#blended hairline

[wig-supplies-and-more]

Mastering the Art of Hairline Trimming with Pinking Shears

Trimming the hairline of a lace closure is an essential step in achieving a natural and seamless look. Whether you’re new to using lace closures or have been wearing them for a while, understanding the proper techniques for trimming the hairline is crucial. One effective tool that can aid in achieving a flawless finish is pinking shears. The hairline of a lace closure refers to the area where…

[icewindandboringhorror]

thinking about orange juice

[noel-levine-fan]

waiting for the day

[ssspringroll]

for a test, that aint bad. i will have to wait until s4s updates to test anything in game tho cuz ill have to update to open the game.

[t-u-i-t-c]

if they're going to have him be in his fox form from time to time, i hope they drop a video of him doing the dance in it

[hirazuki]

That moment when you're cutting a wig the same color as your hair, and you're absolutely certain that you've tucked all your own hair away, but... the fear is always there...

[succubused]

look at my manta ray necklace boy

[shotmrmiller]

simon who can afford a better flat than the budget friendly flat he lives in but won't move. johnny doesn't understand. he wants to blame it on simon being the enigmatic, intentionally perplexing man he tends to be but he has a flat.

he doesn't have to. he's got no significant other, no kids (that he knows of, god only knows if simon's got a bairn somewhere. it makes him heated thinking about it. he's it's uncle, damn it.) why does he rent here when living in base is free?

the question answers itself when he's over one evening, empty beer bottles on the table, amber glass reflecting the warm glow of the lone lamp overhead. the television is on, volume turned down, blending with the other sounds of the night— the distant barking of dogs, the quiet hum of simon's fridge, the occasional car passing by outside.

the conversation had died down already, not like they don't spend almost every waking breath with each other at work and they'd been sitting in a comfortable silence when there was a sudden, sharp knock at simon's door.

it startles johnny, reaction instinctive as he reaches for his hip, hand curling around the grip of his holstered gun but simon seems relaxed. he pins him with a look and mutters, "s'alrigh'."

what does he mean it's alright? it's 'witchin' hour'' as his mam calls it, who could possible be at his door? he cranes his neck to look and—

it's you, standing up here with a flour-dusted apron, small hands holding a warm pastry, the steam twisting and curling off of it. you're exude homely charm, soft face glowing from the corridor's light (or maybe it's at the sight of seeing simon, who knows?) he can smell it in the air, sweet, inviting.

what johnny finds interesting enough to send a quick text to kyle is how simon is looking at you. as if you're handing him more than just a custard tart, but also a little piece of heaven, a fragment of a dream he hopes to have one day.

"'m sorry, simon. i wasn't aware you had any company. i just really needed to stress bake or i would've gone off the deep end and end up in prison."

violent little bonnie. he can see the appeal.

simon cups his hands over yours (he definitely did it as an excuse to touch you) as he takes the treat. if you make food to unwind and give it to your neighbors, johnny oughta move in next door too. he'll never turn down free food.

"don't worry about it." johnny's eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the softness in his tone, bottle halfway to his lips.

clearly more than a passing fancy.

"i'll just uhm, if you're friend wants some too—" but simon gently interrupts you before he can ask for some of that sweet comfort too.

"he's not hungry."

cruel, cruel bastard. he'll remember this day, jot it down in his calendar. when he gets a girl of his own, he'll be sure to do the same.

johnny wonders if you've got a crick in your neck from looking up at simon as you speak hushed words, meant only for him. can he get at least a nibble of that tart?

you shoot johnny a shy ㅤsmile before turning around and simon closes the door, turning back to the warming beers, golden tart in hand.

even the plate it's on is cute.

"ah can see the hearts in yer eyes, lt."

johnny can practically hear the air parting as simon's fist cuts through it, aimed at his head. he avoids it with practiced ease. "ooh, touchy. ah'll leave ye be if i get a bite o' tha'."

he doesn't gets not even a crumb because simon is selfish.

