excused that since he is a queer character he can be forgiven when he didn’t even apologized to hen and chim and you can’t even say that he did it because off screen scene are just fanon HEN DIDNT EVEN KNEW THAT TOENAIL WORKED FOR THE HELICOPTER DEPARTMENT SHE ASKED FOR LUCY and when she saw him she wasn’t happy

i don’t think that this are two people who are friends and talk to each other lmao the last time she saw him was at his party when he was leaving the 118 so fucking 5 years ago but some of you want to hc tortilla babysitting Henren child???? LMAO touching grass isn’t enough you need to touch a fucking forest

also the only scene they had together was cut from the episode because his interaction with Hen and Karen aren’t important, Tim could’ve shown us him apologizing or them interacting but they don’t give a fuck about all that because trolldemort is just a plot device

stop using the queer card to defend him im a queer woman but if tomorrow in acting like a shit human beings people have the right to drag me because being a gay man doesn’t mean that you are excused and can do anything

we are allowed in not liking tombstone because he is a shitty person and personally i don’t like this queer representation im allowed to feel lime this i don’t have to like everything just because it’s queer IT ISNT 2000 ANYMORE WHEN THERE WAS LITTLE REPRESENTATION AND EVEN SHITTY ITS 2024 I CAN FIND GOOD REPRESENTATION EVERYWHERE AND SAYING THAT THIS IS BAD AND YOU CANT CALL ME HOMOPHOBIC BECAUSE I DONT LIKE A RACIST

also liking him and justify him makes you a racist, xenophobic, misogynistic and sexist

making meme about eddie queerness being buried makes you an homophobe, saying that ratings will drop when eddie will coming out it’s homophobic

[killerpancakeburger]

Peace of mind // Miguel O'Hara

Pairing: Miguel O'hara x female reader

Summary: After a long day of tending to the multiverse, Miguel goes to you for some comfort.

Warnings: swearing.

Tags : fluff. That's it.

Words: 733.

A/N: Inspired by @/the-cat-and-the-birdie's post about Miguel's cooking.

You blindly reach inside the bag of chips on your desk without taking your eyes off your computer screen, grab one and eat it. Tonight’s your weekly online meeting with your friends on your favourite online game. You can’t afford to miss a single kill. You have your noise cancelling headphones on and are completely occupied by the things your companions are yelling are at each other and where your aim is.

It’s probably why, despite your usually sharp instincts, you don’t hear the interdimensional portal who opens in your living room. You don’t notice the imposing – yet looking like he’s buckling under an invisible weight – man in a faintly glowing suit who crosses it. You don’t spot him either when he gets behind you.

However you certainly can’t ignore his presence when he bends over your chair, closes his arms around you and lets his forehead fall on your shoulder.

“FUCK! Miguel! Are you trying to give me a heart attack!” you shout in shock.

He mumbles something unintelligible, his mouth pressed to your back. Your surprise has been clearly noticed by your friends as they don’t miss the opportunity to tease you for it. You grumble and mute your microphone.

You ruffle Miguel’s hair, taking the opportunity to mess it up a bit.

“So? Did something happen?”

He sighs and his warm breath tickles your skin.

“Can you please…?” He starts, but never finishes.

“Uh-Uh?”

You’re still playing your game, but way more casually, and even though you’re pretending to still be busy, you’re actually taking in Miguel’s every word.

“You know…”

“No, I don’t. Still can’t read your thoughts.”

“Urgh.”

There’s a part of you that finds this way of speech endearing but there’s an even bigger part of you that enjoys making Miguel works for it.

“…lay down with me for a bit?”

You pat his head in congratulations.

“There we go! Knew you could do it!”

“Stop it.”

He grunts. You turn your mic back on.

“Alright, game’s over for today. See you later”, you announce before logging off and taking off your headphone.

“Can you have a look at the code I wrote for Gizmo n° 564 before we do that?” you ask.

You pull up said code on your screen. Miguel doesn’t raise his head.

“It’s great”, he says.

“You didn’t even look at it”, you retort, slightly annoyed.

“I don’t need to.” He replies with that unsufferable indubitable arrogance of his.

“Oh really now?”

Your voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“You made it so it’s good.”

You roll your eyes but you can’t help being moved.

“I think I prefer when you’re brutally honest.” You mumble to yourself. “Did you eat today?”

His stomach grumbles loud enough for both of you to hear, effectively stopping him from bullshitting you. You chuckle.

“Should I order food?”

He grunts something that you know means no.

“Oh so you want my cooking? I’m so flattered”, you laugh, the both of you pertinently knowing that while he’s great at cooking, you… are not.

He finally gets up.

“Just do as I say.”

You get up, give him the chips from your desk, and head to the kitchen. Since your relationship with Miguel got more serious, aka him crashing at your place whenever he felt like it, there is always tortillas, sour cream and salsa verde in your fridge. You stop halfway realizing Miguel isn’t following and remember he moves like a zombie in this kind of situation, the situation being “I just spent 24 hours non-stop monitoring the multiverse without eating nor sleeping so now I am on the cusp of a breakdown”.  You turn back to grab his hand and bring him with you.

He leans against the counter as you take out of the fridge and cupboards what you need. You put on some music and make conversation as you tackle your tasks. Once you’re both fed, you go lay down with him on your bed. You hug him against your chest, delicately stroking his hair. He closes his eyes and looks relaxed for the first time since he arrived. You feel his chest raising and decreasing and listen to his steady breathing while contemplating your ceiling. When you know for certain that he’s deeply asleep, you get up as discreetly as you can, leave a kiss on his forehead and go back to your nightly occupations.

