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moonlitwitchdaisy · 2 months ago

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a little note: i was planning to share it next week, but i got a sudden burst of motivation and decided to share it today. even though i couldn’t find any fan art of soccer player nanami, i found this art by @chachachia0 on X. i imagined it as the pose he gave for the "Sexiest Man Alive 2021" issue lol. enjoy reading! up next we have nfl's dirty player!toji :)

.ᐟ more about nanami's best friends (mlb player!gojo┊nba star!geto)

.ᐟ Champions League Masterlist

uefa champion!nanami who is not only a UEFA champion but also a FIFA World Cup winner.

uefa champion!nanami who has won the “Player of the Year” award at the Globe Soccer Awards five times in a row, becoming the only player to achieve this.

uefa champion!nanami who always gives his jersey to a young fan after every match, as there is nothing that makes him happier than seeing children smile.

uefa champion!nanami who was named People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” in 2021.

uefa champion!nanami who battled depression for a long time due to the immense responsibilities expected of him as one of the greatest football players in the world.

uefa champion!nanami who became an alcoholic during his depressive period.

uefa champion!nanami who divorced the wife he loved more than anything because of the hardships he faced. Even though he didn’t want to.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who, despite living far from the media, was on the front pages for a long time due to the news of his divorce.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who was granted a one-season leave by his club to get himself together after showing up drunk to training (and even some matches).

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who, when on the verge of losing it completely, decided to change for the sake of you and your son. He promised himself he’d do whatever it took to get better.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who has been going to therapy regularly since deciding to recover.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who now spends more time with his son. Although he doesn’t believe he’s the best father in the world, his son will always think of him as the best.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who, despite being divorced from you, still texts you “Good morning, my love” every day and asks if you need anything, only for you to reject him each time.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who would give up everything just to sit at the dinner table with you and your son as a family again.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who understands that you still worry about him, even though he’s better now. Even a small “How are you?” or “How is therapy going?” from you means the world to him.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who has never taken off his wedding ring despite your divorce. When you asked him why he didn’t remove it, saying it no longer mattered, he froze and replied, “After our son, this is the most important thing to me.”

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who thinks you never wear your ring, unaware that you carry it on a chain around your neck every single day.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who returned to the field the next season to a sold-out stadium. (The tickets for the match sold out in 50 seconds, setting a record for the fastest ticket sales in history.)

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who wishes you and your son could come to all of his matches like before. Though devastated when he finds out you can’t make it, he’s determined to never pressure you while trying to win you back.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who wears his wedding ring on a chain during training and matches and kisses it before every game.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who, with the help of his friends (Geto and Gojo) and his sister, has truly healed and refuses to ever return to his old self.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who secretly hates his best friend, NBA star Geto, because his sister is dating him. Even though it bothers him, he knows there’s no better choice for his “little princess.”

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who convinces you and your son to attend the New Year’s dinner hosted by his other close friend, famous baseball player Gojo, even though you initially object. He knows you miss them too (especially his sister).

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who is incredibly happy during the dinner. Being with his family and closest friends again is all he has wanted for a long time.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who sees a notification on your phone during the dinner, realizing you’re seeing someone new. Overwhelmed with anger and heartbreak, he doesn’t know what to do.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who refrains from drinking alcohol even though he desperately wants to, upon seeing that person's message.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who stops talking to you much when he picks up your son from your house. He still wants to win you back but accepts that he needs to let go now that there’s someone else in your life.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who secretly feels happy when he finds out your son doesn’t like your new partner. (Like father, like son.)

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who, when dropping your son off at your house and seeing your new partner, wants to punch him but holds back. After saying, “See you next week,” to your son, he turns around when he hears you call out to him as he walks to his car.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami whose heart breaks into pieces when you ask why he’s been acting cold, and he says, “Because you deserve better than me,” as he notices the tears forming in your eyes.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who goes on a few dates to forget you but leaves after 5 minutes each time.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who cries for the second time in his life when his sister facetimes him from Italy at midnight to tell him that Geto proposed to her. (He also wants a front-row seat to see Gojo’s meltdown upon learning that Geto will marry before him.)

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who tells you the good news about his sister and, seeing you cry tears of joy, can no longer hold back and kisses you. Even more shocking is when you kiss him back.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who stops kissing you when you start sobbing uncontrollably. While you were crying and confessed that you never stopped loving him, he gently caressed your cheeks and murmured, “I know I’m not the best husband or father in the world, but I’m trying to be the best for you and our son. Until death do us part, you’re my wife. Hell, not even death could part us.” As he placed a soft kiss on your forehead, he took in your scent completely.

uefa champion!ex-husband!nanami who, when your son sees you close again, says, "Come here," and as he hugs both of you, he feels like everything has finally gone back to the way it used to be.

uefa champion!ex-huband(?)!nanami who proposes to you again 12 hours after reconciling. When he realizes you’ve been carrying your old wedding ring around your neck, he tosses the new ring aside, lifts you into his arms, and carries you to your room to be inside again. (Yes, he already moved your and your son’s belongings back to your “real home” after reconciling, and yes, he’s thrilled to finally be inside you again. Don’t worry—your son was at Uncle Gojo’s house that day…)

uefa champion!husband!nanami who marries you again in an intimate ceremony with only close friends and family. (Of course, Gojo sobbed uncontrollably and spent the night drunk, clinging to both of you.)

uefa champion!husband!nanami who can now sleep peacefully every night, knowing he gets to come home to you and your son.

uefa champion!husband!nanami who scores five goals in the season’s most important match, knowing you and your son are watching him.

uefa champion!husband!nanami who cries for the third time in his life when he finds out on his birthday that he’s going to be a father again.

uefa champion!husband!nanami who watches Geto and his sister dance at their wedding, with one hand resting on your swollen belly where your daughter grows, and the other gently stroking the hair of your son sleeping in his lap.

uefa champion!husband!nanami who has never gone a single day without striving to be the best for his family.

all rights belong to the @moonlitwitchdaisy do not copy, reproduce, or translate my work.

divider by @enchanthings-a

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x you #jjk x reader #nanami kento #jjk headcanons #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #nanami kento angst #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami #kento nanami x you #kento nanami x reader #nanami x reader #nanami kento headcanons

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daosies · 6 months ago

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when you get injured

sylus, xavier, rafayel ♡ gn!reader

warnings: alcohol (sylus), graphic depictions of violence, sylus is his own warning he's so freaky (but hes so fine), major story spoilers (all three), blood, mc is the protagonist but gender neutral, lowercase intended

notes: MISTY INVASION GOT ME

sylus always looks forward to your calls.