(simon moved here purposefully because he knows you live here and can't be at peace without knowing where you are at all times. there's a tag inside your favorite pair of shoes you left out in the hall once to dry after a hard downpour. the bakery you work at is down the street, if he looks out the south facing window, he can see you going in and leaving work. he likes to let himself in your home and smell your cushions. took one of your shirts too but at least made sure it wasn't one of your faves. he has to wash it every other day)

[zaggyzoo]

going to the hairdresser tomorrow do you think those face framing / money piece highlights would look good with a widow's peak hairline too

[dragonanon]

And now, an actual interaction I had with my dad this morning

Me: *Trying to make a berry smoothie in my new portable blender, holding it nearly upside down trying to get the frozen berries off of blades so it can actually blend*

Dad, in nothing but a silk kimono and underwear mind you: “What are you baking?”

Me: “Nothing, I am trying to make a smoothie though.”

Dad: “Oh, What’s that?” *pointing at the portable blender*

Me: “It’s one of those portable blenders. I’m trying to make a berry smoothie”

Dad: *Eyes wide with shock and slowly touching my arm* “Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?? There’s actually fruit in there!”

[meemoop]

Character Design

because I get a lot of asks and DMs about why I draw HP characters the way I do and my character design process, I have made a post about it!

I drew Draco to be a blend of Narcissa and Lucius; I was constantly looking between the two while coming up with Draco’s face and build. Sampling hairline from Lucius, texture from Narcissa etc. I think you can tell, but if not, I sort of mapped it out below. (Terrifying, I know)👇

I drew a LOT of inspiration for the Malfoys from Tim Burton (obviously lol) by exaggerating Narcissa’s figure, and Draco’s limbs to emulate the vibes I wanted. But, because I’ve exaggerated those two, I need to exaggerate a contrast for their partners. THAT is why Lucius is tall, bulky, and broad. Harry is probably the most proportionate one (that’s why he’s so hard to draw) with a bigger build. I’ve also drawn Pansy to contrast Draco (she is curvier and shorter) and I’ve done the same with Ron and Hermione. Incidentally, the golden trio now all look distinct from each other! Woohoo!

I think to have contrasting pairs is SO important, especially when there is a storyline (at least to me it is) because characters look so distinct by themselves but harmonize when together. I’m still learning about cartoon design (it hasn’t even been a year since starting this blog) so please don’t think I’m giving “professional advice” I just want to share what I’ve learned so far as a beginner myself. I hope this answers a lot of your questions and helps you all with your journey! 💗💗

**please read comments**

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

That day, the bus is mostly empty. It's only you, an eldery couple, and the driver. The ebb and flow of traffic slows the wheels as the driver passes by vacant stops. You watch the pavement roll by between patches of grass. 

The dulcet ride lures you into a calm even as your pre-work nerves buzz. You hug your bag in your lap as the driver stops and the doors open to let in another passenger. The axel squeals as the vehicular behemoth pulls away from the curb. 

You continue to watch the city as the new rider strides between the seats. You sense their shadow loom closer and closer. You expect them to claim the empty seat across from yours. Instead, the sit right next to you. It's an odd choice given the few passengers aboard. 

You fidget and make yourself smaller. You turn your head straight as you try to see the stranger from the edge of your vision. They're big. Broad enough that their arm presses to yours even as you try to shrink into yourself. Tall too, his knees against the row in front of you. 

He sits rigidly beside you. Uneasy at his proximity, you fish into your side pocket and slide free your phone. You open it aimlessly, tapping habitually on the crossword app you play at work in the low times. 

The solutions elude you as your mind can't detach from the man crowding you into the window. Why can't he sit anywhere else? You look around at the unclaimed seats. He stays as he is, stiff, straight, unmoving. 

You close out of the came and lock your phone. You clasp your hand around the device as you hug your bag once more. Your other hand toys with the little pom pom that hangs from your zipper. 

The bright bus signs pass by. You're stop is coming up. Now is the awkward part. Getting the man to let you out. 