[cabbihugger]

sorry to everyone is being triggered from all the politics right now, I am gonna start distancing myself for a bit for the sake of my like 3 mutuals (lol) but I need to summarize my thoughts because laying under a tortilla blanket crying is not encouraging me.

I am so scared right now. I am utterly terrified. I am a white, able bodied, southern, post T trans man. And I am so fucking scared. No, no for me because politics should NEVER be about ourselves but rather those we want to keep in our lives. The day after election I spent my after school hours holding a girl we will call Maggie. She is a freshman in highschool and like many kids at my school and many of the kids I TA for (very very diverse STEM school) she was not born in America. She was born in Nigeria, she nor her parents have permanent American residency and she broke down. I have known her for four days. She is terrified that instead of waking across a graduation stage that she will be forced to go home where she fears a lack of education or real life. This is no shame on the women or lives of anyone in Nigeria but this is the fear of a 13 year old girl who cried against someone who she dosnt even know the full name of. I can’t pretend to know her exact pain but I cried softly with her as our Procter gave her space.

The day after the election I sat in American history as my professor explained the causes of the civil war, we went into a soft, then a hard lockdown. That means that the school was active on or under threat from a person with a weapon. I WAS SITTING IN A CORNER OF THE ROOM PRESSED AGAINST THE BODY OF Another KID AS WE BOTH VEIWED TEXTS FROM OUR PARENTS. WE SAT WITH THE FEAR IN THE BACK OF OUR MINDS THAT THERE IS A SMALL CHANCE WE WOULD NOT BE GOING HOME- GOING HOME IN A COUNTRY WHERE OUR CITIZENs ELECTED A RAPIST, FASCIST, AND A NAZI FOR LACK OF A BETTER WORD. (And I was raised on bad brains I don’t use that word lightly). In the end it was some idiot with a gun running around on campus lawn. Sounds like America.

At the end of the day, the sun is going to keep rising, and YOU need to be there when it does. Otherwise the sun would sadden missing your face. It’s going to be okay it’s going to be okay. My dms are open. If you flat out need someone to give you a reason to wake up tomorrow we’re gonna sit here and write some, I’m so proud of every

trans person, queer person, person of color, disabled individual, autistic person, neurodivergent person, Muslim, Jew, and so so so many more that I cannot name right now in my face of anger, who live to vote till the next election

[atinylittlepain]

Maybe, probably, definitely

college!steve harrington x f!oc

A continuation of Warm. Steve and Andy are keeping things casual... or maybe not.

18+ 90s au in which I fuck with the timeline, smut, two scrungly idiots in love, Robin and Eddie being Robin and Eddie, generally a fun little silly little time okay? okay.

.................................................

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Please, it’s so obvious.”

“I just think it’s unlikely, is all. He had like, women losing their minds over him, still does.”

“Okay, and? Have you seen the videos of him and Clarence kissing?” Easy, easy, and warm in her little corner kitchen, something steaming and savory stirring in the pot on the stove, her hip bumping against his every time she steps away and back to add a pinch or a glug of something else to the soup, making his cheeks round and pinken every time she slides half a smile his way. He laughs, shakes his head, and she pulls a face at him, pointing her wooden spoon at his chest.

“What’s so unbelievable about Bruce being bisexual?” 

“Nothing, nothing, I just don’t think there’s enough evidence for or against your theory yet.”

“So you’re a Springsteen agnostic?” Two bowls and two spoons and one bowl and one spoon is for him, and how lovely, how lovely to have a place here with her, slipping into her spot in front of the stove to serve them both while she slices a few pieces of bread.

“Gonna have to see a little more evidence, honey.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll keep building my case. Robin agrees with me, you know.” He’s not sure what he makes of Andy and Robin being friends before they had even been introduced. It had caught him off guard, Andy coming with him to one of Eddie’s gigs, and her and Robin chatting with an easy familiarity. Robin had failed to mention that they’re both in some kind of feminist consciousness-raising group on campus, and have been for two years. 

“Well, Robin thinks everyone’s a little gay so, I’m still not convinced.” Darkness On the Edge of Town is crackling and crooning in her cassette deck, Springsteen walking Streets of Fire, sending them both into a little sway at the counter, the light turning blue and dim in the little square window above the sink, frost filaments and threads around the edges of the panes. And the bread she’s slicing is from some friend of a friend who’s gotten into sourdough, because Andy has friends who get into sourdough, though when she pulls the loaf apart it looks more like chewed gum than bread in the middle. They make do with a few tortillas fried and folded with a fistful of cheese in a pan instead, settling down around each other with steaming bowls on the couch. 

“Oh hey, Syl, hey, baby.” The baby in question is digging her claws into his pants leg and crawling up his thigh. Steve hadn’t met Sylvia until the third or fourth time he stayed over, woken up from a deep, warm sleep to something tugging at his scalp. He thought it had been Andy being a little mean in that way he likes, a halfway delirious smile spreading and bleary eyes opening and he had been very wrong, met with the sight of a creature curled up next to his face and chewing on the ends of his hair. Emphasis on the word creature, not cat, no. And when he returned to his own apartment that morning and told Robin he met Sylvia, she had promptly said oh, the ballsack cat, yeah. He was inclined to agree with her on that title, and is still inclined to agree now, watching the hairless animal’s wrinkles curl and fold as she climbs up his chest, bap, bap, bapping at his throat while Steve holds his bowl of soup overhead and out of her swiping range. Andy keeps telling him that Sylvia likes him, even as she curls her hand around the cat’s middle to peel her off him, her claws catching in his sweater and she really likes you, Stevie. Yeah, he’s not so sure about that. But Andy’s cooed Stevie softens him, just a little. 