he likes listening to you ramble about the little nothings of your day, the mindless white noise that echoes from your end whenever you get lost in thought.

more often than not, sylus isn't satisfied with just that. sometimes, he wishes he could witness your expressions for himself rather than through the chirps and retellings from mephisto, to narrow the distance between the two of you.

clink! he lifts a glass of whiskey up to his lips.

sylus eyes his phone before taking a sip, gaze beginning to drift around the vastness of his bedroom. warm lamps illuminate the corners and his attention redirects towards the various plushies that line the shelves.

ever-so slightly, the corners of his lips break into the subtlest of smiles.

his gaze returns to the phone.

later than usual, sylus thinks, staring at the pretentious (according to you) grandfather clock in his room. tick, tick. its tempo mimics his heartbeat, the steady rhythm falling into place.

sylus's days are redundant—they have been for quite a while—but what he always looks forward to is your calls, which always come at this time.

except for today, it seems. even though you're not obligated to call him, and you never told him that these calls would become a regular occurrence, sylus has grown expectant. terribly so.

he takes another sip of his drink, eyes darting back and forth from his phone to his wristwatch.

sylus would like to maintain his image as an independent, mysterious alpha; but you—oh, you—have a knack at dismembering him, at taking apart the chambers of his heart and weaving yourself into its tissue. you tattoo yourself into his skin, permeating into his existence without ever realizing.

you've always been a little cruel. sylus likes that about you.

tick, tick. he half-considers calling you first. when it comes to you, sylus has nothing to lose—from the crimson of his irises to the crimson of his blood, he's surrendered everything, offering all that he has in a ferocious, lovely organ that goes, endlessly: thump, thump, thump...

he thinks of your fantastic beauty. the tempo stutters.

tick, tick. ring! sylus reaches for his phone within an instant, not caring about luke and kieran's spiel about how a "real charmer" would wait for the phone to ring multiple times before picking up. but sylus doesn't have time to play games like that—he wants to hear your voice and he wants to hear it now.

"so, you finally decided to call, hm?" sylus asks, swirling his drink leisurely. he brings the glass up to his lips, unable to contain the way a smirk breaks out onto his face, the way you do so much as exist, the way you radiate and oh, the way you seek him out!

sylus thinks he's never felt so satisfied before, with all that he's ever achieved, you just might be the greatest of them all.

and he hasn't even achieved you yet. he thinks he never will; you've always been volatile, wildly beautiful and wildly free. again, sylus likes that about you.

you don't respond. sylus sets his glass down on the table, unbothered, smirk still fixed onto his lips. that is until he hears a loud crash from your end, the sound of labored breaths following soon after.

"[name]?" sylus calls, standing up immediately. his whiskey remains forgotten, free hand reaching for the leather coat draped across his chair, the fabric still stained red from earlier events.

sylus has no time to worry about how he presents himself, because before you can even utter another word, he's racing out of his pretentious (according to you) mansion and swinging a leg over his motorbike.

the steady tempo of his heart begins to race, beating the rhythm of the grandfather clock that, endlessly, echoes tick, tick... sylus attributes its consistency to the fact that the grandfather clock, in all its glory, has never had the pleasure of knowing you.

if it did, then its flow would be disrupted, its rhythm would stutter and leap, and sylus knows this fact all too well because it's happened to him. because it's happening to him.

thump, thump-thump... "[name]," sylus calls. he says your name just to say it, to feel its syllables on his tongue, to swallow the sound and let it reverberate throughout his chest, easing the spasm of his heart and the fracturing of his ribs.

"[name], talk to me," sylus says, the steadiness of his voice starkly contrasting the tremble of his irises. "[name], i'll be there. count to three?"

one. he revvs the engine.

two. his fingers tighten around the handlebars.

three. the tempo of his heart goes, achingly, thump-thump-thump, thump... for a second, the sound changes. for a second, the sound shifts and utters, in the softest of timbres: you.

black and red tendrils spew from the ground below you, wrapping your figure in a tender embrace whilst the sound of an engine rings throughout your ears.

smoke envelopes the room, your vision becoming blurry while the tendrils shrink away, their absence filled in by the warmth of calloused hands.

sylus lifts you up, pressing your head against his chest before whispering, "go to sleep, darling. it'll all be over soon."

when your eyes lull back, and your body falls limp, sylus goes mad. his hands never leave your figure, his evol forming limbs to strangle your opponent, watching the way they writhe and scream without ever tearing his gaze away.

"report," sylus demands, talking to no one.

"after finding out [name] was closely associated with you, boss, this person tried to get some information about you." still, someone responds.

sylus chuckles. "two corrections." he steps towards the suffocating person, crimson gaze trailing theirs and landing on you. when he notices this, sylus clicks his tongue, tightening the tendrils of his evol and forcing the perpetrator to look away from you.

tenderly, sylus caresses the side of your face, as if to brush away that person's distateful gaze.

"[name] and i are more than just close associates," sylus continues with his previous statement, holding you closer towards him. he finds solace in the way your chest rises up and down, reassuring him of your vitality, your incomparable radiance.

"and," he says, retracting his evol. the person falls to the floor with a harsh thud, and sylus merely tilts his head in the direction of the body, commanding the twins to clean the corpse up.

"that isn't a person. it's just some pest. kieran, don't make that mistake again."

luke snickers.

kieran straightens up, mop in hand. "yes, boss!"

only when your breathing steadies does sylus's heart return to its regular rhythm, matching the pace of the pretentious grandfather clock.

you've taken his bed (he's given it, really), and sylus doesn't bother pulling up a chair; sinking to his knees as he gazes at you fearfully, reverently. his hands come up to cover yours, elbows digging into the mattress. the warmth of your skin mixes with his own.

you've taken his bed, but sylus thinks that that's only one of the many things you've taken. you've taken his mind, his heart, him. you've taken all that he's got to give, all that he's ever fathomed of being his.

"you're always so cruel," sylus mutters to himself, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

(but, i love that about you, he thinks.)

your head and side are wrapped with bandages, tended to by sylus himself. he doesn't trust anyone else—not even luke or kieran—when it comes to treating you; you're too delicate, too fragile for a place like this.

sylus's gaze remains fixed on the bridge of your nose, the cracks of your lips. sweat trickles down your forehead, your brows furrowed from discomfort and nightmares plaguing your sleep. he reaches a hand to brush the sweat away, grazing across your skin until your brows ease up, until your expression drifts into that of contentedness.

oh, you're beautiful. ethereally so.