You pull the cord to signal your intent but he's already on his feet. You glance over and thank him softly, a brief glimpse at his face. A scar ripples from his hairline, through his temple and angles down his cheek to his jaw. His eyes are a bold blue and his nose finely cut despite the large blemish.  

He stands back as you grab your bag and sidle out. You go to the doors. He follows. 

Huh? 

He grips the yellow bar behind you, his large hand gripping as if he might crush the metal. You stare at his knuckles and the bus jerks to a stop. You nearly fall off your feet. The man catches you by your hip with his free hand. 

You set your feet and cough out another thanks. Embarrassed, you slap the doors and they open. You scurry off and the men once more trails after you. As you veer towards the mall, he waits until the bus takes off and crosses the street. With him, your suspicious leaves. 

You're frazzled as you enter work. You don't know why. You just... are. Something about that man sticks with you. Even if he never said a word, it felt like he was trying to tell you something. 

You clock in and try to shake it off. His face flashes in your mind. You can't place what seems so familiar about him. You would remember if you met him before. How could you forget? 

You go to the counter as Layton talks with a customer about the new seasonal blends. The tea shop has its peak times, especially as winter approaches, but it's one o clock on a Tuesday and that's never very busy anywhere. 

You greet the next customers. Two girls interested in the cold brew pots. You show them what you have and explain the store's points card. The buy a sampler and nothing else. Typical. 

Layton finishes at four. The traffic picks up once he's gone. You don't mind as it keeps the time moving. It peters out as the dinnertime rush fills the food court. You can hear the crowd from around the corner. 

You set to wiping down the counter and putting away the few stray canisters left out. As you turn back, you have to swallow down a shriek. You didn't hear the man over the mall's top hits playlist. 

You hesitate as your eyes meet. It's him. The man from the bus. You blink and press your lips together. 

"Hello, uh, how are you today?" You ask.  

He just stares. No answer. No sign he even heard you. 

He's in all black. Boots, jeans, cargo jacket. He stands like a soldier. You part your lips again, "are you looking for anything in particular? Today we have our apple crisp chai as the sample." 

He still doesn't react. Not more than his eyes falling to the nervous twiddle of your fingers on the counter. Your scalp prickles and your nape burns. If he keeps this up, you'll have to phone security. 

He raises his hand to reveal a familiar object. It's the fluffy pom pom from your bag. Your brows pop up, "oh? Thanks. It must have fallen off." 

You reach for it and your mind races. As nice as it is to return the key chain, you can't help but wonder. How did he know where to find you?

As you grasp the soft ball, his other hand comes up and snares your wrist. Your squeak and try to pull back. You're stuck in his grip.  

Your eyes round and flick up to meet his. His gaze bores into you and at last, his stony expression cracks. He smirks, the scar on the side of his face paling as the lines around his eyes deepen. He releases the keychain and grabs a fistful of your hair. 

"Ow!" You squeal and yank again.  

He rips your hair out at the roots and you exclaim again. Hets go of your arm and you hit the shelves behind you. He nods and spins on his heel, clutching the handful of your hair.  

You whimper and rub your head as your scalp burns. Your eyes water and your lip trembles. You just gape at the door. What just happened? 

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Una Noche En Medellín | Javier Pena x f!Reader

summary: a long day playing pretend at a wedding leads to... exactly what you'd expect.

pairing: javier pena x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. javi smoking, mention of a fictional pregnancy, ONE motherfucking BED BABY! mention of previous p in v, fingering, brief f!oral. this is pretty tame, y'all. reader has hair.

wc: 2.4k

an: this is my entry for the summer lovin' challenge thought up by the wonderful @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery and @amanitacowboy <3 i can literally only apologise for this being so late. i scheduled it in the wee hours and got my dates SO wrong.

my brief was a wedding, javi, and the moodboard you can see in the header. this was so much fun, and my first time posting for our fav dea agent - i hope you enjoy!

divider from @saradika-graphics

The fabric of your dress clings uncomfortably to your skin, sweat glistening under the warm lights of the hotel as you step into the elevator. Hair damp at the nape of your neck, thighs chafing a little as you shift on aching feet, you turn from your tired reflection in the mirror back to the closing doors. 