“Are you playing this weekend?” 

“Yeah, just a round robin thing on Saturday with some other teams.”

“Can I come watch?

“If you want to, I don’t know if it’s gonna be that interesting though.” Andy had come to watch a few of his club basketball games last weekend, and yeah, maybe a little puff of pride in his chest, maybe hustling a little faster, maybe taking more shots. And afterward, when his team mates asked him if that was his girl cheering for him on the bleachers, he had sniffed, and pointedly informed them that she’s not a girl, she’s a woman. 

“On the contrary, I think those shorts you wear are very interesting.”

“Are you objectifying me right now?” Her thumb and forefinger pinch together, smile scrunching to the side as she tries to hold in a laugh. 

“What can I say, you have a very objectifiable ass.” 

“I knew it, knew you just wanted me for my body.” An easy shuffle, both of them dissolving in a breath of laughter and soup bowls being set aside and Andy’s aw poor baby, how’s it feel coming out breathless as she settles her thighs around his hips, making him bark a single high note when her hands creep down his back and down into his back pockets and squeezing as best she can with her hands squished between him and the couch.

“If you rip these tights I’m never kissing you again.” His hands wandering, bunching up the dark green fabric of her dress, pretty thing that he watched flutter around her shins on the walk from class to her apartment. He palms her ass, fingers pressing greedy into the fat covered by knit brown tights, little pinch, little pull of the fabric and snapped back, making her huff at him.

“I don’t think I could if I tried. They’re fucking thick, how am I gonna get you out of these, huh?”

“It’s cold out, Steven. I need them to stay warm.” And of course, of course, if she pitches one down the middle he’s gonna swing, his grin turning smarmy as he tilts his chin up to smack a kiss to her mouth that lands more on her cheek with the way she ducks him, him mouthing into her skin I’ll keep you warm, honey. 

Andy cut all her hair off recently, leaving a spiky bob that’s a little too short to be called a bob and he likes it. Before, he’d hide his face in the fan of her hair, tucking his nose into the juncture of her neck and breathing deeply. Now it’s wildly easy access to let his mouth drag up the column of her throat, making her squirm in his hands, little tug to his hair where her fingers are threaded through mean. And somewhere in the background the piano is spilling out a desperate tune and Clarence is breathing hard into his sax and Bruce is whining in that dark rasp about proving it all night, girl, I’ll prove it all night for your love and he’s humming the words into her sternum while they stumble and shrug off the couch, a small whirlwind of him rucking her dress up and up and off and she’s in nothing but that damn pair of tights, her spine curling beneath his hands when he ducks his head down and presses the open heat of his mouth over her nipple, long sigh, and another stumble up against the wall next to her bedroom door. 

He’s doomed, he knows it. How badly he wants her, and when he gets her, how needy, how greedy. Got up at seven this morning to walk across campus and shovel her stoop because she had complained about nearly slipping the other day, and it was worth it when she came down still in her robe and soft an sleepy and pulled him inside to press kisses to the already red tips of his ears and his cheeks and his nose, let him sit with a warm cup of coffee and watch her roll those tights up her legs while she told him about a paper she’s writing about Jane Ussher’s conception of critical realism. He did his best to listen, to hold onto the details even as his brain wandered to the soft drop of her breasts as she leaned over herself. And it’s extra terrible, he thinks, that she seems to want him just as much, or close to it, at least, her hands slipping up under his sweater, the light scratch of her nails against his stomach, swallowing the whine that loosens in his chest when her fingers dip under the waistband of his jeans. Hands and teeth and tongues and give and take and an indignant chirp from somewhere at their feet when he steps on what he’s pretty sure was a paw, a murmured sorry ball– sorry, Sylvia when he closes the bedroom door before the cat can slip inside with them because no, not making that mistake again. And when he turns back around, he finds her standing there devastatingly smug, because she knows, she knows how freakishly foolish she has turned him, her hands on her hips and still in her tights and that little spill of softness over the waist of them and he wants to put his mouth there, there, and bite down just a little. Normal want, right? Right. 

“Come here.” She says it again, quiet c’mere with her shoulder hiked up and her cheek dropped to the slope of it and he’s never saying no to that, bare feet padding and hands finding the soft spill of her waist, her hips, tugging down and down and down on his knees and he’s got her laughing with how he holds onto her ankle to help her step out of the rolled-down fabric of her tights, pressing a kiss to the notch of bone there for good measure. Being with her, around her, he finds himself doing things he would have scoffed at, things the king would have scoffed at. But she makes him feel young and dumb in that giddy, good way, new, makes him forget the rules he had made for himself to make things like this easier. There is nothing, he has realized, that has been quite like this. 

For all the teasing, all the little taunts, she’s gentle where it counts. Makes him feel like something good, something real beneath her hands and her mouth, gentle when she pulls off his sweater and smooths back his hair from his face, always doing that with a kiss pressed to a temple, his brow, the crinkle that pulls next to his eye because he’s always smiling like a fool around her. And when they’re both bare, a little breathless from all the little pets, little kisses, curled around each other with her duvet tugged down around their hips because sweat is starting to build and pool in the soft hollows of their skin, they hold onto each other through the soft shake of it, hips and bellies and that sweet, simple sate. He comes with his face pressed against her heart, sweat and salt stinging his eyes and her hands holding him steady and she hums his name as a high sound in her throat, and he thinks that this could maybe, probably, definitely be called love. 

