#eres mi ángel

[3amdistress]

entendí, caí de nuevo

solo necesito un poco de afecto y caigo head over heels por él, lo amo demasiado y lo sabe

puede jugar conmigo tanto como quiere, pedirme tiempo y espacio, pedirme que sea paciente, hacerme esperar y apartarme de manera indefinida, play push and pull, sabe bien que va a funcionar

dejó su ego de lado, se disculpo amablemente, él me entiende, él entendió que es difícil para mí ser apartada de él, como si la distancia no fuera suficiente

dijo que sabe que debe trabajar en eso, que no esta bien ignorarme, que tuvo que habérmelo dicho, que estaba molesto y no supo reaccionar y por eso lo hizo, pero que intentara cambiar y quiere hacerlo por mi, para no perderme, porque me quiere

¿me quiere verdad? nunca nadie me hizo sentir como me hace sentir ángel, lo amo desde lo más profundo de mi corazón y no veo una vida sin él

es mi mejor amigo, mi vida se llenó de drama desde que lo conozco y odio eso, pero cambio mucho a lo largo de los años y yo también, no para bien como él, pero si cambie

aprendí que no soy una buena chica como él dice, nunca lo fui realmente, solo pretendía, y e aquí en lo que me he convertido, una loca por él

soy una sicópata narcisista, i fuck up and make him think it was all his fault, but i guess it’s normal, right? it is what it is, i love him and that’s all i know

however, necesito arreglar esto

no volvimos juntos, entonces ¿por qué estoy permitido esto? ya hablamos, arreglamos las cosas, así funcionamos, me enojo, termino con él, lo hablamos y volvemos

dios, ¿qué puedo hacer? no puedo decirle "no"

¿cómo puedo negarle algo a la persona que me ama y que amo de vuelta? es imposible, ¿cómo podría? quiero darle todo lo que quiera de mi, quiero amarlo y agradecerle toda la vida de ser el hombre de mi vida, porque no podría ser mejor sin él, no sé puede ser mejor que él para mí, estoy hecha para él y el para mí, eso es todo

yo también tengo que cambiar, tengo que creer en él, ciegamente, sin condición, de eso se trata el amor al final ¿no? estar allí en los buenos pero sobretodo en los malos momentos

debo dejar de herirlo y hacerlo llorar, no importa cuantas veces me haga llorar él, por él lloraré todas las lágrimas de mis ojos si es necesario

debería ir a dormir, ojalá pueda soñar con él

[timmyholland]

You speak spanish with Carlos & Checo | Oscar Piastri.

Summary: Oscar is your boyfriend and he doesn't understand Spanish, but you loved talking to Carlos Sainz and Sergio Pérez at any time. While Lando Norris likes to bother.

✦; ᯽ೃ✧ · ˚ · ˚ ✧

liked by lewishamilton, carlossainz55 and 101,055 others.

ynusername: me encanta el blanco, la manera que combina con todo y lo hace ver más precioso que nunca🤍. "I love white, the way it goes with everything and makes it look more beautiful than ever."

pd: Oscar me encanta vestido de blanco o no 🤣. "I love Oscar dressed in white or not".

11,873 comments

carlossainz55: muy lindo es el blanco, estoy de acuerdo que nos hace ver como ángeles. "White is very pretty, I agree that it makes us look like angels."

schecoperez: tu eres todo menos un ángel. "You are anything but not an angel"

ynusername: jujujs golpe bajo @/carlossainz55. "Uhh, jujujs that was low."

carlossainz55: te apoyo y así me pagas? riéndote de mi?. "I support you and this is how you pay me?"

ynusername: perdón carliiiii es que fue muy gracioso. "Sorry, Carlii. Was funny" ynusername: pero tenés razón, nos vemos como ángeles 👼🏻 @/carlossainz55 "But you're right, we look like angels"

landonorris: i don't understand a f word

oscarpiastri: because you're a fool, mate @/landonorris

landonorris: you don't understand dude, stop pretend that you do.

carlossainz55: yesss, i'm agree with u @/oscarpiastri.

landonorris: f off @/carlossainz55. Traitor @/oscarpiastri.

landonorris: If they force you to wear white clothes, nod @/oscarpiastri

ynusername: it's not funny nowins.

username9: they’re the cutest couple in f1 I fear

user94: my parents omg!!

chales_leclerc: holaaaa mi amiga. "Hellooo, my friend"

ynusername: hola amigooo. "Hello, friend"

olliebearman: holu (❤ liked by ynusername)

schecoperez: donde está el Charls, está Ollie falta que aparezca Leo. "Where Charls is, Ollie is there, Leo needs to appear."

carlossainz55: y su otro hijo adoptado, Oscar. @/schecoperez. "And his other adopted son, Oscar."

✦; ᯽ೃ✧ · ˚ · ˚ ✧

liked by mickschumacher, mclaren, danielricciado and 897,892 others.

oscarpiastri: she's my angel wearing white 🤍

PD: she loves white clothes and i love her.

28,628 comments

ynusername: i love u 🤍 (❤ liked by oscarpiastri)

user43: Oscar, can you fight?

landonorris: yeap, i lost my friend

danielricciado: man let them be happy

landonorris: I DONT WANNA LOSE MORE FRIENDS

ynusername: how you lost Carlos??? @/landonorris

landonorris: ouch, you're being mean @/ynusername

ynusername: and you're dramatic @/landonorris

caslossainz55: nadie me ama 😪 "Nobody loves me"

schecoperez: nosotros sí @/carlossainz55

landonorris: here we go again with the Spanish

charles_leclerc: te amo @/carlossainz55 "I love you"

ynusername: te amamos mucho, muchito, muchote!! @/carlossainz55 "We love you so much"

oscarpiastri: Why does the translator tell me that you love Carlos a lot?

carlossainz55: cause she does. @/oscarpiastri

username8: God, when is my turn??

wearepapayalovers: whyyy r you soo cutieee 😍

racerbia: my girlfriend 😍😍

ynusername: alwayss bb

oscarpiastri: what th are you talking about? She is MY gf @/racerbia

ynusername: tranquilo hombre, soy tuya "Easy man, i'm yours"

oscarpiastri: mia. "Mine"

carlossainz55: apuesto a que es la única palabra que sabe decir en español @/schecoperez "I bet it's the only word he knows how to say in Spanish"

schecoperez: estas en lo cierto @/carlossainz55 "You right"

landoscar: forget him I want her.

[lacedinweb22]

୨୧ Pudge & Cuddles ୨୧ ˚⋆✦ Miguel O’Hara x you Boyfriend Headcanons ˚⋆✦

nsfw 18+

cw: scratching, masochism, scars, body image/descriptions (stretch marks, cellulite, etc.), biting, sex (p in v), pain kink

note: Shit gets a little crazy so don’t act like I didn’t fucking warn ur asses 🤝 I’m planning on making one-shots for these because AWWJJDJE so that’ll be cumming SOON. love u my fellow pudgy simps

♡ Miguel is addicted to squeezing and holding your pudge!!! You lay on your side, Miguel spooning you. The laptop set in front of you plays a horror movie, which Miguel promised he’d stay awake through. He’s an exhausted, bratty liar so naturally he falls asleep halfway through. His arms wrap around you, one hand under your shirt, holding your pudgy, soft under belly for comfort, his hands full of your hot flesh. His grip keeps your body tightly pressed up against him. His face rests in the crook of your neck, breathing softly into your skin. He dreams, his muscles flexing, moving against you suddenly.

♡ Miguel’s nightmares cause his grasp to tighten on your pudge, claws unsheathing into your skin. You usually wake him up, but you’re a masochist, so sometimes you let him, leaving scratches around your hips and lower belly. It feels good and you love seeing evidence of him spread on you. He’ll scold you the next day when he sees them, but he secretly loves marking your soft skin as his.