You watch, drowsy, as Javi presses the button to the tenth floor, one thick finger lighting up the numbers. The same hands that have been on you all evening, long into the night. Squeezing, holding, twirling. He stands with his back to you now, shoulders tense and squared. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you’d pissed him off.

You slump a little against the mirror behind you as the elevator swoops and glides upwards, watching as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Neither of you had thought it’d be easy. But neither had you thought it would be so exhausting. 

Exhausting to remember the details of your cover, to explain that the reason you weren’t drinking was because you’d recently discovered you were expecting your first child. Exhausting to navigate the knowing looks and slaps on the back, the hands on your non-existent bump, trying to make it look convincing. Following Javier around the room, his hand in yours; whispers pressed into the conch of your ear, your hairline - intel exchanged, wrapped in the pretence of humour and affection. Bodies pressed together in a way that should have been unprofessional, but not in a way that was unfamiliar.

The mission had been a success. 

Under fairy lights and between bubbles of champagne, blanketed by the heady heat of Medellín, you’d wound your web. Dancing and talking, sharing cooing compliments with the other guests, letting people watch and believe as you’d kept each other close, the proximity of Javi coming so easy with the thump of bass and threat of danger. Recognising the faces taped and pinned to corkboards in the office, matching voices to crackled radio frequencies, red string to red crosses.

Never standing in one place for too long, never speaking English, never looking surprised, always looking so in love. Draped across his lap with one hand on your hip and the other splayed against the small of your back. Your face tucked into his neck as you relayed information against his jawbone. His kisses to your shoulder as he told you Steve and Carillo were already on their way to the targets’ addresses. Not out of each other’s sight for more than a minute. 

It had been so easy it was almost laughable.

The cartel’s informant would be on his way to his hotel, and his impending arrest, now. The rest of the guests, the family and friends, would soon catch wind and begin to disappear, to turn on each other. And it would be like you and Javi were never there. Blending with the disco lights, melting into the shadows. 

For now, all you need is some rest.

The elevator bell dings for the tenth floor, and you watch as the doors slide open with a quiet hum. Javi turns his face, barely, to make sure you’re still with him, hand twitching at his side as though he wishes to reach for yours. 

It’s hard to turn the performance off. 

Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, wedding band glinting in the light, as he steps out into the hallway. You follow, reaching into your purse for the key card, watching the slump of his broad shoulders stride up the hall, the sweat-curled hair at the nape of his neck. You’d been running your fingers through it twenty minutes ago, cooing something about wanting to take him to bed that had only been a half-lie. He’s been warm and firm against you all night, always within reach. There’s not a scrap of your dress or an inch of your skin that doesn’t smell like his aftershave. And you’re not too proud to admit how much that turns you on.

He leans against the doorframe with one arm when you reach your room, lips lifting in a smirk.

You pull a face at him as you swipe the key card and open the door.

‘What?’

He shrugs as he watches you step into the darkness, waiting only a moment before following and flicking on the light.

‘Just - didn’t think you had it in you, cariño. Never thought you could dance like that.’

You scoff at him as he closes the door, leaning against the coolness of the wall to unclasp and take off your heels.

‘Surprises are part of the job, Peña,’ you grin, ‘Didn’t think you’d be so good at pretending to enjoy a wedding reception.’

‘I’ve had practice.’ He quips, unbuttoning another two of his shirt buttons, white linen against the gold of his skin, sweat gathered at the hollow of his throat. Something burns in your chest - wanton and willing.

He flips on another light as you throw your heels to the side, pausing in the mouth of the room before it opens to the sleeping quarters. You press a palm to his warm back, trying to urge him forwards before he speaks.

‘You’ve gotta be kidding me.’

You step from behind him to stand at his side.

Illuminated, glowing in the bedside light before its backdrop of glimmering city lights, is a single, king-size bed; crisp white sheets neatly tucked beneath the mattress.