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” He can see the shadow of her smile, the streetlight outside casting a warm wash over the bed, shadows of snowfall speckled on her cheek.

“Should probably get a shower.”

“Probably.” Even as he says it he’s pulling her closer, her feet hooked around his ankles, bare chest to bare chest and her hands tucked under his arms, thumbs brushing down the rungs of his ribs, sweat cooling a little humid, the beat of their hearts lulling slow in the aftermath.

“I don’t have class in the morning, do you?”

“At eleven, macroeconomics.”

“How bleak, gonna solve the debt crisis?”

“For you, I’ll try.”

“Oh please, Steve, you can’t just say stuff like that.” Little shove to his chest, though he just holds her tighter.

“Why not?”

“You’re gross. We’re gross.” 

“The grossest, honey.” 

“I like that.”

“What, being gross?”

“No, you calling me honey, I like that. No one’s called me that before, it’s cute.” He likes the feeling of the soft, melting line of her body pressed snug against his, her words breathed out on a sigh somewhere between sleep and not. 

“Noted, honey.” 

“You’re such a dick, Do you wanna do breakfast in the morning?” A quiet mmhmm, mmhmm? mmhmm from both of them. Sleep, he finds, comes easily like this. 

And in the morning, they wake up in a different tangle, both on their stomachs, her arm slung between his shoulder blades and his hand curled around her hip. They move with half-opened eyes and hoarse voices, hot shower and cool bathroom tiles and he’ll just wear his clothes from yesterday to class, he doesn’t care. But she still offers him a clean sweatshirt from that co-op she said she worked at freshman year (don’t laugh, Steven, I had free produce for months) and he puts it on, leaves the hood up to smell more of her while he watches her move around her kitchen from the little table tucked into the corner of the room. Sylvia pads over, sniffs at his bare feet and licks his pinky toe before clawing up the leg of his jeans with her front paws, stretching out and peering up at him. He gives her a cursory pat between her ears, and she doesn’t seem to care for that, a low rumbling noise that sounds like a complaint as she pushes off of his leg and slinks over to settle on the arm of the couch. 

“I have this leftover pumpkin bread, do you want some?” Said over her shoulder while she stirs eggs in a pan, her jeans half-unbuttoned and the hem of her sweater rolled up to expose the bare round of her hip. And it’s a simple thought, but it’s true, he likes looking at her. 

“Is it from the friend who got into sourdough?” 

“Be nice, she just started. And no, it’s from that bakery we went to last weekend.” And so there’s scrambled eggs with sharp cheese, how he likes them, and chopped peppers, how she likes them, and strong coffee, how they both like it, and a heel of pumpkin bread just starting to go stale that they make easy work of, breaking off pieces and dipping it into their coffee, quiet and their knees brushing with how close they are on chairs tucked into her small table. 

He leaves her place with a warm stomach and a swimming mind and the kiss she pressed to his cheek still blooming heat even in the snap of snow and cold. And whatever the professor lectures about in his eleven o’clock class is lost to him, sorry, he’s there but not there. There but still in the doorway of her apartment, and her all but shooing him off because I made you breakfast, that’s enough domesticity for the day, mean but not meaning it. He’d linger in her doorway all day if she let him, he thinks, fail all his classes, be presumed dead to the world, and he’d probably enjoy doing it. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Robin in the kitchen when he gets back to their apartment, dipping a banana directly into the peanut butter jar, and he doesn’t have enough of a mind to scold her for it.

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Where’d you get that sweatshirt? Is it new? I haven’t seen it before.” 

“It’s Andy’s.”

“Oh, that’s what’s wrong with you. Did you sleep over? I didn’t hear you come home last night. How is your lady friend?” A waggle of her eyebrows as she pockets her last bite of banana in her cheek. He tries to side step her, and she mimes his movement easy enough, blocking his exit from their kitchen, her grin spreading. 

“Rob, please, I have a paper I need to–” 

“Oh, oh, I know that look.” And before he can ask her what she means by that she’s already shouting down the hall for Eddie because emergency family meeting is needed in the kitchen, thank you very much.

“What’s going on?” Easier to ride this out, to let Robin tug him into the living room and sit him down, Eddie on her heels.

“Steve’s in love.” 

“What? Robin–”

“Wait, with cool girl? Fuck, what’s her name again?”

“This is seriously none of your business, and–”

“Andy, with the boots, you met her last week.”

“We’re both casual, it’s casual, it’s a casual–”

“That’s right. I like her. Good work, Steven, you somehow found someone normal and cool this time. Remember that last chick?” 

“Hey–”

“With the hair?”

“She was–”

“And that perfume, woof.”

“Andy isn’t–”

“I’m pretty sure she was eating my leftovers out of the fridge, you know.” 

“I’m not–”

“No, really? Wouldn’t put it past her, that girl was—”

“Are you two done yet?” Mercifully, it’s enough to get them to stop their little back and forth, mouths shutting and faces turning to look at him like twin imps. 

“You’re in love, Steve, and before you say something like ugh Robin, no I’m not, ugh Robin, how could you possibly know that, I know these things, okay?”

“I don’t talk like that.” Eddie taps in, Robin standing smug with her arms crossed over her chest.

