#miguel o'hara español

[mikaelao28]

El sabor del rojo

Capítulo 1

Advertencia: el contenido de este capítulo es algo violento al desarrollarse en un ambiente de guerra. Trato de no tomar un rumbo demasiado explícito con respecto a la violencia, pero de todas formas se mencionan muertes, armas y contenido violento.

Una brutal batalla se libraba a las puertas de la capital de Adnis y que, bajo la centenaria promesa grabada en piedra acerca de que los dragones algún día retornarían a su hogar, tu nación llevaba mucho tiempo enfrentando cada intento de los Ignicianos por recuperar sus tierras. Décadas de guerra y disputas entre ambas razas los llevó a un perpetuo y sangriento enfrentamiento desde antes que te fuera otorgado tan alto grado militar como comandante del ejército. Te criaste con el propósito de ser la más letal guerrera y meticulosa estratega, por lo tanto conocías las historias de cada enfrentamiento, desde tu bisabuelo hasta tu padre que combatieron con honor, y ahora te tocaba a ti ser el escudo de tu pueblo y la espada de tu ejército, ser el arma que concluyera tan trágico conflicto si los dioses te permitían tal oportunidad.

La prevista invasión del sangriento Ejército Rojo llevaba kilómetros de avance en dirección a la ciudad amurallada de Kaliz, en donde -en un futuro cercano- el soberano de Adnis se hallaría de rodillas ante el emperador dragón y conquistador de las ardientes tierras del sur. Tal cómo en el pasado los dragones habían jurado inundados por el rencor hacia los humanos, así miles de soldados de un aspecto similar al humano -exceptuando por el par de cuernos que brotaban de sus cabezas, colmillos afilados, garras en sus manos y largas colas- marchaban sobre la tierra lodosa en dirección a la capital, guiados por el mismo emperador. Sus armaduras parecían arder como una capa de burbujeante magma que lucía gruesa y pesada, un material que ellos llevaban siglos explotando de la continua corriente de lava de uno de los tantos volcanes que se elevaban a lo largo de las costas en las tierras a las que fueron exiliados.

Pueblos habían sido arrasados por el miedo, mas no consumidos por la violencia y ni la sangre a pesar de que los invasores eran etiquetados por crueles y sanguinarios, en realidad el emperador, quién iba a la cabeza de las tropas, dejaba muy en claro a sus soldados que no toleraría la matanza de civiles, aunque sus métodos en el campo de batalla contra los soldados adnianos fueran más que capaces de implantar pesadillas en los más fríos combatientes. Siendo piadoso con los pobres inocentes que se veían afectados por las consecuencias de la guerra no lo hacía parecer un hombre tan despiadado, pero cuando entraba en acción su cuerpo parecía conocer cada aspecto de la guerra al punto de ser él mismo la personificación de la violencia.

Los Rojos ya habían acabado con la primera línea de soldados Adnianos que trataron de enfrentarlos sobre la frontera hasta no dejar más que sus cadáveres ahogados en su propia sangre, chamuscados o con los cuervos devorándoles las entrañas. Ahora ellos se encontraban frente a frente con el ejército real, azotando sus lanzas contra el suelo en un grito de guerra que pretendía helar cada hueso en los soldados humanos, y estos que mantenían sus escudos plateados y finamente forjados levantados contra sus invasores. Allí estabas tú, apretando tu mano derecha alrededor de la empuñadura de tú espada y sosteniendo en la izquierda tu escudo mientras lo observabas a él, Miguel O´Hara, consciente de que alguno de los dos iba a morir ese día.

Había cierta belleza en el movimiento sinuoso de su cuerpo al blandir la espada con tal naturalidad, resultando sencillo asumir que el arma sólo era una extensión más de su cuerpo. Su espada serpentea en el aire con una increíble velocidad para devastar carne y hueso con fuertes tajos, con una calculada frialdad en la batalla como si cada enemigo hubiera sido planeado al igual que su manera para acabar con ellos. Es enfermizamente hermoso verlo y te odiabas por eso, pues él estaba matando a tus soldados. No puedes evitar admirarlo a lo lejos a pesar de que también te sumes en la ferocidad del combate, te cubres con tu escudo ante cada ataque y azotas con tu espada a las armaduras rojas con negro en las zonas precisas para que cedan y así puedas atravesarlas hasta arrancarles un último respiro a sus portadores. Gruñes con cada golpe que te empuja queriendo tumbarte al suelo. Tus pies resbalan en la tierra mojada hecha barro, pero no permites que los impactos te derriben o que te hagan caer, simplemente continuas de forma implacable hasta que tus pulmones arden ante la asfixia del campo de batalla y tu cuerpo clama una pronta victoria para conseguir algo de descanso. Y, aunque eres letal, ya has sido herida en tu hombro izquierdo de modo que duele al alzar tu escudo, también te sientes sangrando levemente en tu cuello y en tus mejillas. Todo eso te genera una idea en la cabeza: ellos apuntan a matar. No a hacerte sufrir, sino a acabar completamente con todo lo que se les atraviese.