(you don't belong here.)

still, sylus's hand traces over yours. he feels the callouses adorning your palm, marred by your work as a hunter. filling the gaps of your fingers with his own, sylus's hand locks into place.

(you call it abduction. he calls it love.)

whenever it comes to you, xavier is on high alert.

he's always hyper aware of your location, your status and your surroundings. whenever you fight wanderers together—as partners often do—he's always thinking of you, of ways to redirect everything towards him, of ways to get you as far away as possible.

for the longest time, xavier thought that that'd be enough. he thought that, so long as you're okay, he doesn't care about what happens to him, about what happens to anything. he's always thought that, really. here and philos alike.

"xavier!" you yell, and before he can even react, your figure comes colliding with his, arms wrapping tightly around the back of his neck as the two of you tumble towards the ground.

he doesn't know what went wrong—was it his clumsiness? was it his arrogance? he had always thought that, so long as you were safe, nothing else mattered.

but xavier had never thought of a situation where he was the one at risk, where he was the one who needed saving. he had never thought that you'd be the one to sacrifice yourself, because, ever since he met you, xavier identified himself as a sword, as a weapon at your disposal.

he is your weapon. he is yours.

xavier's hand comes to the small of your back, feeling the blood seep in between the gaps of his fingers. his breath falls short of escaping, shrinking down his esophagus and bringing everything, from the race of his heart to the warmth of his face to a standstill.

primal instincts take over. xavier fights with tooth and nail, forgetting all that he's learned from his swordsmanship classes—but oh, never forgetting his time with you—while his grip around your waist tightens.

his movements are quick and wild as he slices through each wanderer with the efficiency of a machine, running on a code that prints out, endlessly, you, you, you.

after everything has been eliminated, xavier reaches for your neck, searching desperately for a pulse. after confirming that it's there, he teleports away to the nearest hospital, free palm pressing into the center of your wound.

xavier's scared. he's scared you won't make it. he's scared he's failed you. he's scared of a lot of things, really.

when you're wheeled away in a stretcher, tended to by a whole team of medical professionals, xavier's left yearning and waiting, clinging onto nothing but hope and a fragmented memory of you. he's always yearned—back in philos and here, now—but it's a little different this time.

you've always been out of reach, like you were a star and he, an observer. but now, you're so tangible, so delicate and so fleeting despite being right there.

xavier feels like you could disappear within an instant, and he wouldn't put it past you to leave this life behind, to restart anew somewhere else. with someone who was a little stronger than him, a little less selfish.

he's selfish. so what?

you evoke something primal within him, something that makes him forget his etiquette classes and his time at the academy, wasting away at textbooks and duels. you make xavier burn, wildly, fantastically, like a flame—like a star, even.

you make him feel unlike himself, because xavier's used to being calm and collected and oh-so drowsy, but when it comes to you, everything changes. the world reinvents itself anew and presents itself, fogged in a pink lens, as something lovelier than before.

xavier resigns himself to one of the many chairs of the waiting room. he buries his face into his gloved hands, not caring about the messiness of his appearance.

when he closes his eyes, all he can see is your limp figure. he opts to stare at the television screen instead, the reports of the news appearing mute to his deafened ears. xavier swallows thickly, mouth feeling terribly dry, wrapped around the shape of your name. it waits.

a couple hours pass, and a nurse appears to fetch him. xavier says nothing, tongue still stuck in time.

only when he enters your room, and listens to the repetitive beep of the heart monitor, does his mouth free itself from its prison, liberating itself to utter, in the faintest of whispers, "[name]..."

you don't stir awake. xavier's fine with that. he pulls a chair to your bedside, and he sits, and he stares. periwinkle eyes trail across your features, tracing them like a sculptor, desperate to reshape the bandages and gauzes that cover your abdomen.

xavier wishes he could crawl into your body and steal all the pain for himself.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him, the kind of instinct that is only ever sung about in epics and myths and tragic, star-crossed plays.

he reaches forward, bare thumb coming to graze over your cheekbone. you're quiet, too quiet, and xavier's paranoid. too paranoid.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him. it takes over xavier's eyes and it trains them to fixate on you.

your image slips into his sight, swallowed greedily by xavier's pupils, remembered fervently by his mind. while his hands cannot have you, xavier compensates with his eyes, desperate and mad and oh, so lovely.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him. it's primal and it's primitive and it's hungry.

xavier forfeits his beloved sleep in order to watch over your heart monitor, to watch over your heart.

even when all the lights shut off, and when the device's beeps blend into the white noise of the hospital room, his periwinkle gaze never leaves your figure, adjusting to the darkness and finding solace there.

(a star has landed on earth. it's guided by a great, irrevocable instinct. it's primal and it's primitive and it's hungry.)

once more, xavier's mouth wraps around the shape of your name. it utters, in the softest of timbres, "[name], i love you."

although you aren't awake to respond, xavier is content with just this.

(a star has landed on earth. it stayed because it found you.)

"[name]," he whispers again, finding comfort in the familiar syllables, "i love you." maybe, saying it will make it realer than it already is. maybe, saying it will satiate his soul, providing him with enough sustenance to feast on for the next century or two.

maybe, xavier just calls your name to feel its syllables on his tongue. because he likes the sound of your name. because he wants to hear it, in whatever capacity, whenever he can.

maybe, it's just a great, irrevocable instinct.

whatever it is, xavier is content. he stares at you, and he feasts.

it always goes like this: with rafayel chasing after you.

you have a habit of leaving him behind—rafayel thinks it's just in your nature.

you give him a taste of everything before leaving him with nothing, and even though rafayel hates, hates you for that, he can't help but want everything again.

(he had everything, once.)

"[name]!" the scream that erupts from rafayel's throat is raw, marred by a desperation and anguish that travels across lifetimes. rafayel can't lose you—not again, not like this.

"raf—" you're interrupted by a violent cough, blood spilling from your lips. "just go!"

and there you go again, in all your selfish glory, in all your inconsiderate and shameless heroism. do you like watching his expression drop into that of utter horror, when all he's ever wanted was you?

he can never get his way.