♡ Miguel uses your thighs and tummy as a pillow. He loves digging his face into your belly, or thighs, anywhere where there is warmth and soft tissue. You’ll sit on the couch reading, or watching a movie, and he’ll make himself more than comfortable on you, losing himself in absolute bliss. Sometimes he’ll just lay in between your legs resting his head on your fluffy thighs, watching a movie on the tv. Other times, he’ll completely dig his face into your warmth, snoring into your soft skin. He wraps his arms around your hips, keeping himself wrapped around you, using you as his own special pillow.

♡ Miguel comforts/whines when you’re insecure. If you don’t let him dig his face into your flesh, he’ll throw a fit. He’ll kiss all along your cellulite, your stretch marks, your pudgy softness, whispering his admiration for you, “Eres tan hermosa, tan perfecta, mi suave ángel. What would I do without my soft girl keeping me warm, keeping me safe,” he’ll murmur against your skin, brushing his lips against you.

♡ Miguel will fixate on your thick thighs. He’ll adore and caress you for hours, lying in between your legs, or beside your thighs, tracing your stretch marks, leaving kisses along your scars of growth, gripping your fat in his muscular hands. He loves when the heavy hot flesh of your thighs wrap around his waist, and how your big thighs suffocate him when you sit on his face. He’ll lift you up effortlessly once you’re done, your soft figure being only craveable, comfortable pressure. He’s huge, strong, and he craves all of you, all of your weight, enveloping him, wrapping around him.

♡ He loves the way your abundant thighs and hips gate your heat, sealing your delicate flesh. He loves prying you open, your strong thighs closing habitually from pleasurable overstimulation.

♡ He marks up your thighs, biting the shit out of you, or digging his claws into you when he’s overstimulated. You have to avoid skirts for the next week or so now that your thighs are covered in bites, scratches, and bruises.

♡ He’ll reach for your skin at night, or when you’re watching tv on the couch, or when you’re cooking in the kitchen. He’ll come from behind you, slipping his hands under your top to fill his hands with the warm comfort your body provides. In public, he’s forced to control himself, not grabbing your ass or belly, or thighs, but when you two are left alone or in a dark restaurant, he’ll slip his hand under the tablecloth and grip your skin. He needs your body in his hands.

♡ Miguel presses his broad hand on your lower belly, feeling his length squeeze into you, pushing all of your insides tightly against your skin. He adds that pressure, squeezing your plush flesh, gripping you down onto him. He watches you squirm, your skin plump, body full with his wide burning, pleasurable invasion. When he reaches his climax, his claws unsheathe, digging into your stomach, leaving marks of desire spread across your belly.

♡ Miguel will tightly grip your under belly while on top of you, getting off looking down at the love bites he’s spread across your wet, sweaty skin. Your flesh beats against his, ripples of his impact visible to him. His thumbs dig into you, holding you in place, as he squeezes himself into you.

my lovely taglist ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა ✧ @wingedturtledream @skaochii @bat-yo-us @lostpirate79 @renn-pumkin-head @princessa-micomicona @waiif-uwu @punpuun @thbidkbutok @acehyacinth @thetoetickler @kaqua @i-live-in-a-fantasy-daydream @inafantasyworld10 @d1lf-loverrr @altheadq @thesilenthill @trash-king18 @imnotyourbcbe @tiffanypooh @ihateuguys @littlemissilovecoconuts @royal-jester @that-one-weeb-buts-its-the-main @tbh2idk @gilliantate23 @envyjmoney @qiaipia @ur-fav-ginger @lacook246 @eddiestitmiguelsbigdick @blair6th

[garpen]

*Live Dick Reaction*

I’m genuinely in love with this series, couldn’t help but make fan art for the woman ever </3

(I imagine that Cass is gathering more “blackmail”)

No because you actually don't understand how much I fucking love this!!! By the gods??? Fucking phenomenal, beautiful, fantastic, amazing, there's not enough words in the English language to express how much I love this so:

Esto está hermoso, increíble, perfecto. Mis ojos han sido bendecidos, eres un ángel caído del cielo para regalarme esta joya! Te daría un beso ahorita (en buena onda) si no siguiera enfermo.

Sorry if you don't speak Spanish, but English just could not express how happy this made me to see. Could I pretty pretty pretty please use this in my au 🥺 If not, it's totally okay you can say no, I would get it. Either way I literally love you and this so much ughh

You've graced my eyes with your creation and generosity. May the muses guide you, and ensure your artistic mind never fails you.

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

Heavyweight: Chaggie

Buckle up, Buttercups! This is a bit long. Google translate will be your friend.

Charlie: (exiting her office after a 72 hour video meeting and bee-lining towards the bar) UggGHhghhhHHh!!!! I need a DRINK!!!

Alastor: (whirling in out of nowhere) I wouldn't go in there if I were you.

Charlie: (jumps) Holy Shit!!! Fuck! Alastor, can you not do that, please? You nearly gave me a heart attack.

Alastor: So sorry, dear. I'm just warning you before you go anywhere that the bar is in quite the unsavory state right now.

Charlie: What do you mean? Did Cherri invite her biker friends again?

Alastor: Oh, heavens, no! That little manager of yours would never allow that to happen again.

Charlie: Alastor, we've talked about this. Her name is Vaggie. But why is the bar in an unsavory state?

Alastor: (grins wider) Oh, I suppose you'll just have to see it to believe it, I'm afraid. (opens the door to the bar and latin music blares through the hotel)

Charlie: Alastor, I really don't have the mental fortitude to deal with your bipolar-

-Record Screech-

Charlie: -WHY IS VAGGIE BENCHING THE POOL TABLE IN NOTHING BUT A BRA AND HER SKIRT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Hazbins: GO!!! GO!!! GO!!! GO!!! GO!!!

Husker: (counting off Vaggie's reps) Forty-eight! Forty-nine! FIFTY!!!! That's it! Vaggie wins!!!

Vaggie: HA!!! (flips the pool table off to the side and stands up victoriously while speaking Spanish) ¡Toda la razón! ¡Paga, Ángel!

Hazbins: (half cheering and half groaning as money exchanges hands and a few lift Vaggie up like a champion)

Angel: (drunkenly slurring in Italian)

Charlie: And WHY are they speaking like that?!

Alastor: (cleaning his monocle) Ms. Vagatha found out that Angel took a video of your drunken stupor last week and demanded he give all copies to her. He said he would only do it if she out drank him.

Charlie: Again. Not her name. And WHAT?!?!?!?!

Alastor: Needless to say, that woman would do anything for you, so they went shot for shot on something called "tequila". Quite the show, if I say so myself. Angel ended up vomiting in the trash can. They've been arguing in Spanish and Italian ever since. It's almost friendly at this point.

Charlie: BUT WHY IS VAGGIE HALF NAKED?!?!?!?!?!

Alastor: (obviously disgusted by the display but keeping his smile) She didn't want to rip her uniform.

Vaggie: (spots Charlie from her elevated position)

¡Charlie, mi amor!

Charlie: (arrow to the heart as she watches Vaggie hop down and strut over to her, eyes zeroed in on the sway of her girlfriend's hips) Oh, fuck..... I'm in trouble....

Vaggie: (hugs Charlie tight before taking her hand and kissing it) ¿Cómo estuvo tu reunión?

Charlie: (gets goosebumps and blushes) UuuUuUhhhHHHhhh.... V-Vaggie, babe, y-you know I'm not good with my Spanish yet.

Vaggie: Lo sé. (chuckles deeply and looks at Charlie through her long lashes as she snakes her arm around Charlie's waist while the other hand strokes her thumb over Charlie's pulse on her wrist) También sé que te gusta cuando te hablo así en español.