La lluvía empapa tu cuerpo durante violentos minutos que se sienten como horas, el olor de la sangre se mezcla con el sudor, la tierra y el acero, el sabor metálico de la sangre llena tu paladar, el sonido de las armaduras al chocar parece aturdir tus oídos a momentos pero sigues escuchando cada grito de dolor y suplica de los muertos, tu cálido aliento se congela en el aire con cada respiración agitada que se te escapa de la boca y el agua que pende de tus pestañas empaña tu vista. Ambos luchan hasta que, como si estuvieran en un gran salón en donde los ostentosos atuendos de gala oscilan con cada vuelta mientras danzan con otros tantos para que sus manos se encuentren en el frenético vals de su predestinado encuentro, sus espadas finalmente se encuentran, retumban al chocar, se empujan y tratan de dominar. La piel canela del emperador de los dragones parece brillar con cada gota de agua que resbala por su rostro hasta perderse por su cuello y entre su ropa, algunos mechones rebeldes de su cabello se le pegan a la frente, sus labios algo agrietados por los maltratos del clima y del combate permanecen levemente abiertos para tomar aire aunque él no parezca agitado en lo más mínimo, las cejas ligeramente fruncidas y, dios, esa intensa mirada de iris rojos como la sangre salpicada en su mejilla logran por unos instantes atraparte hasta hacerte titubear. Te estarías mintiendo al no admitir lo atractivo que es, pero te niegas rotundamente a fijarte en esos detalles cuando tu propia vida depende de tu concentración en batalla.

Fue solo un segundo de distracción y aún así él lo notó para usarlo a su favor. De un movimiento ágil, la larga y poderosa cola de dragón que sobresale de su espalda baja te azota las piernas y te hace caer en seco contra el suelo. Pierdes el aire, pero tus reflejos te permiten cubrirte con tu escudo antes de que la espada del hombre te atraviese la garganta. “Demonios”, jadeas exhausta y adolorida por el punzante dolor de la herida en tu hombro al tener que resistir las violentas embestidas del dragón contra tu escudo. Todo tu cuerpo arde de cansancio. Esa intensa mirada te escudriña con frialdad antes de que su poderoso cuerpo, casi dos veces más grande que tú, te mantenga contra el suelo. Te ve a los ojos de manera en que su cabeza permanece erguida hacia arriba pero su mirada hacia abajo, quizás tomándote por inferior. No puedes permitirte eso ¿No es así? Es una ofensa para tu ego y para tu propio esfuerzo. Para tu padre y para todo lo que llevas protegiendo desde hace años.

Sueltas un grito exasperado antes de aprovechar lo resbaloso de la tierra y deslizarte debajo de él, perdiendo tu escudo en el proceso, pero a fin de cuentas libre de su peso. Tratas de herirlo en los tendones de sus tobillos con tu espada y una pequeña daga que desenvainas de tu cinturón para desestabilizarlo y logras sentir tus armas atravesando su carne. Con las pocas fuerzas que conseguiste te levantas y luego te lanzas encima de Miguel para atacarlo con tu espada directamente en su nuca. Él se dió rápidamente la vuelta y atrapó la espada con la palma de su mano, acción que logró hacerlo sangrar un poco. “Nada mal, humana”. Escuchaste por primera vez su voz y algo tembló en ti. Esa sensación no duró mucho hasta que el metal de tu arma simplemente comenzó a pintarse de rojo ante un sorprendente calor hasta derretirse. ��l la había derretido. No solo eso, se había levantado como si las heridas en sus tendones no representaran el más pequeño problema.