"ugh," he mutters to himself, voice cracking at the end. "i just hate you, you know!?" your gaze is preoccupied by the giant wanderer that looms over your figure, its attention belonging wholly to you.

rafayel has the audacity to be offended. hello? he manages to think, despite all the fear and anxiety. why's it not looking at me? i'm right here!

you aim your gun at the wanderer's head, and rafayel almost wants to laugh. to think you're fighting close-combat with guns—wow, what an accomplished bodyguard you are!

rafayel is half-considering finding a new bodyguard now, because it looks like his current one isn't too bright in the head.

rafayel hates the way you go around, saving everyone, saving everything. he hates the way you save and the way you forget, the way you go around picking up more strays whilst forgetting your first one.

rafayel hates you. he hates you. he hates you!

despite all the pain and soreness in his (self-proclaimed) delicate limbs, he rushes forward, daggers in hand while fire vomits from the ground. rafayel hates you, sure, but hate and love are lawfully wedded, tightly intertwined and fueled by one another.

rafayel hates you. he hates you. but oh, he loves you. he loves you in the way he's willing to let you keep that heart of his, the way orpheus loved eurydice, the way he did everything and anything, only to catch a glimpse before losing it all.

he charges in front of you, occupying the wanderer while you take a couple steps back. rafayel half-wishes you'd run. he half-wishes you'd turn and abandon him so he could find it in himself to abandon you. you did it once before, so why can't you do it again?

when bullets stop flying, rafayel wonders if you left. he wonders if it's really over. so, he looks back.

you're still there. this time, you don't disappear. your eyes meet his, and somehow, you find it in yourself to smile.

he wants to cry.

"rafayel, let's resonate!"

and oh, you're otherwordly. you're so, so gorgeous. it's in the flame that dances across your irises, the determination that settles into your features.

you're so beautiful it hurts, because rafayel hates the effect you have on him, the way you go around enchanting everyone, everything!

when crimson blood trickles down your face, staining your skin a violent red, rafayel thinks you're sublime. he feels insignificant in your radiance, in your marvelous existence, your marvelous world.

"fine, let's!"

your hand locks with his, and rafayel hates the way his heart skips a beat. he hates the way yours didn't. he hates the way he's the only one overthinking these things, the only one who remembers after all this time.

the world is engulfed in flames. and rafayel spares you a glance, your skin illuminated by the warmth, flickering in and out. the wanderer disintegrates into ash, leaving nothing but a measly protocore for all the suffering it put him through.

your eyes fall back. instinctively, rafayel reaches a hand out, catching you in his arms despite hating the way you contort his limbs, the way you make him trail after you like a madman.

he is anything but a madman—in fact, rafayel is perfectly normal.

still, he cradles you in his arms. blood trickles from the side of your face.

"you're not the only one bleeding," rafayel mutters bitterly, feeling lightheaded himself. "who do you even think you are?"

his thumb comes to brush your chapped lips, wiping stray droplets of blood from the dried skin.

you're ethereal. rafayel will never admit that outloud. not like this. but, he thinks that you're something akin to a grecian statue, reflecting all that is lovely and all that is mortal.

rafayel thinks that, when you were crafted—long before this current incarnation—you were crafted with the most delicate of touches, the loveliest of visions.

he looks at you, and he wants to create. he wants to waste away at his canvases, wild and fanatic and looking over his shoulder, wondering if you'll still be there when it's all over.

knowing your nature, you won't be.

still, rafayel can't help but dream. dreams can change the world, after all. dreams are what led him back to you.

his thumb reaches for his own lips. he kisses the skin and he weeps.

rafayel hates you.

he hates you so, so much.

he shrinks into your figure and he follows your heartbeat, the sound so, achingly familiar.

when you regain consciousness, it's in rafayel's studio. your figure is drowned in pearl-white blankets, your wounds wrapped tenderly with fresh bandages.

"good mooorning, sleepyhead," rafayel says, not facing you. his hands are occupied with a brush and palette, head craned upward to fully take in the canvas. "some bodyguard you are, huh!"

"rafayel!" you quickly exclaim, trying to stand up. rafayel is quick to turn around, setting his palette down to wag a disapproving finger at you.

"nuh uh! don't get out of bed! get some rest! and oh, don't even talk to me! not until you've apologized for doing all that dumb, fish-brained stuff!"

rafayel looks back. you're still there.

in this life, rafayel thinks he has everything.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #xavier x reader #sylus x reader #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x reader #lnds x reader #rafayel x mc #loveanddeepspace #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #xavier love and deepspace

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reasonsforhope · 8 months ago

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"One of the world's rarest cats, the Iberian lynx, is no longer classed as endangered, according to a report by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN).

On Thursday [June 20, 2024], the IUCN, which categorises species according to the level of risk they face in a "red list", bumped the Iberian lynx from "endangered" to "vulnerable" after a significant surge in numbers.

Its population grew from 62 mature individuals in 2001 to 648 in 2022. While young and mature lynx combined now have an estimated population of more than 2,000, the IUCN reports.

As the name suggests, the wild cat species calls the Iberian region - Spain and Portugal - home.

According to the latest census data, there were a total of 14 clusters where the animals were stable and reproducing. Of those, 13 were located in Spain and one in Portugal.

The wild cat used to be common across the whole of the Iberian Peninsula, but from the 1960s its numbers plummeted.

Habitat loss, poaching and road accidents all helped to push the species to the brink of extinction.

Now, the cat is coming back.

The increase is largely thanks to conservation efforts that have focused on increasing the abundance of its main food source - the also endangered wild rabbit, known as European rabbit.

Programmes to free hundreds of captive lynxes and restoring scrublands and forests have also played an important role in ensuring the lynx is no longer endangered.

Francisco Javier Salcedo Ortiz, a coordinator responsible for leading the conservation action, described it as the "greatest recovery of a cat species ever achieved through conservation".

Mr Ortiz said there was still "a lot of work to do" to ensure the animals survive and the species can recover.

"Looking ahead, there are plans to reintroduce the Iberian lynx to new sites in central and northern Spain,” he added.

The area the species occupies is now much larger, according to IUCN, jumping from 449 sq km (173 sq miles) in 2005 to 3,320 sq km today."

-via BBC News, June 20, 2024

#lynx #cats #wild cats #wild animals #endangered species #icun #conservation #rewilding #ecosystems #environmentalism #spain #portugal #iberian lynx #iberia #good news #hope

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seat-safety-switch · 15 days ago

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Humanity's greatest achievement, the talking cookie jar, was callously discarded by a so-called "advancing civilization." I ask you now, are you happier now than you were when you had a cartoon dolphin in your kitchen? One that made an ear-piercing screech whenever you pulled its head open to retrieve a Famous Amos? It's time to get back to cookie jars.

Invented in 1491 by a rogue team of Chinese scientists who were looking for a place to safely store the cookies that they had invented the year before, the cookie jar promptly became a mainstay of every home. And then pretty much nothing happened for about another five hundred years, until talking cookie jar technology appeared.