Charlie: (blushing deeper as she wiggles out of her suit jacket and wraps it around Vaggie's shoulders) L-Let's get you covered up.

Vaggie: (smirking as she traces her fingers around the waistband of Charlie's trousers and gently untucks her shirt so she can drag her fingers across the pale skin underneath) Eres tan dulce… y tan sexy cuando te sonrojas.

Charlie: (feels her tail and horns spring up as Vaggie's nails drag across the skin of her hip and tries to corral Vaggie towards the door) OH-KAY!!! L-Let's get you upstairs to bed!

Vaggie: (maneuvers herself so she's escorting Charlie up the stairs leading to their room and uses her wings so that she can hover right next to Charlie's ear from behind) Only if you join me~

Charlie: (thighs pinch together as a spark of electricity jolts through her body and whines) ...oh fuck....

Vaggie: Now, you're catching on~

[ragingbookdragon]

She walked through the base with the lunchbox to her chest, barely managing to not trip over her own feet as she wandered through the halls with expert knowledge. One of the soldiers opened the door for her and she nodded to them, stepping through and she looked up, seeing her husband chatting around with Rudy, and two other men she didn’t recognize.

“Ale,” she called, and her husband looked over, joy splitting across his face as he straightened from where he was leaning on the table.

“Mi alma!” he greeted, walking over, smile dropping to a frown when he noticed the sadness on her face. “Mi alma, qué pasa? Por qué te ves molesto?”

Her lips pulled down in a dramatic pout as she explained, “I tried to make you some chicken and rice, but I accidentally burned the chicken. So, then I was gonna make chicken noodle soup and just scrape the burnt parts off but I didn’t have any broth and so I made my own and it was all going great but then I was gonna put in the noodles and…” her lips wobbled. “We didn’t have any noodles.”

She lifted the lunchbox and sniffled. “So, I made you a sandwich and packed some chips. And a few cookies. And a bottle of juice. And—” Alejandro’s lips curled over his teeth, evident that he was trying to hide his grin and she whimpered, “Te estás riendo de mí.”

Alejandro couldn’t help but snort as he wrapped his arms around her. “No, mi alma, I’m not laughing at you.”

“Yes, you are,” she whined. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with you.”

She cocked her head up and scowled at him. “I am not laughing, Ale. I’m devastated.”

“Why?” he humored, looking at her. “Because you didn’t cook my lunch?”

“Yes,” she sniffed, lips tugged down. “I miserably failed to cook chicken today.”

Alejandro hummed, pressing his nose to hers. “But you made me a lunch anyways and I’m going to eat it so happily, porque mi esposa hermosa lo hizo para mí y puso su corazón en cada pieza.”

“Es un sándwich.”

“Mhm,” he nodded, smushing their noses. “And I love anything you make me.” Alejandro pecked her lips, pulled away and cupped her cheeks, wiping his thumbs under her eyes as he comforted, “Ahora seca tus ojos, alma mía, no hay necesidad de estar tan molesto.”

She gazed at him, letting her face get smushed in his hands, staring at him between slits as she mumbled, “What’d I do to get you?”

He smiled, that warm, so loving smile that made her heart flutter, the first time she saw it, she fell in love with him—still to this day, five years later, he looked at her the same. “Soy yo quien debería hacer esa pregunta. Para tener una mujer tan maravillosa que cuide de mí, debes ser un ángel enviado por Dios.”

Her cheeks warmed, smile threatening to split her face in half as she blushed, “Alejandro Vargas, quit, we’re in public.” She pulled away, righted herself and turned. “I’m going home.”

Alejandro held the lunchbox in his hand, a smirk on his face as he called out loudly, “Pero, mi alma, don’t leave me! I’m a wounded man! Your husband needs you to take care of him!” her shoulders set in embarrassment as his soldiers started laughing. “Te amo, alma mía! Mi corazón late por ti!”

He snickered as she practically ran out of the base like her ass was on fire, knowing he was in for it when he got home; Alejandro walked back over and sat the lunchbox down on the table, slapping at Rudy’s hand and glaring when his second tried to get in for the cookies. “Lo siento, eres su esposo? No? Sal de mi lonchera.”

Rudy frowned. “She packs enough for me, you know that.”

“And I don’t wanna share what my wife brought me,” he griped in return. “Find your own wife.”

A groan left Rudy’s lips as he complained, “No es justo que ella sea tu esposa. Ella es la mejor que hay.”

Alejandro puffed out his chest, pride in his voice as he agreed, “That she is. And she’s mine,” he lifted up his left hand and pointed to his gold band. “Forever.”

Soap leaned over as the two started bickering, whispering to Ghost, “Did you know Alejandro was married?”

“Uh huh,” Ghost nodded. “Showed me the photos in his wallet.”

“He has photos in his wallet?”

“Yep. Like a ton of them. All of her.”

Soap frowned. “Damn, that woman must be something fierce to have such a hold on him.”

“She is!” Alejandro interrupted, pulling out his wallet from his back pocket. “Here, let me show you.”

[livistud]

Cariño, siempre fui de cartas, de querer intenso y de ser breve; hoy me doy cuenta que mis cartas siempre van a ser para ti, que a quién voy a querer como a nadie en el mundo va ser a ti y que esto por primera vez quiero que dure para toda la vida. Por cierto, ¿sabes que es lo que me gusta de las madrugadas?, que en muchas de ellas te tengo; me escuchas y me haces sentir que al menos el despertarme a esa horas significará que te tendré 5 minutos más. Antes de ser algo más, sabía que merecías muchas cosas y las mejores de este mundo porque tienes muchas cualidades y talentos que me he dado cuenta con el tiempo que tienes. Eres inteligente, sé que el agua no sé te quema y los postres te han de salir increíbles, sabes escuchar y estar para alguien, y que tocar más de un instrumento también es algo que haces muy bien además que el como suena tu voz cuando cantas es algo de lo que admirar. Pero hoy me gustaría decirte que mereces, mereces que te canten al oído, que te besen la mano, la mejilla y la frente. Que te acaricien el cabello y perciban tu aroma como único en el mundo; y me alegra que hoy a la persona que hayas elegido para hacerlo sea yo, porque te has dado cuenta pero me gusta recordártelo, me siento muy embriagada cuando estoy contigo por tu aroma y por la forma en que me tocas cuando estamos juntos cerca y también no tanto. Espero que el tiempo me permita saber cuales son esos días cuando algo te falta o cuando algo te sobra, y si es necesario actuar o sencillamente solo escucharte. Mereces que te hagan reír, sonreír, que cada día de tu vida sea mejor; mereces ser la fuente de inspiración para alguien, mereces admiración, paz, seguridad; mereces un cielo y mereces amor. Mereces un lugar que te ofrezco conmigo y sé que ya estás conmigo pero no está de más que sea la que yo te lo pida y ofrezca. Mereces, mi amor, un paraíso, uno hecho a tu medida y espero que todo lo que tengo sea suficiente para ti porque aunque sé que para quererte no necesito tenerte me alegra que hoy decidas quedarte. Y no te veo todos los días pero te he empezado amar cada uno de ellos; y gracias mi amor, siempre te digo lo mucho que te amo pero nunca te agradezco por amarme. No te lo he dicho y aunque suene muy cursi pero empiezo a creerlo; creo que Dios se dio cuenta de que tan sola me sentía que decidió mandarme un ángel y ese eres tú:) Y ya sin que parezca un poema, una carta, y sin versos con rima. Te quiero, te adoro y te amo. Y así es como tengo que decírtelo.

l i v i s t u d

[dariann-garcia]

Eres el cielo y el abismo en cada toque, un ángel que desafía mi tierra.