¿Qué más podías hacer contra el hombre que apenas ha recibido daño alguno durante toda su contienda? Permaneces estática unos segundos antes de dar un rápido vistazo a tu alrededor; tus soldados masacrados contra los números del Ejército Rojo. Tu derrota es inevitable, pero de alguna forma permaneces en pie, dando tu vida para proteger un reino destinado a perecer. Persistes dolorosamente, aferrándote con uñas y dientes a la esperanza de acabar con aquel hombre que ahora parece estar más dispuesto a jugar contigo que a matarte rápidamente. Y él que ahora sonríe ampliamente al esquivar cada ataque que le lanzas, cada puño y cada golpe, quien no dudaría en volver a tenerte contra el suelo bajo todo su peso sólo para escuchar una vez más tu voz exclamando con cansancio que no vas a rendirte. Sin duda eso le divierte, sobre todo viniendo de una mujer en pleno combate cuando estuvo siempre acostumbrado a plantear a las mujeres ajenas a ese ambiente.

Tu mirada arde como una llama inextinguible a pesar de sentirte humillada por tu contrincante. Rasguñas su rostro casi para arrancarle la piel mientras él mantiene su enorme mano contra tu cuello, asfixiándote lentamente. Te quedas sin aire poco a poco hasta caer inconsciente y es su sonrisa, esos colmillos largos y afilados, lo último que ves.

[the-angsty-fics-girl]

FOTOGRAMAS DE OTRO SER.

Hola! Hace mucho tiempo que no usaba esta cuenta y la verdad es que hoy me ha venido la inspiración y se me ha ocurrido escribir algo dramático para Miguel O'Hara 😼 así que aquí va el fanfic (en Español).

Warnings: Angst. Menciones de mentiras/engaños.

Personajes: Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Género usado: femenino.

Y la miró, y la analizó, en busca del más mínimo resquicio por el que encontrar la que una vez fue su mujer. Pero ella tenía una mirada de inocencia, una que aún no había sido turbada por los errores de su marido, una que desconocía su verdadera identidad y en la que delante de sí se posaba un hombre apuesto en quien poder confiar, a diferencia de la original, que había sido rota incontables veces por él mismo, que había sido destruída por años de engaño y con incontables cicatrices de numerosas mentiras que adornaban su frágil corazón.

Tenía la oportunidad de enmendar sus erros y empezar de nuevo pero, ¿lo iba a hacer? ¿Que implicaría? Todo lo que había jurado y por lo que había trabajado, desaparecería delante de sí, engullidos por un capricho de su corazón, que sabía que sólo sería satisfecho de manera temporal.

Miguel suspiró, luchando para no dejar escapar las lágrimas que amenzaban con nublar su mirada. "Que injusta es la vida." pensó. Y dando media vuelta sobre sus propios pasos abandonó el lugar, con un corazón un poco más partido que cuando gozó cruzar el portal.

___________________________________________

Espero que os haya gustado y si tenéis más ideas o cualquier cosa me podéis dejar un comentario o mandarme un chat/ask <3

Descansad mucho!

[fairlyang]

18+ smut. miguel blurb. cadena 🕷️

imagínense a Miguel montándose arriba de ti y su cadena de la virgencita flotando en frente de tu cara

he positions himself to your entrance then rams into you without a second thought

gemidos se les escapan de sus bocas mientras que empuja sus caderas en las tuyas

his chain dangled with every thrust and something about it was just really doing it for you

tal ves por tener la virgencita ahí en frente de ti y sabiendo que lo que estás haciendo, no era algo tan inocente

maybe it was just the lil irony of it all and add his dirty nothings and ooo was it really something beyond innocent

“Te gusta tanto huh chiquita?”

“Taking this fucking cock every night.”

“Tomándolo como Dios manda, verdad angelita?”

instead of a response the only thing you could do was whimper as your walls tightened against him because his words always made you melt, how could they not?

se río y agarro tu cara para que vea tu carita tan bonita cuando empieza a moverse hasta más rápido, ganándose más gemidos hermosas de ti

he groaned and leaned down, your foreheads touching as he continued his relentless pace with you bringing your arms to wrap around your neck, bringing him even closer

“Así amor-! no p-pares por favor.”

“Please please please.”

“Follándome tan rico, como siempre.”

[mystristages]

omg wait I haven't talked about my most polarizing headcanon on here!! I think miguel doesn't actually know much spanish at all. not at first, though, and even then he still trips up over words and phrases.