It may seem hard to believe now, seated in the immeasurable comfort of modern-day technology like vtubers and even ztubers, but at the time, sticking a greeting-card noisemaker into a novelty piece of plastic was the only way to get a gift for your weird aunt that she wouldn't immediately smash on the floor and call your dad out for his many crimes against humanity. You had to be there, I guess.

Nowadays, scant few of these artifacts still remain, purged in humanity's rush to recycle old electronics. Perhaps there was also an element of fear around the unhealthy nature of leaving a baked good out in the bare air, tempting you to devour them whenever you entered the kitchen. Cookies themselves are as popular as ever, but we prefer to eat them directly from the package, in secret, away from the judgmental eyes of family members.

There is hope, however. With today's technology, cookie jars can once again talk. And not just that: they can feel. We've inserted a bio-synthetic machine sentience into every single one of these Garfield® cookie jars. It knows your schedule. It knows your diet. It passes judgment on you. And, critically, you are not allowed to recycle it under United Nations law, because we programmed it to feel pain. You can pick one up at your local K-Mart for sixty bucks plus tax. Makes a great gift for your weird aunt.

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fuk3d · 17 days ago

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A Moment In Time

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff

Warning(s): Mentions of neglect, verbal abuse, and self-doubt.

Word Count: 1,074

A/N: Hey everyone! This is my first time getting back into writing fanfic since 2016 LMAOOO. Anyway, I'm pretty sure this is pure shit so pls feel free to give me constructive criticism. AND PLEASE TELL ME IF THERE'S MISTAKES CUZ THATS EMBARRASSING HAHA. Also writings cringe as hell so soz.

Chapter 1: Happy Birthday | Chapter 2: Distant Memories

The Wayne resident felt empty, soulless, cold, and you couldn't bare the stillness of it all. So you step out onto the balcony, coffee in hand with the chilling air biting at your fingers harshly. You absentmindedly sipped on your coffee, the warm sensation from your cup steadily combating the freezing cold. The garden's atmosphere was filled with tranquility, the sun's rays slowly touching everything in its path.

If only it could be like this forever.

You breathe in a shaky sigh and flutter your eyes to a gentle close, small puffs of air exit your mouth as you exhale out slowly. This would be the last time you’ll be gazing down at the alluring range of flowers scattered across the garden, its colours radiating brightly from the warm sunrise as it gently caressed the horizon. You can’t help but think back to all of your greatest achievements, your not so finest moments, and the bitter reminder of lonely memories that are left dormant inside your mind.

What more could I have done? Why didn’t I try harder? Why? Why, why, why, wh-

“Young (Name)? Are you alright? It’s cold out there, you should come back inside, where it’s warm.” Your eyes snap back open and you turn your body to face your family butler, Alfred. You blink, then you blink again, until you sputter out your reply with a wobbly smile. “Alfred! I’m- I’m fine, I just wanted to have my coffee out on the balcony.” ‘one last time’.

You turn to breathe in the fresh air for the final time before leaving the balcony area in silence. Today is your 18th birthday, and yet it doesn’t feel like it. A birthday is supposed to be a milestone, something to be celebrated with friends and family, with loved ones.

You shake yourself out of your stupor, a shudder leaves your lips, the icy temperature sending chills throughout your body. You find yourself sitting down near the kitchen table, your lukewarm coffee still in hand. And Alfred all but quietly makes your favourite breakfast, just how you’ve liked it for the last 18 years of your life. It’s been hard, you think to yourself. The unwarranted isolation from Bruce, the hurtful, cut-throat words thrown towards you from Damian as if you were a burden, the excuses from Dick, claiming he already had plans made so “Maybe next time! Yeah?”. And you remember so vividly of Jason pushing you away, as if the bond you two shared didn’t matter anymore. The fond memories, the time spent together, gone, just like that after he had died.

And how could you forget about Tim? Or about Cass, Barbara, Stephanie, and Duke? None of them rarely ever put in the effort to spend even a fraction of their time with you. But it doesn’t matter to you, right? No, not even a single bit, you don’t care anymore; of course you don’t care! Because you’re done, you’re done being in the shadows, done being stuck within those four tiny walls that had been called ‘your room’, and done with not being anyone's choice, especially not even your fathers.

Even so, that's not true is it? You can lie to everyone else, but you can’t lie to yourself. You do care, and it stings because you’ve been caring up until you forced yourself not to anymore.

With your heart held heavy in your chest, an indescribable ache creeps up your throat as you recount the gut-wrenching memories that you struggle to desperately shake from your head, your now empty cup sits cold on the table in front of you.

“Breakfast served.” Alfred slides a plate of your favourite in front of you. Your lips are stretched into a light smile, yet it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thank you Alfred..” You say before the both of you are engulfed in comfortable silence. You eat your breakfast at a comfortable pace, savouring the delectable taste that fills your mouth before inevitably finishing your breakfast. Your family's butler busies himself by cleaning the kitchen counter, wiping it down with careful precision before moving down to wipe down the very kitchen table you sit at. “Hey, uhm Alfred?” You speak up before you can even stop yourself, the words stumbling out in a fervent storm.

“Will you miss me when I move out?” Alfred can only stop and look at you, really look at you. And from the looks of it, you appear collected, indifferent even, but to your butler he notices nearly everything about you. The way you play with your hair when you’re nervous, or how you fiddle with your fingers when you’re uncomfortable and the slight furrow of your eyebrows as you concentrate. So you can’t help but shrink just a little at his expression, his features showing no emotion for you to understand what he’s feeling.

“I know you’re busy assisting the families business with… their nightly duties and... and I realise I’ve been such a burden to you and the family, but I know I’ll miss you the most out of everyone so-”

you’re abruptly cut off by the shuffling of Alfred’s feet walking towards you, his arms enveloping you into a hug. A hug that was desperately needed and long overdue. You reciprocate Afred’s action’s and tightly wrap your arms around him, your hands scrunching up Alfred’s uniform because of how hard your hands are balled up into fists. You’re stunned, too puzzled to speak as Afred’s begins to speak.

“You will be missed dearly Young [Name]. You’re smile, you’re creativity, you’re ideas, our time together; I’ll miss all of these things, those moments that we have.” a pleasant warmth settles within you, Alfred’s hand makes its way to the back of your head, bringing you to his chest as he pats gently. It’s barely audible but it's there, a small sniffle once, twice, then a series of them start to fill the empty rooms' quietness. Tears start to well up within your tear ducts except you refuse to let them fall despite a few already running down your face. You cry, you just feel so scattered and a bit of a mess right now as your tears and snot stain Alfred's clothes.

You let yourself be in the moment, you let down your walls and stripped away the hard exterior around your heart. You’re vulnerable and… it feels great.