[pinkslipxox]

Malita:

Summary: Miko has her period

Warnings: Fluff 🤗

——————————————————————————

You know that something is up the moment you step inside your home. Usually Miko is at the door, prepared to lovingly greet you with her usual warm hug and soft kiss to your lips, but today she is nowhere to be found. The house looks dark and gloomy without her warm presence. Needless to say, you are worried.

Where is she?

“Miko?” you call out for her.

Silence.

You check the kitchen— she’s not there. Then the backyard. She’s not there, either. And she’s not even in the small at-home studio. There is no note anywhere. You even check your phone to see if she’s called or texted.

Nothing.

“Miko?” you call out again, and once again you are responded with silence.

Then you realize that there is one place you haven’t check yet. The bedroom. You open the door and you are relieved to see a familiar figure laying on the bed, the sheets and duvet covering Miko all the way up to her face. Yet your relief quickly turns into worry when you hear the sound of a low groan. You sit down by her side and gently pull the sheets away from her.

“Hola, mi amor,” Miko croaks, slowly opening her eyes.

“Vicky… what’s wrong, baby? Te sientes malita?” you ask softly, gently caressing her cheek. She visibly relaxes at your touch, yet you can still see the pain etched on her beautiful features. And your heart breaks at the sight of it.

“Se me bajó la regla,” Miko murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper and you coo.

“Aww, mi amor. Do you need anything?” you offer, and with a deep sigh, Miko shakes her head.

“Gracias, mi amor. But I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, okay?” she insists.

“I’m not just going to let you suffer. I’ll be right back with some tea and a hot water bottle,” you say, and you quickly leave the room before Miko can protest.

You hurry to the kitchen and fill a mug with water. As it heats in the microwave, you also prepare the hot water bottle for Miko. You’ve never seen her like this before, so vulnerable, almost defenseless. It’s a huge contrast in comparison to her charming, lively self, yet it reminds you of just how human she is.

Miko has always been independent, confident. It’s one of the many things that you admire of her. Ever since your relationship started, she’s made it her mission to ensure that you’re taken care of, that you get the best of everything. You appreciate it, of course you do, but whenever you do try to take care of her, she insists that you don’t have to lift a finger when it comes to her.

And how the tables have turned now.

“You didn’t have to, mama,” Miko says once you return back to the bedroom with the mug of tea and hot water bottle.

“I wanted to,” you reply with a soft smile, helping her. “You always take care of me. Now let me take care of you.”

“I just… don’t want to be a burden,” Miko admits and your heart feels like it could shatter at hearing those words.

“Miko, how can you say that? You are never a burden. I’m happy to take care of you,” you reassure her and kiss her lips sweetly.

You help Miko put the hot water bottle on, and despite her protests, you hold the mug for her as she takes slow sips of the tea you made.

“Eres un ángel, Y/N,” she says and your heart swells at her sweetness.

“Do you need anything else, mi amor?” you hum.

“Cuddle me,” Miko half-whines, half-demands, her arms stretching out towards you as if she is a small child.

How could you ever say no? You quickly change out of your clothes and put on one of Miko’s hoodies. Carefully, you reposition Miko so that her head is on her chest, and kiss her forehead, letting your lips linger there for a moment.

“Te amo mucho, María Victoria. Please don’t ever think that you’re a burden. In sickness and health, right?” you murmur, and you see the corners of your fiancée’s mouth turn up.

“Right, baby. Yo también te amo mucho,” she replies softly, her voice trailing off as sleep begins to take over her.

Not long after, sleep begins to take its gentle hold on you, too. You remain conscious just enough to kiss Miko on the forehead, whispering, “I love you” as you do so. And with that, you join Miko in a peaceful slumber, happier than ever to be at her side.

In sickness and health.

[currentlyfckingurmom]

Under Covers

(Undercover part two)

Warnings: smut i guess?

“Did you hear about Aaron and Celina? Rumor is they’re together,” Angela says from the drivers seat.

“Yeah, I heard something about that. I don’t believe it.”

“Well, apparently Sergeant Grey is making Bradford and Nolan talk to them about it.”

“Oh…Is that—Is it against the rules? To date another officer?” You ask nervously, trying to be subtle.

“Not exactly. No bylaws against it, but Grey doesn’t like it. And it’s a shit ton of paperwork.”

You remain silent as you think about the countless nights and soft kisses shared between you and Detective Lopez. The way she looked at you when no one was watching. The way you made her coffee and kissed her cheek before you left for work.

Did you need to file paperwork?

“So…Who needs to file the paperwork? Like, um, what…circumstances require it?”

Angela looks at you with a smirk and you know that she knows what you’re getting at. “Well, if two cops are dating then they need to file the paperwork. But nobody bothers with it unless the relationship is serious. It’s a waste of time if it’s only a fling.”

She is torturing you, you think.

“So, like, do you think we should do it?”

“I don’t know, Y/L/N. Should we?”

She is absolutely, 100% fucking with you. And it is working.

“Uh,” you laugh nervously. You swallow the lump in your throat and prepare for the inevitable word vomit. “Look, Ángel, I don’t know about you but I am in this. I really care about you and I don’t want this to be just a fling. I will file all the awkward and invasive paperwork if it means I get to hold your hand and ride to work with you. What do you think?”

“I think that I got the paperwork from HR two weeks ago and all it needs is your signature.” She smiles wide and squeezes your thigh.

“Oh,” you breathe. “¡Oh, eres un pendejo! Don’t fuck with me like that!”

“Aw, but it’s so fun.”

“Puta.”

After and awkward conversation with Sergeant Grey (though he claims to have suspected it for months), your relationship is out in the open and all the proper paperwork has been filed.

You walk to the locker room together to get changed for your date. There’s nobody else inside the room, so you snake your arms around her waist and kiss her forehead.

“So now that we’re officially dating, I can do this, right?”

You bring your lips to hers and kiss her soft and slow, but she grips your hair tight you find yourself walking her backward into the lockers.

“Anyone could walk in right now,” she pants.

“Mm, but you like that, don’t you? You’d love for everyone here to know that you’re my pretty little ángel, no? Big bad Detective Lopez, falling apart on my fingers in the locker room. Do you want that, mi amor?”

“We have a reservation,” she sighs as your lips move down her neck. You groan in frustration with your head buried in the crook of her neck.

The heated kiss quickly turns into a soft embrace.

“Angela?”

“Hm, cariño?”

“¿Serás mi novia?”

“Ya soy.”

[dakota-zen]

Me basta así

Si yo fuera Dios

y tuviese el secreto,

haría

un ser exacto a ti;

lo probaría

(a la manera de los panaderos

cuando prueban el pan, es decir:

con la boca),

y si ese sabor fuese

igual al tuyo, o sea

tu mismo olor, y tu manera

de sonreír,

y de guardar silencio,

y de estrechar mi mano estrictamente,

y de besarnos sin hacernos daño

-de esto sí estoy seguro: pongo

tanta atención cuando te beso;

entonces,

si yo fuese Dios,

podría repetirte y repetirte,

siempre la misma y siempre diferente,

sin cansarme jamás del juego idéntico,

sin desdeñar tampoco la que fuiste

por la que ibas a ser dentro de nada;

ya no sé si me explico, pero quiero

aclarar que si yo fuese

Dios, haría

lo posible por ser Ángel González

para quererte tal como te quiero,

para aguardar con calma

a que te crees tú misma cada día,

a que sorprendas todas las mañanas

la luz recién nacida con tu propia

luz, y corras

la cortina impalpable que separa

el sueño de la vida,

resucitándome con tu palabra,

Lázaro alegre,

yo,

mojado todavía

de sombras y pereza,

sorprendido y absorto

en la contemplación de todo aquello

que, en unión de mí mismo,

recuperas y salvas, mueves, dejas

abandonado cuando  -luego-  callas...

(Escucho tu silencio.

Oigo

constelaciones: existes.

Creo en ti.