1) there is absolutely no way george o'hara let conchata speak to their kids in a language he can't understand. maybe when she's alone she does it more, and even then miguel only picked up on things like swears (and songs like La Valentina). I like to think she spoke more spanish when they were younger

2) miguel was taken away from his home at a very young age and enrolled into the alchemax academy. he was isolated from his culture by tyler stone, a white man, in order to assimilate him into the corporate world of nueva york (I could go on and on about being a person of color trying to fit into white society but I won't. you get it)

I think miguel learns more spanish as he gets older. he makes an effort to reconnect with his culture by going to a día de muertos festival and spending a disproportionate amount of money on a costume for it. or maybe it's an attempt to connect with his mother by learning her language, an attempt to understand her and close the barrier between them even though she doesn't do the same for him. it can be an attempt to carve out some piece of an indentity from a man who has been denied individuality his entire life. this makes everything much more poignant imo

[mikaelao28]

Para empezar por algo publicaré la sinopsis que da una idea de lo que planeo desarrollar en el primer y segundo capítulo. El crédito por el fanart de Miguel no me corresponde, su autoría es de Ethiobirds en Twitter. Espero puedan apoyarme con la historia y mencionarme si pueden. Conocer sus opiniones también me animaría bastante. Espero que lo disfruten.

El sabor del rojo

Miguel dragón x fem reader

SINÓPSIS

Tras siglos de conflicto entre los humanos y los dragones luego de que los segundos fueran exiliados de sus tierras mucho tiempo atrás, la guerra se había desatado en la frontera de Adnis e Ignis. Tú, la sexta princesa humana de Adnis, protegías junto con tus soldados la ciudad de Kaliz del asedio por parte de los dragones que invaden tu reino, es entonces que luchas incansablemente contra los soldados ignicianos hasta que te encuentras con Miguel O´Hara, también conocido como el emperador dragón y líder del sanguinario ejército rojo.

Pierdes la guerra, pero él te ha perdonado la vida y ha accedido a firmar un acuerdo de paz con el rey humano, tu padre. Durante la discusión por generar un pacto entre sus naciones, liberar a los prisioneros de guerra y cesar el conflicto, el rey decide ofrecer a su segunda hija como una muestra de buena fe en búsqueda de la paz, algo a lo que Miguel accede bajo otras condiciones:

“Su oferta me es sin duda tentadora y no me niego a liberar a mis prisioneros, pero espero me permita hacer una pequeña objeción al respecto”.

“¿Acaso no le complace la mano de mi hija?”, respondió tu padre con la voz algo tensa.

“Ella… Simplemente no es de mi agrado”. Imaginaste a tu hermana bufar ofendida ante el comentario, pero seguramente también estaría algo aliviada. “Tengo a alguien más en mente”. Te estaba mirando a ti. “Deseo la mano de aquella mujer que guió a sus tropas en la batalla y que no titubeó al enfrentarme. A la letal mujer que osó dirigirme su espada al cuello. Deseo la mano de la menor de todas”, exclamó con una voz sedienta sin apartar la mirada de ti ni un solo segundo, posando su mano sobre la barbilla con su dedo índice sobre sus labios tal vez para disimular su leve sonrisa.

[lucifersmadness]

im here!

if you need a hispanic/spanish speaking peep to help you with translations IM HERE! (totally not passive agressive) i will offer myself so yall stop using google translate please im on my knees.

update: ill be helping but on my instagram which is in my bio dont dm me here unless we already talked before.

[erwintrespelos]

HC: Miguel tiende a soñar mucho después de conocerte. De todo su estrés y traumas sobre su pasado, acostarse contigo en su extraña relación de amantes/colegas le da un respiro. Con las emociones a flor de piel, suele pegar su oreja a tu vientre llegando a imaginar cómo sería si un pequeño pedazo de él creciera en ti. A veces puedes ver una sonrisa bastante peculiar cuando te acaricia y cierra los ojos, aunque después de eso por unos días se vuelva un poco frío nuevamente serás su debilidad.

#MiguelOhara

/)/)

( . .)

( づ♡. Vxtl~

[nichi-pm]

MIGUEL O' HARAAAAAAA

[dreamskyjenn-draws]

Esto es probablemente algo de lo más bonito que he dibujado en mi vida. 🥹💔

Luka se volvió Miguel O'hara de golpe. 😱

[tlacuachinchinchin]

Hiii, bueno, holaa, ahora no sé porque estoy hablando español, pero aquí está un pequeño sketch en digital, supongo que estaré haciendo una mezcla entre idiomas y técnicas. En este momento soy súper inexperta en digital 😭.