“She’s right, man, you’ve been kinda, well, yeah.” 

“What does that mean?” And what follows is another volley between his wretched roommates, Steve somewhere in the middle, dumbstruck.

“Sighing around the apartment like a kicked dog.”

“Getting snitty when you’re about to leave for one of your dates.”

“You smile like a freak when she’s around. Like a creepy, beautiful, vaguely Germanic doll.”

“You talk about her all the time. Like, all the time.” 

“You’re in love, man.”

“Indubitably so.”

“Hey, I say congrats, I actually like this one. Rob?” 

“I concur, bring her for dinner, this family meeting is adjourned.” Just like that, Robin rubbing her hands together in one loud clap and Steve doesn't even have a chance to get a word in edgewise, both her and Eddie already in their coats and their shoes and out the door because they both have class in twenty and bye, loverboy. He’s left on the couch in something close to a stupor. 

Maybe, probably, definitely he thinks. Though he’s not going to admit that to Robin or Eddie. God forbid they get one right. 

[bullet-prooflove]

Valentine's Day Bingo: Break - Beau 'Cyclone' Simpson x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @justameresimp @agentorange9595 @handsupforamiracle @lxaah11 @librarian1002 @imaginecrushes @flrboyd @@nani-kenobi @areamir @b-bradshaw @adaydreamaway08 @crimeshowjunkie @shepgurl @inkandarsenic @caffeinatedwoman @tortilla-maria1 @lemmons1998 @dr-alan-grantler @dizzybee03 @burningpeachpuppy @penguin876 @deliriousfangirl61 @goosterroose @kishie8 @skyesthebomb @druby2011-blog @olymosity @@marshmallowflufffox @whateversomethingbruh @soultrysworld @@4everademigod @reneejett4 @notanotherpotter @yousigned-upforthis

Hitting the Bingo Square: Forgetting

Beau knows what it’s like when you get focused on a case. He’s used to the late nights, the intense scribbling as you draft and redraft your arguments. You’ve got a big one on your docket this month, a General, whose been accused of multiple sexual assaults. His legal team are the best of the best but then again so are you, it’s why you were cherry picked for the position in Victim’s Services in the first place.

Still, he worries about you burning out, you dedicate yourself to your work the same way that he does and lately it’s been intense. There’s a lot of pressure on your shoulders at the minute, too much he thinks which is why you’ve forgotten about Valentine’s Day.

When he steps inside the house this evening, you’re situated in your usual place in front of the coffee table. Your back rests against the couch as you read through your notes, making edits with a pencil. You’re wearing one of his jumpers over black leggings, your hair tied up into a messy bun. You barely register his presence, not until he sets the glass of white wine down next to a small stack of papers.

“Ally,” He says softly as he sits down in the space alongside of you. “You need to take a break.”

“Hm.” You respond distractedly, and he knows you aren’t hearing him.

There’s one thing he knows will distract you from your task. It’s his secret weapon, the thing he always uses when you get too inside your own head.

His fingertips brush over the collar of the sweater, moving it aside so that he can kiss that sensitive little spot between your throat and shoulder, the one that resides just in the curve. Your breath hitches as his heated mouth encloses over the space, the sound of your pencil pausing. His hand slips underneath the jumper, his fingers trailing over the lace of your bra.

“Beau…” You murmur, your head tipping back as you set your pencil down.

“Just relax.” He whispers against your skin, his thumb tracing over your pert nipple, bringing it to attention. “Let me look after you.”

It devolves from there, light teasing kisses that leave you desperate and overwrought as he goes down on you to the sound of Norah Jones’s ‘Waiting’. He takes his time, ruining you, his tongue tracing deviant circles over your clit as he fucks you with his fingers. It’s a slow build up, you raise, and you fall, but he won’t let you over the peak, not until he hears his name roll off your lips because that’s when he knows he has your entire attention.

You’re beautiful when you come, so fucking loud and uninhibited. He smiles as he kisses his way back up your body, his hands ghosting over your sensitive skin. Your eyes are still closed, your breathing heavy as his thumb chases over your flushed cheek. You look so peaceful right now, so serene and he knows that he’s achieved his goal.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” He whispers, his lips brushing over yours.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been more attentive…” You murmur, your fingertips trailing over the line of his jaw. “I’m a such a bad wife…”

Beau shushes you, his forehead coming to rest on yours as he looks into your eyes.

“What you’re doing is important, he needs to be held accountable for what he’s done.” Beau reassures you, his nose trailing along yours. “I’ve booked us in at that little B&B in Denver after the trial, the one you love. We’ll take a little time then, get reacquainted.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” You whisper, the edges of your mouth turning up into a smile before he kisses you again. Your fingers thread through his hair and he moans at the sensation when you tug just a little.

“Now…” You murmur with that mischievous tone of yours. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

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[the-most-humble-blog]

Donald Juan Trumpington (DJT): The Deportation Demigod 🔥

The man, the myth, the orange-tinted terror who strikes fear into the undocumented and dreams of building walls taller than their hopes.

🌪 BACKSTORY 🌪

When the universe begged for chill, DJT delivered chaos on a platinum platter, trimmed with gold-leaf tacos no one could afford. A man with the finesse of a wrecking ball and the subtlety of a nuclear warhead, Donald Juan Trumpington didn’t just rise to power—he boot-stomped his way there, fake tan glowing like the goddamn sun.