Eres.

Me basta.

Angel Gonzalez

[fragmentosadolescentes]

SOLO TE VI PARTIR

Lo siento, quiero vivir.

Quiero volver a vibrar, volver a sentir.

Conocer un amor, que me haga seguir.

Solo te ví, no dije nada y te deje partir.

Las lágrimas rodaron, no supe que decir.

Solo sé que mi corazón gritaba, que nunca te olvidaría.

Al pasar los años, un día ví como reias.

Mí corazón suspiro, y volvió a latir.

Ya no eras la niña, aquella que una vez conocí.

Eras la mujer mas bella, eres ese ángel que perdí.

Sonrei al verte, pero tú no me viste a mi.

Desde entonces te espero, para verte feliz.

Mi corazón se ilusiona, mas sabe que ya no eres para mí.

Eres mi amor platónico, por el que siempre quise vivir.

Pura maldad ❄️

[cuando-fingi-quererte]

Eres un ángel con mirada de demonio.

Por la cual vendería mi alma.

Con tal de robar un beso tuyo.

Pasar mi lengua por tu cuello.

Y chuparte tus senos de ensueño.

[hey-yaya-boo]

Hola! Soy artbloz, recién te vi y tus dibujos son totalmente hermosos! Me encanta tus dibujos mi pequeño ángel :]

Sí sigues así, serás increíble más de lo que ya eres, te apoyo, no, mejor dicho. Te apoyamo! I love you my little ángel, good night! :]

Quisiera ser cómo tú algún día, dibujas hermoso, eres alguien de quién admirar :3

Holaaaaaa! gracias por notarme 🥺💗💗💗💗💗

Yo sé que tu puedes!!! Yo realmente no dibujo mucho, porque no tengo tiempo por la escuela pero me alegra que sean lo suficientemente buenos como para que a la gente les guste!!!!

Así que si una niña patetica como yo logró su objetivo de sentirse feliz con sus dibujos. Significa que cualquiera puede hacerlo. Incluyendote a tí ;)

[pauletteeree]

CÓMO MANIFESTÉ MI APARIENCIA DESEADA (historia de éxito)⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🎐

POSDATA: esta historia es de @honeytonedhottie, asi que todo lo que leeras es de su cuenta, yo solo lo traduzco ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

Así que manifestar mi apariencia deseada en su totalidad tomó aproximadamente 2 semanas, además esta publicación es bastante larga porque no estoy controlando nada, les estoy dando la historia completa, la primicia completa sobre cómo lo hice, así que aquí vamos…

Algunas cosas que recuerdo haber hecho fueron que, antes de irme a la cama, leía cómo era mi apariencia deseada (escribí una lista porque, como persona, me ENCANTA escribir cosas) y leía esa lista antes de acostarme, como fue un hecho.

O si no tenía la lista conmigo, cuando estaba en un estado similar al de dormir, hablaba conmigo mismo (sé que suena raro, pero es natural para mí, así que funcionó) y decía: "lo sé". de hecho lo soy (llene el espacio en blanco)" o "sé de hecho que tengo (llene el espacio en blanco)"

y simplemente me lo decía a mí mismo, o a veces cuando me duchaba, por cada parte de mi cuerpo que lavaba (la separaba en secciones) y por cada sección hablaba de un aspecto de mi apariencia. como si fuera el punto de vista de otra persona. Por ejemplo, parte de mi apariencia deseada era una diferencia en la textura del cabello, así que decía "Dios mío, el cabello de Honey es TAN largo y brillante". como si hablara a través del punto de vista de otra persona SOBRE mi apariencia, ya sea en un tono de admiración, envidia o indiferencia.

Incluso si no vi movimiento un par de veces o me desanimé, volví a lo que me parecía CORRECTO y eso es afirmativo para mí.

Algunas declaraciones clave que utilicé:

Lo sé a ciencia cierta

Tengo exactamente la apariencia deseada porque soy Dios y lo dije.

Otra cosa que realmente me ayudó fue la visualización, vivía PURAMENTE en mi imaginación, completamente en mi cabeza. Yo era REAL Delulu. Tengo un tablero de visión en Pinterest que fue MUY útil para mí.

cuando vi cosas en 3D que no me agradaban, las ignoré por completo, y cuando te lo dije COMPLETAMENTE, descarté por completo cualquier cosa que no me gustara o que no me sentara bien.

Otro pequeño ejercicio que me gustaba hacer fue en realidad debido a un mal hábito. Así que tengo la mala costumbre de comprobar el 3D, pero lo usé a mi favor. Mi costumbre era que todas las mañanas lo primero que hacía era ir a mirarme al espejo. Cuando manifestaba mi apariencia deseada, lo que hacía era ir al espejo del baño y decirle a mi subconsciente lo que veo. Entonces mi lógica detrás de esto era que como el subconsciente no tenía ojos, podía decirle a mi subconsciente que tenía cabeza de unicornio y me creería 💀. Entonces hablaría con mi subconsciente y le contaría lo que vi. "Veo una calavera de ángel" "Veo pestañas muy largas" "Veo cabello hasta la cintura", etc., etc.

Fui hasta el final y DISFRUTÉ de ello. Moraleja de esta historia de manifestación:

Persistir independientemente de lo que experimentes con tus 5 sentidos.

El tiempo es una ilusión, así que olvídalo.

No te conformes con menos de lo que buscas.

Ve directo al final y báñate en él porque no puedes intentar ser algo que ya eres.

El fracaso no existe.

Aplicar.

[scrollonso]

Blessing — Marcmarc

“Say it.”

It’s intoxicating, the heavy smell of varnish and wood, sawdust and dead things, creationism made beautiful and pied beneath the holy glow of stained glass windows and the flickering tangerine lights of half-melted candles, a twinkling unity of shadow and dwindling flame, of fire.

“Hn–”

Of damnation.

“Say it, mi ángel.”

He used to think that he wanted to be good. Or wise, maybe, on the days when his heart failed him, succumbing to the predilections of mortality and iniquity, as humans are wont to do.

“Fuck y-you–”

It’s terrible, Marc thinks, this desire to love.

To love or to be loved, perhaps, he doesn’t know. But he does know touch, know taste, was baptized into a new life by sanctimonious hands that bestowed purity, proffered virtuosity, that dripped water made clean to wash away his sins and birth him anew in the golden light of God, a sinner made sacred within holy walls and the heady glow of colored glass backlit by the miracle of morning sun and the blessed promise of a new dawn, a new day.

“What was that, ángel?”

He was meant to be righteous, pure, the voice of God within priests’ robes, honorable by nature and impeccant by choice, encumbered by sin but stronger, stronger than the call of it, the sweet song of it, the decadence inherent to it.

“Y-You–”

He was also, Marc knows, meant for this, too — meant to push into this body, feel the warmth of it, the softness of it, meant to trace twitching wings with the blunt of his nail and kiss the sweat from maroon-stained collarbones, littered with the markings of humanity’s hand, of his hand, of lips that were destined to preach devotion and reverence now used to sully and stain that which is hallowed, is good, is pure.

The angel beneath him writhes, back arching against the floor of the basilica as his chest hitches with a sharp intake of air, lungs warmed with the thick weight of humidity and the breath Marc hums against his lips, chasing the way his name falls from the mouth of the divine, a creature of holiness, born from Heaven and sent to Earth to protect, to bless.

It’s only right, Marc thinks, that this miracle be worshipped properly.

He crooks his finger, watching with starry-eyed fascination as the being beneath him gasps, warm eyes clenching shut as a tremble skates across his skin, vast and downy against the colored floor of the cathedral — too perfect, Marc muses, to be seen by anything other than the flawless, glorious eyes of God.

God and himself.

It’s only right.