For once you feel relieved. Happy.

Credit to @adornedwithlight!

End Note: Just to rephrase, this is my first time getting back into writing fan-fiction so I'm rusty asf lol. And any writers that have been doing this for way longer than me, please give me some tips or advice on how I can improve my own writing LMAOO.

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sankofaspirit · 1 month ago

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Why Dr. John Henrik Clarke Is Correct About Black People Having No Friends (and why We Don’t Need Any) – a Garveyite Perspective

Dr. John Henrik Clarke famously stated, “Black people have no friends.” For many, this may sound harsh, but it is a sobering truth when viewed through the lens of Pan-Africanism and Marcus Garvey’s philosophy. Garvey understood that Black liberation can not depend on external allies; it must come from within—rooted in self-reliance, unity, and a shared commitment among Black people globally.

Here’s why, Dr. Clarke’s statement rings true and why, from a Garveyite perspective, Black people don’t need friends—only each other.

1. History Proves It

From colonialism to the civil rights era, supposed "friends" of Black people have repeatedly betrayed or abandoned us. Other groups have leveraged Black struggles for their own gains, only to leave Black people behind once their goals were achieved.

Post-slavery labour movements excluded Black workers.

Civil rights coalitions saw other groups gain rights, while Black people remained trapped under systemic racism.

Garvey and Clarke both saw these betrayals as evidence that Black people must prioritize their own interests and stop relying on others.

2. Global Anti-Blackness Is Real

Anti-Blackness isn’t confined to one region—it’s a global phenomenon. Across continents, Black people face systemic oppression, discrimination, and dehumanization.

Other groups often form alliances to protect their own power while marginalizing Black voices.

Even in spaces of shared oppression, anti-Blackness often takes precedence.

Dr. Clarke’s assertion and Garvey’s vision both point to this truth: Black liberation must come from within because no one else will prioritize us.

3. Dependency Leads to Exploitation

Depending on outside "friends" or "allies" often comes with hidden costs. Foreign aid, alliances, and solidarity movements often prioritize the interests of others over Black liberation.

Aid to African nations often perpetuates dependency rather than fostering self-sufficiency.

"Allies" in social justice movements often centre their struggles, leaving Black people to fight alone.

Garvey warned that dependency breeds vulnerability. Clarke reinforces this: Black people must build their own systems to avoid exploitation.

4. We Have Everything We Need

Garvey believed that Black people possess the resources, talents, and ingenuity needed for liberation.

Africa’s wealth: With its vast natural resources, Africa can fund global Black empowerment if reclaimed from exploitative systems.

Diaspora talent: Across the globe, Black communities excel in innovation, creativity, and resilience.

Dr. Clarke’s statement echoes Garvey’s vision: We don’t need friends because we already have all the tools for success.

5. Cultural Exploitation Is Proof of No True Friendship

Black culture—music, art, fashion, and more—is celebrated globally, but Black people are rarely compensated or empowered by their own creations.

Other groups profit from Black innovation while perpetuating anti-Black systems.

Cultural exploitation demonstrates a lack of true solidarity.

Garvey’s solution: Black people must reclaim their culture and use it as a tool for empowerment, not exploitation.

6. Unity Is Our Greatest Strength (and Threat to Oppressors)

A united global Black community is the most powerful weapon against systemic oppression. Garvey emphasized unity, and Clarke’s assertion underscores why others fear it:

A unified Black world challenges global power structures that thrive on division.

By focusing on internal unity, Black people strengthen themselves and disrupt oppressive systems.

7. Allies Often Divide Us

Alliances can create divisions within Black movements, as external influences pit factions against each other or dilute the focus on Black liberation.

During the civil rights movement, alliances often marginalized more radical Black voices.

Today, funding from external groups can cause conflicts between grassroots Black organizers and larger organizations tied to outside agendas.

Garvey’s emphasis on self-reliance offers a solution: Black unity must come first, free from outside interference.

8. Other Groups Prioritize Their Own Interests

Every group prioritizes its own survival and progress—it’s not wrong, but Black people must learn from this.

White nations maintain global alliances to uphold their dominance.

Asian nations focus on economic self-sufficiency.

Jewish communities have built strong networks to protect and uplift their people.

Garvey and Clarke would agree: It’s time for Black people to do the same and put themselves first.

9. Historical Success Through Self-Reliance

History proves that Black people thrive when they rely on themselves:

The Haitian Revolution succeeded because enslaved Africans united and rejected external dependence.

Garvey’s UNIA (Universal Negro Improvement Association) built businesses, schools, and a global movement without outside help.

These examples show that self-reliance works. Black people don’t need friends—they need focus.

10. True Liberation Is Self-Determined

Liberation can not be outsourced, gifted, or borrowed—it must be self-determined. Allies may help temporarily, but no one will prioritize Black liberation over their own interests.

Garvey envisioned a world where Black people controlled their own economies, politics, and resources.

Clarke’s assertion reminds us that we can’t afford to waste time seeking validation or support from others.

11. Black Liberation Threatens Global Power Structures

Both Garvey and Clarke understood that Black liberation isn’t just a struggle for freedom—it’s a direct threat to the systems of power that dominate the world.

A free and united Africa would undermine Western economic dominance, which relies on exploiting African resources.

A globally empowered Black diaspora would disrupt industries, politics, and systems built on anti-Blackness.

This explains why no other group can truly be a friend to Black liberation. Their survival often depends on maintaining the status quo that oppresses us.

12. “Allies” Often Centre Themselves in Our Struggles

Even when other groups claim to stand in solidarity with Black movements, their involvement often centers their own experiences, narratives, and priorities.

Non-black allies frequently shift attention to their struggles, leaving Black people to carry the burden of fighting for everyone else.

Movements like Black Lives Matter have seen external groups co-opt their messages for personal or political gain.

Garvey’s philosophy reminds us to stay focused on our own goals and not allow our movements to be hijacked.

13. Romanticizing External Help Distracts from Pan-African Solutions

One of the pitfalls of seeking allies is the belief that external help is necessary or even superior. This mindset can prevent Black people from exploring Pan-African solutions.

Garvey’s vision of “Africa for Africans” called for African nations and the diaspora to work together without relying on foreign nations or systems.

Clarke’s statement reinforces this idea: the best solutions come from within. Black people don’t need external friends—they need internal unity.

14. Allies Often Maintain Anti-Black Systems

Even so-called “progressive” allies often uphold the same systems that oppress Black people.

Corporations claiming to support racial justice continue to exploit African resources and labour.