His reign became a nightmare for anyone who even looked like they might not have a birth certificate on hand. If you were undocumented? Guess what: DJT knew. If your tamales tasted too good? He KNEW. If your cousin Pablo couldn’t stop posting party selfies on Facebook? Oh, he fucking KNEW.

🛑 THE GREAT DEPORTATION 🛑

DJT's pièce de résistance was The Great Deportation, an event so catastrophic even abuelas holding rosaries couldn’t pray fast enough to stop it. Entire families disappeared overnight:

The tias who made mole that healed your soul? GONE.

The primo who turned his garage into a second living room? GONE.

The drunk uncle who didn’t even have a passport? STILL GONE.

Even the tamales didn’t survive—steamed, wrapped, and shipped back faster than anyone could scream, “¡NO MAMES, GÜEY!”

And the cries? Oh, the cries were MAGNIFICENT: “I Black, I Black, plz no deport!” suddenly echoed from people who’d spent YEARS saying, “I’m Dominican, not Black.”

But guess what? The I.C.E. stormtroopers, mostly Black themselves, weren’t buying that bullshit. Years of fake accents and “I’m just visiting” weren’t cutting it anymore. Their collective mood: “Deuces, cabrones.”

💥 POWERS 💥

💀 Boot-to-Ass Syndrome: This man doesn’t just deport people—he sends their souls packing. DJT specializes in blunt-force deportation trauma with the precision of a bureaucratic surgeon.

🎯 Accent Radar: Fake a southern drawl? Claim you’re Canadian? DJT KNOWS. His finely tuned Accent Sense will sniff out lies faster than you can say, “Ay caramba!”

🏗 Wall Builder Supreme: Forget architects—DJT can summon walls faster than you can Google “cheap ladders.” His walls come preloaded with spikes, cameras, anti-rope tech, and a middle finger emoji.

📢 Twitter Sonic Attacks: DJT’s tweets aren’t just rants—they’re verbal frag grenades.

“Covfefe”? A nation stopped breathing.

“BUILD THAT WALL!”? Entire psyches shattered.

His social media is weaponized chaos.

❄️ Stormtrooper Deployment: DJT’s I.C.E. squads aren’t just enforcers—they’re goddamn hunters. They can sniff out an undocumented soul faster than your tia can find gossip at a baby shower.

🛡 WEAKNESS 🛡

NONE. 💀 When it comes to deportation, DJT is an unstoppable force of orange carnage.

Think you can hide? HA.

Hide in a cousin’s trailer park? Knocking on the door in 3 minutes.

Blend into the suburbs with some organic tortillas from Whole Foods? LOL, he’ll sniff out your salsa faster than a Karla sniffs out drama.

Even the Avengreros (The Avengers Undocumented Member Division) had to wave the white flag.

No tacos.

No nanas.

No hope. Even their heroic churro stand got dismantled.

🏆 LEGACY 🏆

Donald Juan Trumpington didn’t just deport people—he deported their dreams, hopes, and childhood memories.

His impact was so seismic that entire cultures became DIY YouTube tutorials. (“How to Make Tamales From Memory While Crying.”)

He is a hurricane of orange hair, loud ties, and unrelenting destruction. If you’re undocumented? Pray to whatever god you’ve got, because DJT IS COMING.

And he’s not just coming— HE’S TWEETING ABOUT IT WHILE DRINKING DIET COKE.

REBLOG OR BE DEPORTED (jk, probably) 🚨

🔥 Don’t let this masterpiece of unhinged chaos go unread. REBLOG NOW, or DJT’s Accent Radar might catch YOU next!

Tag your primos, your tias, or that one friend who thinks they’re safe because they took one semester of Duolingo Spanish.

💥 REBLOG THIS. DON’T BE A CABRÓN. 💥

[nobody-nexus]

More TADC Incorrect Quotes

(Warning some may be nsfw) Contains Ragapom as well because why not

===

Jax, to the Squad: The real secret to immortality? Not dying. You want to be immortal? Okay, that’s easy. Just don’t die. That’s it. Refuse to die. There you go Pomni: But how- Jax, ignoring them: “But how”, you may ask. Well, easy. Just don’t do it. Refuse to. Say “no thanks”

===

Pomni: That was so hot, Ragatha Ragatha: I literally called the person who just flirted with you a degenerate dog and told them I hope they get dragged through the streets. Pomni: I'm so in love with you.

===

Ragatha: Hey, Zooble, where are you going? Zooble: Well, it depends. When I die, probably hell Zooble: But right now I’m going to McDonald’s

===

Jax: What kinds of sounds annoy you? Kinger: Are we talking real sounds or imaginary ones? Jax, now interested: Lets say imaginary Kinger: Spiders wearing flip flops

===

Pomni: I would do anything for money. later Pomni, covered in blood: THE STATEMENT STILL STANDS!

===

Zooble: I just watched Pomni jump off of a spinning chair. Luckily, they weren't hurt that badly. But the whole time, Jax was screaming for help, which caused Ragatha to run in to help Pomni. Just note that all of this happened in the span of six minutes

===

Bubble: Bye Caine! Bye Pomni! Bye Gangle! Bye Jax! Bye Caine! Kinger: You said ‘bye Caine’ twice- Bubble: I like Caine.

===

Caine: Okay happy circus members! If you were a fruit, what would you be and why? Zooble: I'd be a tomato because no one accepts me as part of the group. Caine: ... Zooble: ... Caine: OKAY HAPPY CIRCUS MEMBERS-

===

Pomni: Love is weakness and an evolutionary mistake Zooble: You are literally making a Valentine’s day card for Ragatha Pomni, pointing their hot glue gun towards Zooble: You’re on thin f#&king ice.