You bite your cheek, looking at Javi. His stormy brow, his clenched jaw. 

‘This was supposed to be a suite.’ You murmur.

You want to be angry. Want this to be the thing that ruins an otherwise successful day. But you’re so warm, so tired. You only want a shower and a place to sleep. And you’ve had many worse places than this to do exactly that. 

‘We could call the front desk,’ Javi says, as a yawn pulls at your jaw, ‘See if they can switch us to a room with two beds.’

You shake your head, and he glances at you, surprised.

‘It’s late, and bad for our cover. We can share.’ A small frown teases between his dark eyes. You raise an eyebrow at him. ‘We’re fake married, remember?’

You step past him, smoothing the sheets with your hand. Cool. Soft. You could lie down now and die happy.

There’s the distinctive shnick-whoosh of a lighter behind you, and when you turn, Javi’s face is lit by the soft glow of a cigarette.

‘How could I forget,’ he says, breathing out a rush of blue smoke, ‘When mi esposa has been the life of the party all evening.’

You purse your lips playfully.

‘I thought you enjoyed being my husband, Alejandro.’

A sultry smile softens his features.

‘Sure, cariño.’

You wink at him as he brushes past you, linen against silk. He smells so good. Clean and masculine, something so Javi cutting through it that you can feel that burning move from your chest to pool between your legs.

He breezes through the curtains shrouding the balcony, and you turn into the bathroom, inspecting the array of toiletries, and the towels, fresh and white, waiting for you. You turn the shower on, setting the water to cool before reaching for the zip at the back of your dress. You twist fruitlessly for minutes, but the heat, the dampness of your skin makes the fabric hard to adjust, the zip impossible to catch. A well of frustration rises up your throat, and you clench your jaw.

Hands pressed against the porcelain of the sink, you look into your own eyes in the mirror. Tired, hot. Not too proud to ask for help.

Javi is stood on the balcony, forearms resting against the railing, smoke curling around his strong silhouette. He turns at the sound of the curtains moving behind you, and you smile as he leans back to watch you approach.

His appraising look is appreciative. Sexy.

You turn your back to him, to those eyes.

‘Unzip me?’

You wait for what feels like an eternity. Rocking slightly where you stand, breath catching in your lungs. Every muscle in your body tightened in anticipation.

Goosebumps break out over the small of your back as his fingers trace the line of the zip, up, up to your shoulders. They skim the fabric there, catching your bare skin before settling at the slider. He pulls, slowly. So close you can feel his breath on your neck. Pulls it all the way down so that the dress falls loose at your chest, so it would take only the smallest movement for the garment to drop to the floor. 

His palms slip beneath the silk, curving around your waist. On instinct, yours follow, catching and holding them in place as you sigh at the feeling of his nose tracing your neck. His thumbs stroke the contours of your back.

‘Que linda, bebita.’ He breathes, and you fight the moan surging up from your belly. You hum, leaning into him even as you whisper,

‘I didn’t say undress me.’

A short burst of air at your shoulder, a barely noticeable kiss against your hot skin to disguise his amusement.

‘Wasn’t going to.’

It’s your turn to huff a laugh.

‘We can be professional for a night.’

‘We can.’ He murmurs, and the heat of his body behind yours is lost almost immediately. You sway a little, a smile on your lips as you step back towards the bathroom. You know Javi is watching.

He always is.

He told you. That night in Bogotá, bodies pressed against, pressed into each other. Your legs wrapped around his waist, claw marks red-raw up his back as you’d moaned and cried for him. The wet squelch of your cunt as he worked you open, as he fucked you, as he crooned into your mouth how you’d been all he’d thought about since you stepped into the bullpen. So fucking smart, so capable, so sexy. How you’d been driving him crazy - lips crushed against your temple as you clenched around his cock.

That whole night, how good it had been, how heady. No one had ever made you come like that.

You’d not called the next day, having slunk out of Javi’s room some time in the early hours of the next morning. He’d never asked you why you hadn’t stayed. You’d never spoken of it again.