Marc's grin sharpens when he presses a second finger into the body laid out below him, watching wondrously as it welcomes him, opens for him, as it always does, back curving and chest stuttering at his touch, and it’s high enough of an honor that Marc feels cowed by it, humbled by it, made supplicant and reverent at the feeling of warm skin beneath his hands, unmarred and unscarred, inhuman in its faultlessness.

“Eres perfecto,” he whispers, voice lost and worthless beneath the echo of an angel’s unearthly moans reverberating across the basilica, the most beautiful choir Marc has ever heard, performed and made wanton by his hand, a hand sullied by sin and tainted by avarice, by humanity’s need to covet, to possess, to claim.

Surely, he thinks, he can’t be blamed for bowing at an altar made too perfect to neglect, for falling for eyes that shine too brightly to be compared to anything but the wide-ranging cosmos, for lips that curve around the words of his Spanish too beautifully, fluent in sounds and tongues Marc could never dare to comprehend. To remain abstinent in the face of heavenly excellence would be an insult to God, and Marc desperately wants to be a pious man, God-fearing and reverential of the power he has always known existed.

“M–Mar–!”

Three fingers, slow circles, and Marc doesn’t dare blink as the being gasps beneath him, wings fluttering dully against the floor, plush feathers catching on uneven floorboards and decorated tile. He can feel the press of irrevocable softness tickling his calf, skin adorned with fallen feathers and the holy glow that comes from being in the presence of something so divine, so lovely, spread out and beautiful around his fingers.

The angel’s lips fall open, mouthing the syllables of Marc's name, voice catching halfway through as his fingers fist the dark of Marc's robes, and Marc can only feel blessed as this creature comes from his fingers alone, skin flushed the color of sangria where Marc marked him, bit him — a pauper’s attempt to claim that which cannot be tainted, a being free from humanity’s bondage, but who still allows Marc to press his teeth to the base of his throat, nipping bruises across celestial collarbones and shoulders that were made to carry the burdens of the frail, that now carry lavish praise and all the reverence Marc can find it within himself to give.

How wondrous you are, mi ángel, Marc thinks, and he presses his fingers deeper, allows them to keep moving in slow, measured circles, drunk and dizzy on every whine and whimper that leaves heavenly lungs, drinking each reverberating noise as if it was ambrosia, as if it was wine, born from the body of Christ Himself and spilled into the cup of Marc's hand, the most beautiful sacrament to have ever been bestowed.

“Too much, it’s too much,” the angel groans, voice echoing within empty basilica walls as his wings bat against the floor in a flurry of hypersensitive agitation. “Marc–ah, you fu– Hm!”

Marc grins as he runs delicate fingers across the base of the being's collarbones, nails scratching lightly at delicate skin, massaging every inch that causes the angel to gasp, to whine, to breathe life to Marc's name, reverential lips forming the shape of Marc's soul in all the ways he never deemed himself worthy, the sweetest mercy humanity could possibly be gifted, hand-delivered to him by God’s own creation.

Mine, he wants to say, mine. To hold, to touch, to pleasure and to praise, to devour. Mine.

He’s on his back in an instant, elbow throbbing with the force used to catch himself, to stop his head from cracking into the pews behind him. He hears a breathless scoff, airy and wheezed despite its irritability, and his eyes flick up to catch a vision pulled directly from the colored windows that adorn the walls that hold him, that cradle him, that give him new life, new purpose, a sight written from biblical stories and dropped onto his lap in what surely must be a mirage, a hallucination, some otherworldly phantom destined to exist beyond the realm of Marc's comprehension.

Golden brown eyes burn their way across Marc's skin, flitting from his hair to his robes to his hands, and Marc only just restrains himself from reaching up and touching, from running his fingers back over wings that span almost the entire length of the transept, that catch the radiance of the stained glass windows around them and gleam beneath their colors, a cascade of dusk-illuminated refulgence and splendor.

The angel steps toward him, bending low so his finger can hook around the clerical collar at Marc's throat. “Don’t think so highly of yourself, Father,” he says, rolling voice like a reverberating chorus in the space of the empty nave. With a swift flick of his hand, the angel pulls the tab from Marc's shirt and holds it between deft, immaculate fingers. “A man of the cloth who so readily gives into temptation.” The angel scoffs, dropping the collar to his feet and kicking it away. “How pathetically Pharisaical.”

And yet you keep coming back to me, he thinks, pulse roaring in his ears when his eyes catch the fading flush on celestial cheeks, the barely-concealed hitch in supernal breath. Marc holds his tongue, feels the burn of each movement in the blood that sings through his veins; his heartbeat is so loud he wonders if the being in front of him can hear it, can feel it, intrinsically tied together in the way only the devout and the divine could be.

The angel raises an eyebrow, soft curls falling over his forehead in delicate waves, catching on his eyelashes as he scrutinizes Marc, kneeling over him to grasp at his chin.“And are you?” he asks. “Devout?”

Marc smiles, teeth delicately scraping the thumb that traces the curve of his lip. “Let me show you how devout I can be.”

Let me remind you what my hands feel like when they worship. That’s why you return to me, isn’t it, mi bendición?

From the corner of his eye, Marc can see the fluttering of feathers and the twitching of restless wings, a white darkened like amber beneath melting candles and the faintest rays of setting light. His skin is warm where it presses against Marc's mouth, and Marc wants to taste him, wants to feel him, wants to imprint his name into the swell of those thighs and show this being the blessed joys of mortality, the decadence of baseless sin, the faith of a soul that would give itself to the hottest of Hells if only to hear angelic lips sigh his name in full.

The grip on his chin tightens, and Marc can see a grin tugging at the angel’s lips, hard-fought and winning, with eyes that sparkle with something that looks prideful, enraptured, human.

Marc raises his hand, settling it at the base of soft, dark hair, letting his fingers curl into the waves that rest against a nape Marc yearns to bite, mark, litter with humanity’s markings and the ecstasy that comes with rebellion. Caramel eyes look at him hesitantly, guarded, and Marc continues to smile, just as he does whenever they meet, whenever they delve into their resplendently wicked transgressions.

Let me, he thinks. Let me, mi ángel.

His angel folds, as he always, always does, follows the pressure of mortal hands until he is settled beautifully across Marc's lap, thighs warm and bare against the scratch of Marc's robes. He’s glowing, ethereal, delicately illuminated with gossamer-light gold, an aura only just perceptible to human eyes, marking him exquisite.

Though, Marc muses, he’d be exquisite anyway. He’s too beautiful to be anything else.

The angel snorts against his cheek, skin warming again with blush as his wing smacks the back of Marc's head. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Marc can’t help but grin, nose tracing the line of the shoulder in front of him. His hand runs up the inside of soft, spread thighs and presses against the hole his fingers were in only a moment ago. “No need to be coy, mi ángel. I’ve already been inside you.”

It takes what Marc considers to be monumental effort not to kiss the whine from the angel’s lips, though he does allow his mouth to press against the underside of a perfectly curved jaw, teeth scraping down the front of a divinely bared throat, demissive enough to make Marc's blood run hot in his veins.

“Demissive.” Marc can feel the scoff against his shoulder, the heat of it the only thing that pulls him from his musings and into a reality far beyond his sweetest of dreams. “Says the man who wears a collar.”

“I’d wear a collar for you, too, mi milagro, if you wanted. Shall I also get on my knees and pray to you?”

The angel shoves him back, face stern as his eyes settle in a steely glare. “Don’t joke about this. You’ve blasphemed enough already–”

“Lo lamento,” Marc hums, voice and hands soothing that temper before it swallows them both. “Forgive me. It’s hard to hold my tongue when I’m in the presence of something so divine.” Marc smiles as he says it, kissing up the center of the angel’s chest and watching with sparkling eyes as he continues to glare, face flushing dark beneath half-melted candles and the arrival of caliginous night.