===

Jax: If I die, my funeral will be the biggest party ever and you're all invited Pomni: "If"? Zooble: Great, the only party I'm ever invited to, and he might not even die

===

Caine: Jax, my old friend! Jax: I think you tried to kill me at some point Caine: That was obviously just my way of getting to know you

===

Gangle: Do you see yourself as a glass half-full or glass half-empty kind of person? Kinger: Half-full, definitely! Kinger: Half-full and constantly rising. Kinger: Soon the water will escape its container and consume us all.

===

Ragatha: I’m proud to identify as morosexual. I’m attracted to dumba$$es and dumba$$es exclusively. Someone asked me what the Spanish word for "tortilla" was once, and now I dream of kissing them under the moonlight. Pomni: What kind of animal is the Pink Panther? Ragatha, already taking off her clothes: God, Pomni, you’re so f#%king stupid.

===

Ragatha: Truth or dare? Zooble: Truth Ragatha: How many hours have you slept this week? Zooble: Zooble: Dare Ragatha: Go to sleep. Zooble: I don't like this game.

===

Jax, texting Zooble: Any plans for tonight? Zooble: No Jax: Loser

===

Caine: You three, explain right now! Pomni: It was Jax Ragatha: It was Jax Zooble: It was Jax Jax: Jax: …fuck.

===

Caine, holding an antique bottle: Is this whiskey or perfume? Bubble: grabs and chugs the entire bottle Bubble: Bubble: It's perfume :D

===

Ragatha: Kinger… Kinger: Oh no, 'Kinger' in B flat Kinger: You're disappointed

===

Pomni stumbles into the hall of dorms, absolutely drunk, takes off her hat, and stands in Ragatha’s bedroom. Ragatha: Babe, are you.. coming to bed? Pomni: No thank you, I’m sure you’re lovely but I have a girlfriend. Pomni: Lies on the ground and falls asleep Ragatha: …

===

Caine: If you put 'violently' in front of anything to describe your action, it becomes funnier Caine: Violently practices Kinger: Violently studies Ragatha: Violently sleeps Gangle: Violently shoots pictures Zooble: Violently boxes Pomni: Violently murders people. Ragatha: Violently worries about the previous statement

===

Jax, knocking on the door: Gangle, open up! Gangle: It all started when I was a kid. Jax: Wha- OPEN THE F#%KING DOOR

===

Jax: You need to be more careful, dollface Ragatha, who was dragged into Jax's issue: Careful? CAREFUL?! I'LL CAREFULLY WRAP MY HANDS AROUND YOUR THROAT-

===

Thump noise Pomni, from the other room: What happened?! Jax: Gangle’s shirt fell Pomni: Why was it loud? Jax: It had them inside

===

Kinger: Hi, who's this? Jax changed all of my contacts to mythical creatures Gangle: What's mine? Kinger: Dwarf Gangle: THEY'RE SO MEAN, I'M NOT THAT SHORT! Kinger: Oh, hey Gangle Gangle: F#%K!

===

Zooble: If we’re in trouble, just throw Ragatha at the problem, and hope for the best

===

*Gangle teaching Zooble to drive and taking Jax along for the ride* Gangle: That's a pothole. To the left! Zooble: Take it back now y'all *Drives into pothole* Jax, sticking their face into the front over the center console: Cha Cha real smooth. Zooble: I don't think that's how the song goes. Gangle, crying and gripping the handle: Please just take me home. Zooble: Country Roads. Jax: To the place. Zooble and Jax in unison: I Belong! Gangle, crying harder: What the f#%k?

===

Jax: You know, there’s only one person in this world who can tell you what you are Ragatha: Yourself! Jax: No. Jax: Me

===

Jax: "What are you into?" is such a broad question, like do I reply with a TV series or choking?

===

Pomni: Good night Ragatha: Sleep tight! Caine: Don't let the bedbugs crawl up to your ear and whisper threatening things that make you question yourself! Jax: Great, now Ragatha's crying

===

Gangle: Tomorrow's garbage day Jax: I can't believe they made a whole day dedicated to you

===

Pomni: My mom is calling… hi mom! Ragatha: Come on guys, stop. They’re trying to talk to their mom. Jax: loud fake sexual noises Caine: EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP! Zooble: is asleep Kinger: gets really close to the phone Tell her I said hi.

===

Jax: What did Ragatha do this time? Zooble: More like WHO did Ragatha do this time?

===

Ragatha: Dom or sub? Pomni: I guess Domino's, since I don't go to Subway that much. Don't see why you'd put them in the same category though

===

Zooble: Who would you kill out of the four of us, Ragatha? Ragatha: Jax, easily. Jax, laughing: What the f#%k, girl Ragatha: Well, Pomni would be too easy. They’d probably be into it. Pomni, now standing in the doorway: What the f#$k, Ragatha!?

===

Pomni: Guys, I didn’t memorize my lines! Caine: Just use your lack of common sense! Everyone knows the characters in plays are dumb! During the play Gangle: Hey! You finally made it! Did you get the donuts? Pomni: W-what’re donuts?