It was stress relief. Never anything more than two people blowing off steam. Never anything more than two people giving into an obvious attraction.

But that night doesn’t seem so far away as you wash away the sweat and soap from your body, as you rinse the shampoo from your hair. Doesn't erase how you feel him watching, how close he feels, even separated by the door.

And though the shower is cool, your blood still runs hot. Pumping and burning with want in your veins, arousal so strong it makes you giddy as you wrap a towel around yourself, leaving the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

Javi is sat on the edge of the bed, naked save only for his boxers. The sight of him takes your breath away.

He's so broad, hard and soft in all the places he needs to be. And he's so pretty. Perfect little pouty mouth, deep, dangerous eyes. There’s no cigarette dangling from his lips, nothing in his hands as he clasps them between his spread knees. You think about sinking down between them, pressing your cheek against the bulge outlined below the smattering of hair at his navel.

You step towards him, and he watches with blown, hungry eyes.

You stop in front of him, still wrapped in the towel. He reads your mind like he always does. In the bullpen, the offices, the field. With a gun or a cigarette or a pen in his hand, Javier Peña knows what you need. He parts the towel, sliding his palms across your naked hips, holding you before him. You can’t breathe, can’t speak. It’s too hot in the room, in your body. You can feel slick sliding against the tops of your thighs, spread right up to your clit. So wet it should be criminal. 

Javi clicks his tongue, moving his hands so he can spread you open with his thumbs. He pouts at you, small tilt of his head. 

‘Pobrecita.’

You'd roll your eyes if it were any less true, if he weren't swiping one thumb through your wetness, over your clit. You suck a breath in before moaning brokenly. He grins, wolfish, up at you. 

‘What were you thinking about in that shower, cariño?’

You smile down at him, eyes half-closed. 

‘You.’

He hums, moving his thumb again. You shudder, knees giving a little. His hand at your hip tightens. 

‘Good girl.’ He coos. 

Your hand flies to his shoulder with a garbled cry as he presses tighter, moving the digit faster. He knows how to work you, knew before he'd even touched you. You're on fire, pussy tightening as your hand travels up his neck, before tangling with the curls at his nape.

That's it.

You can hear how wet you are. The only sounds in the room are the buzz of the city below, your fast breathing, and the movement of Javi’s fingers. He’s building you up to it, astoundingly fast. The sight of him, sat on the edge of the bed, spellbound by what he’s doing to you, the noises you’re making, the sight of you bared to him. Makes you want to touch him, too.

Does that feel good, bebita?

So good, Javi.

But just as it seems so close, as you can feel yourself start to clench and pulse and twitch, he slows. Slows the rhythm of his thumb right down to deep, languid circles, keeping you right on the edge as he loosens the towel and lets it drop to the floor, as he leans forward to reverently press his forehead to your belly. He breathes in deeply, and you flex your hips towards him. He nips at your skin, and you whine as he laughs.

‘I think about it,’ he breathes, voice deep and thick, nuzzling into the crease of your thigh, ‘That night in Bogotá. Tell me you think about it, too.’

You hiccup, nodding. Fisting his short hair.

‘All the time,’ you gasp, ‘All the time, Javi.’

He groans, moving to lick a hot, wet stripe through your folds, right up to your clit. It’s like fire, electricity. Your body jolts against him, every nerve ending bending towards him, flinching into this sweet torture.

His lips are shining with your arousal when he pulls away to look you in your eyes.

‘Let me have it. One more night, in Medellín. Let me have you.’