It’s a lie — they both know it — but the being in his lap only clicks his tongue, fingers rising to pull at the buttons of Marc's cassock.

“That tongue will be your downfall.”

I’m already damned, he thinks, mind flicking back to all the times they’ve descended into lustful gluttony before, tucked into confession booths and seated in darkened pine pews, to every chance he took to mark golden celestial skin, bruising his handprint onto strong thighs and across smooth hips, reverent in his praise and giving in his need to claim. “Save me then.”

The angel glowers at him, and Marc thinks he is so painfully beautiful. “Save yourself.”

The buttons of Marc's cassock pop with the force of the angel’s grip, scattering across the floor and into corners Marc knows he will never discover, lost to time and homilies waiting to be preached. He bites his tongue and bitterly swallows the chastisement, losing himself instead to the teeth that nip at the curve of his neck, to the fingers that brush aside his undershirt and press desperately to his chest.

“Off with these,” the angel huffs, and Marc almost wants to laugh at the petulance of his tone, impatient and restive, with his fidgeting wings and wandering fingers, mapping the planes of Marc's chest as if his tongue hasn’t followed that same line before, as if those lips haven’t already covered almost every inch of Marc's soul, branding him more than Marc could possibly hope to return.

He pushes off his cassock and hastily removes the shirt underneath, content enough to let them crumple to the floor beneath his hands, too eager, instead, to get his fingers back into his angel’s hair, to feel the heat of his breath and the soft of his lips, to know what God’s language sounds like when it’s being moaned against his mouth, the words of the universe rendered sacrilegious when he paints this immaculate body with humanity’s hand, fills it with pleasure and the miraculous splendor of a baseless soul and ever-cycling transgression.

The second his clothes are on the ground, Marc pushes his angel onto his back, wings splayed across the multicolored tile of the transept, feathers dancing in the air beneath old pews. He’s stunning like this, mesmerizing, the work of mythical fable and biblical legend, pulled as art from stained glass windows and hand-stitched tapestries, with legs spread and chest heaving, skin littered with Marc's handprints and the maroon marks he nipped and sucked over sacred collarbones and sloping shoulders.

“Stop thinking and take your pants off.”

Marc's lips quirk up into a grin, and he lets his teeth scratch the inside of one delicate knee, amused at the twitch that shoots across massive, downy wings. “So demanding,” he smiles, though he lets his thoughts dance with syrupy sentiments of you’re perfect and I’ll always think of you, enough to turn his angel’s cheeks ruddy and pink, chest flushing with frustration and impatience and what Marc knows is diffident pleasure.

“You don’t know shit.”

Marc laughs, fingers easing the belt from his black slacks. He shoves his pants down to his thighs, eyes crinkling with mirth and joy and a certain something dark that settles across his vision when he sees torrid eyes watching him, narrowed and burning, liquid heat turned molten, utterly captivating.

With a hum, Marc reaches out, using one hand to give his angel’s cock several long strokes, tightening slowly at the base before easing his grip as his fist rises. The reaction is instantaneous, as it always is when Marc gets his hands on him the way he deserves — it's like the air has been swept completely from those lungs, and the angel gasps, eyes drooping as the muscles in his thighs tense. His wings shudder, feathers vibrating with the energy that thrums through him, something otherworldly coursing through them with each shake and shiver, and Marc can only feel blessed that he is the one to deliver this reaction to their world, a messenger of pleasure to something so absolutely deserving.

He’s always surprised, somehow, at how easily stimulated his angel is, how simple it is to get his lips moving around words that have no human equivalent, whispering sighs and pleas that only Marc has ever heard, half-choking on the vowels of Marc's name as if he himself is something holy, pure, as if he could ever be worthy of having his name gasped by lips so heavenly, a choir trumpeted from the cosmos and beyond.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, using his other hand to lift the angel’s leg, bringing a perfect knee to his mouth. And he is so beautiful, a creature incomparable to anything on Earth, so perfect that Marc truly would don a collar for this being specifically, would happily stay on his knees for the rest of eternity if only to worship at the feet of something this divine. It would be no sacrifice to be subservient to someone so strikingly breathtaking, so wholeheartedly faultless.

Marc's eyes flick over the span of the angel’s body, savoring the soft wave of his hair, the flush of his face, the hitch of his chest with every gasped breath — still, Marc is pleased to see, unused to their prolonged contact, always so sensitive and reactive to every touch Marc presses to him, bites to him, kisses to him, as he always wants to do.

Marc sucks a bruise onto the unmarred skin at the back of the angel’s knee, teeth nipping the curve of his calf as he pulls away. He’s a sight to see, something wickedly glorious to behold, stained and spread out with a cock already heavy and leaking, wanton like a human being fucked on the floor.

He’s a mess before Marc has even gotten his cock into him, and Marc has to swallow the searing scorch of pride that threatens to split his chest at the thought, fingers desperate to render this celestine creature more licentious than he already is, too enraptured with legs and wings and lips that open for him so sweetly, so gloriously, so damningly.

“Eres tan perfecto, mi ángel.”

Marc receives an embarrassed scowl in return, vision quickly blocked by a massive wing covering the entirety of the body before him. Marc mourns the loss immediately. With a tsk, he drops the leg from his hand and relinquishes his grip on the erection he was dead-set on tormenting, choosing instead to nuzzle below the wing currently acting as what must be the universe’s most regal and infuriating barrier.

His hands skate up the angel’s sides, fingers tracing the lines of muscle and sinew and rib until they settle beside dark, soft hair, and Marc can only smile as he tucks a stray strand behind his angel’s ear, nudging his chin so he can look, wondrously, always wondrously, into eyes that hold the stars of galaxies Marc could never name.

“Don’t,” he says, fingers tightening when those eyes look reticently away from him. “Don’t hide from me.”

The angel frowns, watching every line of Marc's face — and Marc is struck with the stunning, painful realization that he truly would be content to die if it was here, within the nestled cocoon of luxurious wings, blessed with the warmth of heavenly skin and the feeling of this heat against him, falling into eyes that could push Marc to bare his soul to Lucifer himself, if only to keep these memories with him always, a sin for which he could never, would never repent.

“Don’t think such stupid things.”

Marc says nothing, only brings their lips together and kisses his angel for as long as he can, pressing him into the floor and swallowing every whined noise and huffed breath, holding them within his own lungs in the hopes that he will remember the heat of this, the feel of this, so he may bare the mark of it within his soul, proudly so.

He curls a hand into the angel’s hair, feels fingers gripping desperately at his shoulders in return, soft and smooth and delicate, entirely otherworldly, and Marc lets himself touch, too, feeling the contours of a body from which he would take Communion if he could, skin marked like the wine born from the blood and body of Christ. He bites at plush lips, fingers brushing against sensitive inner thighs, and his heart constricts at how those legs part for him, fall open for him, like they do every time, a miracle in glory and in kindness.

Marc wets his fingers on his tongue before he lets them circle the angel’s rim again, pushing easily into the body he has already worshipped before, one he would be happy to do so again, to spend his days admiring, honoring, adoring. He breathes in the guttural moan that is pressed to his mouth when he slips in two fingers easily, grinning against open lips when he nudges the one spot that always gets his angel shaking, quivering and shattered with blind human ecstasy.

“Ah–Father–”

He’s warm, so warm, always burning hot around Marc's fingers. Marc's cock aches when the angel rolls his hips down into him in a desperate attempt to ride his hand, snarling half-mewled demands for more and hurry up and enough with the fingers, would you just fucking–

He’d laugh if he didn’t know it would get him hit, amused by how quickly divinity can succumb to wondrous carnality, falling prey — like them all — to orectic wants and ever-fallible needs. But he cannot find the will in him to tease, too busy, instead, with wandering hands and probing fingers, eager to pull apart the immortal strings that hold this blessing together, wanting to see this being be unwound across the floor of the basilica, made a mess by his mouth and his touch and him.