[chiquititaosita]

Maki Zenin x Latina fem reader 🫶🏼🌶️👹

¡! ❞ synopsis: maki x latina reader varying headcanons, with slight mentions of nsfw descriptions, and suggestive writing

osita note: yall im making more soon asap, writing is back in the groove more gay shit coming soon! hope y’all love it @kenruu @sanjisblackasswife @yourrfavzxri @chrollohearttags @chocolatetheoristcloud @sanjis-all-blue @euphofic @roronoaswifey @cookiepie111 @sierae @hqkalon

maki being the girlfriend to write you notes on a sticky note in places you’ll be looking for stuff. “have a good day at work! fuck that bitch (coworkers name).”

Maki who spoils you by buying you food, and even cooking sometimes. She comes to terms with accepting the use of vicks vaporub and newspaper cones.

Maki Zenin being the girlfriend that literally checks you out unintentionally, and her sister calls her out.

“You’re checking her out aren’t you?”

“So she’s not your type.” “but that’s my girlfriend.”

“Hey she’s mine back off!” she gets jealous so fucking easily, and is kinda tóxica but we stan it.

You yelling at Maki and slapping her hand with a wooden spoon with a small hit. Then itadori with a PAM! because they attempted to eat your cooking that’s still raw and needs to be cooked thoroughly.

“Wash y’all’s damn hands!!” You’ll be yelling that in Spanish and putting your hands on your hips.

I mean if you you yell at Maki or anyone in español She’s gonna get her pushy wet, call it Niagara Falls up in this bitch.

“AYO THOSE ARE MY TITTIES!!” she’s gonna cover you up if you have a nip slip or a fashion mishap. Or get nobara to help you. She don’t mess with taken women, nobara goes after married men PURR

here y/n is just being fussy; and crying if she gets hurt, “who did this to you!?…” at first in her head she’ll be like oh shit.

“What happened…?” bitch will fight the whole jujitsu society and even risk her life as a sorcerer for you. BECAUSE SHE LOVES YOU SO DEARLY INTO HER HEART.

ms girl loves your cooking and your body with stretch marks and freckles. “And I thought you were my breakfast.”

FaceTimes you when you’re on break, ALWAYS COMES HOME TO YOUR COOKING AND CLEANING. Because she’s never been taken care off because her dads a bitch. she starts showing affection to you slowly.

“i know you’re homesick, so i brought you pan dulce from the panadería.”

“you want me to help you with anything?” she really doesn’t know how to ask you for help, but instead she takes over the whole task on doing it.

“you need to be careful, okay?” overprotective 11/10

cuddles are necessary with her always

she’s always gotta be touching you on your thighs your ass or your titties, even the small of your back

“My girlfriends coming! And she’s gonna kick your ass!” The minute she feels somethings not right! 🏎️ nyooom!! She’s gonna use her cursed objects to find you AND KILL THEM MFS

Maki to the rescue. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” She’s gonna kill these bitches with no mercy. Maki has already lost her mother and she can’t risk the chances of losing you.

She calls you mama, princess, baby, y/n love, love, love bug, sunshine.

Actually is learning Spanish for you. Even though it’s easy to understand by how you’re yelling at someone she’s just encouraging you with her hands up having a smirk on her face. “that’s my girl.”

especially for her voice being low and sounding like honey, when she calls you baby. she’s obsessed at how y’all dance together. Mai approves of you 9/10! only because maki didn’t tell her about you sooner.

if your cousins ask maki why her hair looks like mocos, she’ll just just not care. and whisper something super sinister in your cousins ears that’ll leave them terrified, and go back to eating.

kisses with maki are sweet and slow, even passionate at times, of course when it comes to pda she’ll show you off, but when y’all are alone and in private she’s mostly affectionate, and at her most vulnerable state

when you teach her how to flip a tortilla she instantly burns her finger, because the comal was hot. “fuck!” that leaves you to helping her with it. but you or maki wouldn’t change a thing

[connormccafferyhater]

omg i’m a little sad. at our tournament today we had like a big gap in between games to eat lunch and my mom bought me like this southwest salad from wawa (it had tomatoes, cheese, grilled chicken, tortilla strips, corn, this like orange dressing that i can’t name atm but it was busting)

i was sitting with my teammates at the scorer’s table watching the game and all of a sudden my teammate’s like “your salad stinks, it’s giving me a headache,” and i was like oh i’m sorry because how tf do i even respond to that but even the ref came over to me and was like “that looks so nasty” + “ts stinks” and i’m like distraught atp because IK MY SALADS GOOD, i’m enjoying my salad, i literally ate the whole thing so for someone to come up to me and like gaslight me into thinking my salad wasn’t good enough or something left like a bad taste in my mouth.

ALSO the ref like asked me if i liked fried chicken (because i’m black ig idk) and i said i enjoy it (like fried chicken’s ok i’m just not a big chicken girl) and she was like to my teammate “you can tell by that answer that’s all she eat” LIKE WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON. WHY ARE YOU HATING ON ME AND MY SALAD AND LIKE MAKING THESE PREJUDGMENTS ABT ME??? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ME THIS IS THE FIRST TIME WE’VE CROSSED PATHS ON EARTH.

AND ALSO my other teammate at the scoring table with us got wawa for us and i got a strawberry cheesecake milkshake and she was like ”tf is strawberry cheesecake?” um i think it’s self explanatory??? am i like going insane or is that not like that one of the most basic cheesecake flavors. like if i saw a strawberry cheesecake flavored milkshake ANYWHERE i would think ts sounds so good. like am i crazy??

i feel like my more urban teammates don’t understand my tastes because they have a premature/not very diversified palette. what do you guys think, lmk in the comments!!