Governments speaking out against racism still engage in policies that harm Black communities worldwide.

Dr. Clarke and Garvey both understood this hypocrisy. Real liberation requires rejecting systems that perpetuate oppression, even if they claim to support us.

15. Our Focus Should Be on Building Future Generations, Not Pleasing Others

Garvey often emphasized the importance of preparing future generations to lead and succeed independently.

Clarke’s warning about having no friends reinforces this: Why waste time seeking allies when we could be building schools, economies, and systems that empower our children?

A Garveyite perspective prioritizes creating a legacy of self-reliance and leadership that ensures the survival and progress of Black people globally.

By focusing on the future, Black people can stop relying on the approval or assistance of others and instead secure their own destinies.

Final Reflection: All We Have Is Us, and That’s Enough

Dr. John Henrik Clarke’s statement and Marcus Garvey’s philosophy both lead to the same conclusion: Black people must take responsibility for their liberation. True freedom can not and will not come from allies—it must come from within. The power lies in our hands, in our unity, and in our shared commitment to self-determination.

We don’t need friends. We need ourselves.

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luvrxbunny · 1 year ago

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flower

pairing: bf!Miguel O’Hara x f!reader

summary: You won’t let Miggy play.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, sad feelings, clothed sex, cum in pants (lmk if I forgot anything)

wc: 2.2k

a/n: Gwen is 21 just for drinking purposes— everyone say thank u to @naeverse for giving me an alternative to google translate for the spanish!! ily bby!! 🫶🏾

Miguel is like your best artwork, in your opinion. The way you took the hard seed he was and watered, loved, cared and nurtured him so he could bloom into the flower he was today is one of your greatest achievements.

When you met him he was cold, closed off, and angry. It took months of breaking down his wall before he could even admit his feelings for you, it took even more, to get him to express his feelings for you. It was like luring a stray cat, slowly getting him closer, and more comfortable with you before pushing your physical feelings onto him. You coaxed him out of his cave of isolation, of touch deprivation, and showed him how it felt to have someone love on him.

You were so proud when he started coming to you for simple little things, like a kiss or a hug. You’d be working and he’d stride in, tall and confident just to ask you, shyly, for a kiss. For a long time you explained to him that he didn’t always need to ask you, you were okay with him just coming in and kissing you. You also had to explain to him that he’s allowed to ask for more than a hug or kiss, he was very resistant on that matter but you managed to break him.

One day he woke up in the middle of the night, you were asleep next to him and he needed you. He laid there for an hour, debating on whether he should wake you up or not. When he did wake you up, you couldn’t have been prouder. You made sure to let him know that as you rode him.

At first, he wouldn’t even hold your hand or hug you in public. He got comfortable with PDA much quicker than the others, it only took him a few weeks. He plunged himself into it head first.

He went from barely touching you to being all over you. He started sitting you in his lap, resting his arms over your hips while standing behind you, or laying his head on your stomach whenever you guys were chilling in the lounge.

He even got into the habit of running his fingers over your tummy, going under your shirt or dissipating your suit just to feel you. Or he’ll just grope you through your suit, it doesn’t alway seem sexual for him… more like he enjoys the closeness, the intimacy of touching you, holding you in places no one else can. For example; your boobs, your ass, and his most recent, most consistent obsession… your pussy.. just cupping, your clothed pussy.

He says it’s calming for him, most of the time he does it absently. The goal isn't to make you cum, or prep your for his cock. He just loves touching you. It made you unbelievably happy to see him like that, your secretly sweet boy, loving all over you, not caring who’s around. It was one of the best things to ever happen to you.

Which is what makes this current conversation so awkward.

Hobie is rambling on and on about how disgusting PDA is. Miguel isn't around, thank god. He went to get a drink and never came back. Hobie has been ranting about how inconsiderate, and inappropriate PDA is as you awkwardly sip on your drink, feeling oddly targeted. Jess and Gwen agree with him, saying that it’s not that serious but definitely annoying. You’re just wishing for them all to just stop before Miguel returns, terrified that he’ll retreat back into his shell. That you’ll loose your sweet flower.

“ ‘M jus sayin’ it’s not like they can’t wait ‘til they get ‘ome. I jus feel like… come off it, y’know? Like you’re in public, right? Jus... keep it in your pants.” You down your drink and decide to finally butt into the conversation.

“Hobie. I love you but you’re the same guy who doesn’t believe in consistency.” You earn a little chuckle from the table. “Get in a loving, serious, consistent relationship, and tell me you’ll never want to be affectionate outside your house.” The words spit from your mouth with more venom than intended but you stand your ground.

“Aye, I guess. But like, some people don’t know when to dial it back.” He laughs with Gwen as you get up to leave. Jess is sending you an apologetic look that you smile at briefly before turning to walk away. You’re stopped by a.. wall?

You open your eyes to see what you ran into and see Miguel smiling down at you. “Where are you going?” You smile back at him, genuinely, and tell him a half-truth. “I was looking for you! Where have you been?”

Miguel looks a little drunk, his face flushed, and his eyes hazy. You guys have been drinking but it usually takes more. He shrugs and sits in your seat, patting his leg for you to sit in his lap.

You start toward him but then Hobie’s words play in your head and you shake your head softly at him. He looks confused but nods at you and falls into the conversation, now talking about the latest mission.

You’re standing there considering Hobie’s words. If you imagine how you and Miguel act from an outsider's perspective… you can see why they’d find it annoying. Anxiety curls and makes a home in your chest as you flip through all your favorite memories of you and Miguel, all of them now tainted. You head over to the bar silently, needing another drink when you feel someone behind you.

You feel pressure on the top of your head and know it's Miguel, placing a kiss on your head, another recent habit of his. You do nothing, ignore it as he wraps his arms around your waist and leans into you. “Oh, Peter B. says Hello. He was here earlier for a bit. That’s what took me so long. He made me drink with him too. Puede que haya bebido mucho.”

(“I may have had too much to drink”)

A smile makes its way onto your face as you listen to him, his accent thicker with his intoxication. He’s leaning on you, not for support but just to feel you against him. You guys stand there in comfortable silence until you feel Miguel’s hand begin to slide from your hip to your pelvis, it slides underneath the band of your skirt and you stop him. “Not now, Miggy. Sorry.” Your drink arrives, you pay, and leave. Miguel follows behind you, slightly deflated by your rejection. Your mind is still on Hobie’s words.

Are we “too much”? Do we take it “too far”..? Maybe we should just dial it back a little...

You guys arrive back at the table and Miguel tries again. His hands come to your waist and quickly slide down, trying to get under your skirt. You don’t say anything, you keep talking to Gwen as you pull his hand out.