[jolalibrary]

YOUR TAGS 🥵 MA'AM PLEASE CONTINUE

omg, well, if you insist. for context, @goodwithcheese poll here

javier peña x f!reader

warnings: nsfw. 18+. smut. like actually just filth.

you've made peña make a lot of noise.

the grunts when you've let him fuck you on his desk. papers scattering, burying your own cries of his name against his neck out of fear some poor cleaner will think someone is being murdered.

but then there's the time you corner him in an empty room, desperate for him as much as he is for you, and he tells you "Hermosa, wanna make you feel good", but you're already undoing his pants and getting on your knees. and fuck, that look in his eyes and the moan he elicits when you free him—mouth not even wrapped around him yet.

but, when your lips wrap around his cock, fuck it's guttural. comes from somewhere deep within. it's a grunt and a moan combined, a snarl as you take as much of him down your pretty little throat and handle the rest with your hand. the noises only increase when he opens his eyes to look down at you, spit and his spend collected all over your chin, your skirt risen up to cut into the top of your thighs, fucking eager for him to fill your mouth. you're ruined, a mess, an absolute fucking disgrace but you don't care. not about the way your makeup is ruined; you're likely to need to shower even if he hasn't touched you.

then, there's later. when you've thrown your keys into the bowl, undoing buttons on your blouse as you round the corner to the kitchen. not knowing he's already there, already home, all but surprised to find him waiting, a coffee brewed and already half drunk. but, that's forgotten when your own whimper paints the air, it turning into an oomf when he pulls you flush, mouth sliding over yours with expertise as his fingers dig into cloth-covered flesh as though he wants your body to blend into his.

you whine when he pushes his cock into you, when your back is flush to his chest and you can hear the low pants he's trying to bury and conceal. but you want to hear him, a thing you tell him—practically command, a thing alone that makes him hiss your name into your ear as his hand grasps your hip.

then, you're bathed in moans, wrapped in them, newly baptised in the sounds you're making him make as you clench and tell him how good he feels, how big he is, that you're his as he grunts into your ear, nose against your hairline as he spills inside of you.

but those sounds are different from the ones he makes when his tongue circles your clit. when his mouth sucks and his tongue lathes across your core. when he's pressing fingers inside of you as you arch into him, a curse, cry and whimper of words that somehow make a sentence as he makes you come again. it's only smothered by the noises your body makes as he buries his face against you, as he moans into your pussy, more so when you pull on his hair. when you yank it between your fingers and come, blinded by white as your body tremors and shakes.

but, still, the best noise that you pull from javier peña is the curse-wrapped moan he released when you stripped for him that first time. when you stood in front of him, nervous as fuck and naked.

that one, fuck that one, is burned into your fucking mind.

[solitude4chiron]

Hobie Headcannons cs some of y’all be treating this man like he’s some white goth nga that’s never had black experiences 😭😭 these are js off the top of my head so don’t tweak out… JUH VIBE

He’s most likely Jamaican/British or African/British because he’s from the UK

He has had multiple people try to force him into playing basketball at least once because he’s 6’5

“Man, so you telling me you ain’t never tried going D1?”

“Never even played.”

“NIGGA WHAT?”

Has gotten his hand popped multiple times from touching his hair while getting it done

“How many do you have left?”

“Boy move that damn hand.”

Gives horrible advice then says “but I don’t kno, thats just me”

“She cheated on me bru. Like cheated. Called me ON FACETIME while they was hunchin.”

“Me personally I would find the guy and start a gas leak in their house while his family is sleeping. But ion kno, that’s just me tho.”

Played soccer as a kid with a makeshift paper soccer ball

Was one of those kids who were forced to finish their plate before leaving the dinner table so he would sit at the table till the next day playing with his food

Illegally listens to and downloads most of the music he likes

“Wanna do a Spotify blend?”

“Y’all use that shi?”

“who df are you bro…”

Will side eye you till you burst out laughing if you both see something crazy in public 

Sung chi-chi man religiously as a child before he knew what the song meant (iykyk)

Takes pictures of white people with braids or locs

Hobie: Attachment: 1

disgusting creatures…

Hangs trash bags on his doorknobs around the house

Had entire debates as a child with older people at the cookout on why he should be able to eat ribs instead of hotdogs

“These steaks for the adults, go grab a lil hotdog and a juice.”

“But why? Can’t we both eat and enjoy the same things without you having to dehumanize me and view me only as a child without preferences for food?”

“Boy go get that fuckin hotdog and caprisun get out my face.”