“Stop thinking and do it, then,” the angel gasps, hips pushing down onto Marc's fingers, taking him just that much deeper, never deep enough.

Marc has a sneaking suspicion it was meant to sound threatening, more of a growl than a plea; he doesn’t even try to push away the supercilious glee that rises in him at that, always loftily prideful of his ability to pull the air from those holy lungs, to render the dignified inarticulate and panting from baptized hands and a simple preacher’s mouth.

He takes himself in hand, stroking his own cock slowly from base to tip, easing only a minuscule amount of strain. It isn’t refined, appropriate, honorable for a man of his nature to be so easily tempted by the beautiful, but Marc, for all his attempts at goodness and righteousness, is also only a man, a sinner who has long since fallen into adoration for molten amber eyes and gloriously soft skin, for a tongue that can recount the history of the universe in languages unwritten but that feels perfect whispering the sounds of his name.

The spit in his hand is a crude substitute for the oil he wishes he had, the one with which this miracle should be anointed, opened and massaged carefully, properly, reverentially, the rituals of which deities are worthy, deserving of the finest and nothing less. He only has a moment to mourn, though, before hands are in his hair and honeyed lips are biting his, intense and all-consuming in their bid to get him to move.

“Make it up to me later.”

With a breathless chuckle and a catlike grin, Marc teasingly circles his dick around the angel’s hole, vain enough, he’s sure, to know a command when he hears it and yet still find it within himself to taunt.

“I will send you to the deepest pits of Hell myself if you don’t fu–uck!”

He eases in with a hum, skin and blood and body burning with the ecstasy that comes from holding a blessing from God Himself, from loving that which can never be had. “Whatever you want, mi ángel,” he breathes, and he knows within the most intrinsic parts of himself that he means it, would walk into Hell willingly if it means enjoying this one final time, pressing in and taking something so wondrously divine that it’s a miracle he doesn’t wither beneath its presence, hot and sweating from sex and the insulated heat of feathers cocooned around them.

Marc pushes in deeper, pressing his hips against gold-glowing skin, hand languidly stroking the erection he can feel nudging against his abdomen with every thrust. He can just discern the tremors in the wings around him, knows he’s hit that one spot that sends his angel wailing when his back arches, voice echoing something deafening in what is unassailable human decadence, iniquitous and insurmountable in its visceral pleasure.

“You’re stunning like this,” he groans, gratified beyond measure when pink cheeks stain themselves scarlet at his word, his thought, his unerring devotion — because he means it, will always mean it, every single word and every single sentiment, for as long as he lives and beyond. The grip in his hair is punishing, but he takes the sting and relishes it, allowing it to guide his lips across sangria-spotted collarbones and to nipples he greedily sucks into his mouth. “You are the most perfect thing I have ever seen.”

The angel whines, hips stuttering down against his, chest flushing and panting with heaving breath and skillful, practiced debauchery. His eyes are squeezed shut, face turned away and half-hidden from Marc, lips open and red from bruising kisses and all the ways Marc likes to leave his mark, a testament to his ability to worship, to lay claim, to handle a gift for which humanity could never be too grateful, could never be deserving enough.

Marc continues to stroke him, slowly, deliberately, enough to feel the angel’s toes curling desperately against his calves, hands like vices around the curve of Marc's shoulders and hair. He feels nails scratch down his back, a searing line of red sprouting in its wake, and Marc can only feel humbled by the meaning of something so incomparable marking him in return.

“You should be praised every second of every day.” He dips down, brushing their lips together, cutting off the growled hiss he knows was about to be leveled at him to shut up and stop speaking and don’t say such ridiculous things, as if Marc wouldn’t dedicate his entire life to doing that exactly.

“I was made to touch you. You’re so responsive to me, aren’t you, mi milagro?” Marc squeezes his hand at the same time that he sucks a mark beneath the angel’s ear, and the resounding moan echoes loudly across the basilica walls, caught only in the feathers of lustrous wings and the dripping wax falling from mostly-melted candles. “You’re divine, so perfect, just for me, hm?”

Legs clamp desperately around his hips, vise-like and ironclad in their grip in a way only the otherworldly could be, and Marc lets a hand curve around the swell of the thighs pressing against him, fingers bruising marks into illuminated skin, hitching them higher so he can press in deeper, harder, pull the breath from kiss-swollen lips until this being is nothing more than immaculate mess and the wondrous, hollow remains of numinous ecstasy.

“Let– Let me–” It’s gasped, choked, a babbled plea of half nonsense and half begging masquerading as an order Marc has no intention of obeying quite yet, not until hears what he wants, what he needs, because he is only human, after all, and as devout and God-fearing as he is, he is also blessed with the favor of something divine, and he wants, he wants.

“Say it first.”

He fucks in deep, fast, knocking inhuman sounds from Heaven’s lips until they catch on high-pitched whines and shallow, breathless panting. He presses against the base of the cock in his hand, a pressure he knows will only serve to send the body beneath him spiraling, sobbing, still unaccustomed to touch and feel and want, no matter how many times they do this, no matter how many times they transgress, as though Marc himself is the sole reason for this undoing.

Maybe he is, he wonders, and the thought makes Marc want to imprint the outline of his teeth onto his angel’s shoulders and between his thighs, an unquestionable, univocal claim to God and Heaven itself that he was meant for this, for this, to bring pleasure to something so terrifyingly divine — because what other purpose could he possibly have in this world if not to be between these legs, if not to kiss the pleas from love-bitten lips?

“I need– Marc, I need–”

“Lo sé,” he says, voice low the way he knows his angel likes, because Marc does live to please, and it’s always so satisfying seeing golden skin turn ruddy with blush. “Lo sé, ángel. Say it and you can.”

If he can never know this being’s name, can never pronounce the syllables of it with his human tongue, can never be gifted the honor of calling upon something so lovely and splendid in prayer, then he will have this, bestowed upon him from holy lips and a voice that existed before the song of humanity had ever been sung, from hands that hung God’s cosmos within the skies and a body that would shepherd their world to its path through the universe, timeless in his grace, dazzling in its willingness to bend to Marc's hand.

“Say it.” His hips snap against blinding radiance, lips ghosting over a mouth that stutters the vowels of his name, and he wants.

“Y–Yours!” Dark chestnut waves fall against multicolored tile, wings fluttering with taut restlessness and the steps that dance the precipice of the knife’s edge, teetering on the brink of condemnatory carnality and what will be their inevitable destruction.

Marc strokes him until he’s sobbing with it, back arched and wings splayed across step-worn floors. There’s a sound that gets caught in the wet of an empty throat, but all Marc can see is honey-brown eyes that sear into his, his gaze half-blinded by gold-irradiated skin and a fist that pulls at his hair until he’s emptying himself into the only thing worth saving his soul for, the only thing worth damning himself to Hell for.

Blood pounds too thick in his ears for him to hear his own voice, mind gone and heat suffocating every pore, scorching every breath. He can feel the humidity of labored panting brushing over his shoulder, head no longer ringing with the bruising grip that was once in his hair. Instead, that hand settles on his shoulder, tracing the line of his arm down to his hand, where it links their fingers, soft and sweet, shy.

Marc presses a kiss to sweat-dampened hair, to flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, to panting lips that bring nectar to his name. “Say it again,” he whispers, voice soft and supplicant in the echoing emptiness of the basilica, heard only by stained glass windows made dark by coal-black night and an angel for whom Marc would walk through fire, for whom Marc would defy God, just to be able to revere something so unequivocally sublime. “Por favor.”

“Yours. Marco Bezzecchi is yours, Father Marc”

Blessedly, yes.