The night goes well from that point. Miguel makes more advances that are gently rejected or avoided by you. You all gradually get drunk as the night goes on, Miguel drinks a bit more than he usually would and recluses himself to a table next to where you guys are sitting. Jess leaves first, Gwen and Hobie following her not too long after.

You and Miguel decide to leave and Uber home in silence. He usually talks more after hanging out in a group, saying everything he thought but couldn't say, giving his rating on the interaction, and more. This time, however, he’s silent, looking out his window with furrowed brows the whole ride. The silence only breaks once you both are in the apartment and you speak up.

“Why are you so quiet tonight?” You’re staring at his back as he stands in the living room. He doesn’t answer you at first, he just stands there before sighing and turning around.

“Why won’t you let me play with you?” His voice is weaker than you’ve ever heard it, his eyes look sad and desperate and his hands are wringing each other. You’ve never seen him like this, nervous and unsure. It breaks your heart.

You rush over to him and wrap him in a hug. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted to that bad, baby.” You let him go and kiss his cheek. “I—“ You sigh defeatedly. “Hobie got in my head about PDA. I don’t know why I listen to him.” Miguel lets out a sigh of relief at your words, some of the tension leaving his body.

“That idiot? Yeah, no. Don’t listen to him, amor.” You smile at him and he kisses you softly. When you pull away he still has that nervous look in his eyes. “Do you wanna play with me now?” you ask gently. He nods so timidly that you regret ever rejecting him. You kiss him with a smile as he walks you backward, only stopping once your back hits the wall.

His breath is already speeding up, his chest heaving as his hand slowly slides up your skirt. The moment his fingers come in contact with your clothed pussy he groans out, louder than you. You’re shocked by his reaction as he keeps rubbing your clit, gasping, and moaning with you as if he was touching himself.

His mouth is open as moans tumble through his lips. He’s not looking at you, just watching his fingers move on your pussy. His eyebrows draw more inward the faster he moves his fingers, his moans turning into whines the faster he goes.

At some point, his fingers roll over your clit more perfectly than you can handle and your hips buck into his hands. His knees almost buckle at the sight as he lets out a deep, rumbling groan.

“Santa mierda.” His eyes roll back as he feels your wetness soak through your panties and dampen his fingers. He’s desperately hard in his pants and his hips are thrusting up into the air in time with his movements over your pussy. “Echaba mucho de menos esto, cariño”

(“Holy shit.”)

( “I missed this so much honey”)

You giggle at his apology. He tends to do this a lot when you have him extra worked up. He always feels bad because he knows you can't understand him but the truth is that when he gets you like this… Whining, moaning, and pressing into him.

He cannot function.

He can’t think about anything but breeding you, getting his fat cock into your soft pussy, and painting your cervix. He’s not worried about what language it happens in. His brain can’t focus on things like that, he’s tried.

Your hips thrust up into his hand as you grip his biceps, your nails digging in painfully, making him moan even louder. His fingers move against you perfectly, the Spanish falling from his lips pulls you closer and closer to your orgasm. Your legs start to twitch and tense, your knees weakening as the burning in your stomach grows. Your hands come up around Miguel’s neck to pull him closer to you.

“You’re making me feel so good, Miggy. Fuck- I love you so much, baby.” He lifts you off your feet, pressing you up against the wall and lifting your legs over his waist. He takes a step forward and buries himself in your neck, his hips come forward, pressing his bulge against your mound with a groan. “Yeah, good. Good, Miggy- shi-it.” You feel his fangs slide out of his mouth and press into your skin as he whimpers. “Holy- Miguel, I- fuck, like that baby please.”

His whines turn to groans as he thrusts against you like he was actually fucking you. His hips swivel into yours, stuttering as he listens to your moans. “N-nena, estoy tan cerca. Maldita sea, te sientes tan jodidamente bien, mi amor. Siento que no puedo respirar. Mierda, te sientes increíble.”

(“B-baby, I'm so close. Damn, you feel so fucking good, my love. I feel like I can't breathe. Shit, you feel amazing.”)

You moan louder at his words, the way they roll off of his tongue. You can’t even describe how you feel when he speaks, especially in Spanish. It feels like his words vibrate through your ears, to your stomach, and settle in your core, winding you up as tightly as you can go. “Yeah? Oh, I’m gonna c-cum. Fuck- talk to me, Miggy. T-tell me how it feels, honey.”

Miguel can feel his eyes roll back into his head at your words. You know he can’t speak English right now, and he knows you love it anyway, the thought has him hurtling toward his orgasm. “Te sientes tan perfecta, nena. Voy a correrme tan fuerte por ti. ¿Lo quieres? ¿Quieres que te dé mi leche, miel? Te lo daré, todo por ti, nena. Mierda.”

(“You feel so perfect, baby. I'm gonna cum so hard for you. Do you want it? Do you want me to give you my milk honey? I'll give it to you, all for you, baby. Shit.")

Your legs crush his waist as you cum, trembling in his arms as his hips keep fucking against you, his moans growing in volume. You bring your hands up to dive into his hair, pulling at it, gripping it as he growls into your neck. He’s trying to hold off until you’re done, he wants to keep going, he wants to make you cum for so long that you can’t breathe but the way you’re grasping his brown locks makes it impossible. His muscles tense, his hands squeezing you into a bruising hold as his groans devolve back into whines, his body shaking as his cock explodes.

He cums so hard he thinks he blacks out for a moment. His cock pumps out rope after rope of his cum into his pants, he wishes it was inside you for a moment and he’s cumming harder at the thought. His hips continue to buck into you desperately as he moans out your name. You feel one of his hands leave your waist and rest on your cheek shakily, pushing your head in his direction and placing a kiss on your cheek. He grunts as he bucks against you one more time before putting you down.

You knees give out the moment you touch the ground and Miguel holds you up with a chuckle. “¿Qué? ¿No puedes soportarlo, cariño? ¿Tus piernas ya no funcionan?” He teases you as he carries you to the bedroom, your head rests on his chest, feeling the vibrations as he speaks.

(“What? You can't stand, honey? Your legs don't work anymore?”)

“You better hush up before I fuck you.” You spit back at him jokingly but you feel his pace falter at the threat.

“Uh, Qué... ¿Cuál es el dicho? Don’t threaten me with a good time?” He says in a teasing tone but his eyes are already clouding over again, desperate.

(“what... what's the saying?”)

thank you so much for reading!! please please please give any feedback you may have! I want it all! also if you liked it please take a look at my masterlist!

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