Had his hairline pushed back astronomically far when he was little (Nigerian boy canon event)

On the other hand he probably never had his hair cut as a kid and started free-forming when he was young (I’m conflicted between both)

Constantly had a smart mouth as a kid (he still does), like CONSTANTLY. Once he got his lips snatched and balled into a fist

Would steal, get caught and say is “it cause I’m black?”

“Yo, were you stealing back there?”

“Why bruv? Cause I’m black?”

“Nevermind.”

Touches hot ass food with his bare hands. Like he will flip pancakes with his hands.

Can literally sleep anywhere.. like anywhere. People in his band have pictures of him hunched over on sinks, sleeping on bathroom floors, in bathtubs with the curtains wrapped around him, on the bus. Anywhere you can think of.

He doesn’t spend much money on birthday gifts or gifts in general. He likes to make things by hand even if he has to spend a few weeks

After his shows he loves to meet people in the crowd, even if they freak out. He isn’t really for the idolizing so he doesn’t know how to express his emotions too much on that.

“OH MY GOD HOBIE!?!”

“i aint think i was that special but thanks luv”

• His jacket makes HELLA noise and he doesn’t realize it. Just like if he had beads in his hair.

“imma get bro good this time..”

“Hobie don’t even try to scare me, i hear that big ass jacket thumpin down the hallway.”

• The first time he kissed a girl with lip piercings like his, they got caught on each other. They sat there for almost half and hour trying to untangle each other without hurting each other.

• He’s definitely been called a few different celebrities before, none really looked like him.

“Are you playboi carti?!”

“Bruv.”

over.

“Your that rockstar dude lancey right?”

“bru…”

and over.

“you Opium?”

“I’m starting to feel this is lowkey sterotypical…”

and over again.

• When he’s in the pit at concerts he looks out for the younger people towards the front to make sure they don’t get thrashed around too hard.

“you good young’n?”

“I CANT FEEL MY FACE”

“that’s cool too”

• He only really steals from big corporations, not small family owned places. Just out of respect. Even when they say he can take things for free he still pays, maybe a few dollars over budget.

• He loves collecting trinkets and little things he finds on the streets or backstage. He has multiple spoons, buttons and scrap fabrics laying around

• When he first learned about capitalism he realized it everywhere, like EVERYWHERE. That boy was pissed.

• He loves girls who can beat him tf up, like whoop his ass. Or girls who will cuss him tf out. Sometimes you both will be arguing and he’ll just sit back and let you go off on him.

anyways yawl that’s it lmk if I should drop some more this was fun asl to make 😛

[morbidmorbid]

s2 daryl cries during sex but let me explain !!

i’m talking kissing him at the farm when he’s strayed away from everyone, when he’s comfortable by the lone tree and making fires of his own. it’s you moving in first and you with a hand against his jaw, until he’s reciprocating with a vigor much stronger than yours. and he’s not good at kissing, but the eagerness—the intensity in which he pursues you at the mouth—veils it well.

and when the sex does creep in, when he’s digging blunt fingernails into the grass beside your head, it’s like a dam that’s been cracked. while it does send spurts of pleasure rippling up your spine, it does for daryl as well but perhaps in an entirely different manner. he’s punched out grunts that slowly blend into these loud, high-pitched whines and the erratic pace of his hips against yours become completely untamed.

the control he holds so tightly on to dissipates, then he’s coming. i think the tears—which aren’t many, it’s moreso in the broken off inhales in his chest—come afterwards. while collapsed atop of you with sweat lining his hairline, daryl, for only this moment, lets go of the leeches that’d been sucking him dry since he’d began noticing, anyways. he’s so pent up.

i think perhaps he cries because he can. burning energy, burning off certain emotions that’d been tugging him down. and he’d just been subject to the feeling of getting it all out, which he’d been entirely overdue for.

oh oh and i think it embarrasses him so much so that he takes it out on you a bit. “fuck this,” while he’s hurriedly buttoning himself back up. and he avoids you for days on end because he’s a coward in the face of emotional connections, but he’s not to blame it’s his upbringing, your honor!