[honestsycrets]

enfócate | tutor!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | tutor!miguel x student!reader, fake boyfriend!peter x reader

❛ type | explicit

❛ summary | jess is clear: miguel o'hara is a terrible boyfriend. he'll inevitably hurt you-- but peter has other ideas. or, you blow miguel in a library.

❛ tags | spanish tutor!miguel, bratty reader, a kiss with Peter, Miguel's jealousy, bjs, fake boyfriend!peter, slight obsessive qualities, fuck buddies, undefined relationships, fuck boy Miguel.

❛ reqs fulfilled | see here.

❛ sy's notes | the pov on this piece bothers me, it jumps between reader and Miguel. however, i did write two separate pieces for this request (a combined 25 pages vs my usual 11/12). so, i decided to meld them together to create this piece. anywho, if it bothers you, i understand! ❤️ I yoinked a lot of the Spanish from my Spanish learners textbook, hopefully, it's acceptable.

He knew he wanted you from the first day he saw you in the tea cafe. 

Jess and he rarely visited the tea shop. It was settled on the edge of campus. Close to the social sciences and arts, but far from the work he did in the Genetics department. As a Ph.D. student, however, not all the work was done in the lab. Jess liked to see the different types of people that came to this tea cafe, where the chair cushions were fluffy emerald pillows and plants hovered overhead.

“Miguel? What's---” 

You stood apart from the other students with their sloppy, half-cropped, or frumpy appearances, there was a particular care you took to dressing. It was the embroidered bow in your hair that drew his attention. When you left to fetch a refill of chai, he noticed the soft, frilled socks in tiny ankle boots. He just knew you would taste sweet, leering as he watched you at the drink bar. Jess glanced in your direction, the way you adorably bowed your head after the tea artist gave you your drink, and just knew. Jess looked over her shoulder. 

“Not her.”

Jess’s voice was a drawn-out sigh of your name, punctuated by her fist beating the table. Miguel perked at the mention of your name. Oh, so she knew you. She was probably sick of his shit. Good, he was also sick of being used as a vibe check for the lesbians she wanted to pick up.

“Don’t you have enough side pieces?” 

Miguel didn’t respond. 

“She probably has a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Look who she's with.” 

That finally got a response. 

“You don’t know that,” he kept his eyes straight ahead. You caught him staring, wiggling your little fingers in a hello as you sat at a table. "I want her."

You sat with an incredibly frumpy, annoying photography student who once took his picture for the lab website. Could he be… his attention wavered when you pulled out a book: Español para el siglo. His lips quivered into a wildly sardonic grin. Oh no, no no. It was too easy. 

“You’ll ruin her. She’s too innocent.” 

He leaned in. 

“Are you going to help me or not?” 

“Buenas tardes,” 

Two chairs and a thin desk. The small study room was more of a glorified broom closet for its students. You were lucky that there was a large window that looked out over the student union, flowers blooming up its brick siding. Bits of lush dark green ivy poked into the window’s view from the library’s tall wall. As the sun set on campus, rich orange and pink settled over the sunset on that warm Friday afternoon. At least the sight was pretty for how overwhelmingly small the space was.

It wasn’t the space that bothered you. It was your tutor.

He was big-- big big. Not just a little big, but really big. The kind of big that was on bodybuilding competitions. It made his long, blue-grey muscle shirt and grey sweats look tiny, sucked to his well-pumped muscle. The room felt a lot smaller as you looked at him, his long brown hair whipped back over his neck. His eyebrows raised on his dark forehead, arms turning one over another, a bundle of muscle.

“Ah... you're him? The man from the tea shop.” 

He pulled free his sunglasses and set them down. His warm chocolate eyes glanced from the edge of your now too-short skirt to the glint of a dagger necklace that beat between your breasts. He’s staring. Why is he staring-- you finger the dagger between your thumb and index fingers, soothing yourself with the manipulation.

“Miguel.” He warmed, pulling the seat out beside him. His voice was buttery and smooth, almost like rich caramel. The lilt in his voice lightened, inviting you to take a seat by him. You should. You thought. Sit down. “Siéntate." 

You stared.

"I said sit down.” 

That was a bad idea. You paused, slipping the bag down from under your shoulder and onto the beige tile by the door. Miguel watched every slight movement. That’s fine. It’s natural to do that. You tugged the bottom of your skirt and took a seat beside him. Miguel pushed the chair back in, pushing your chest to the edge of the desk space. Oh-- oh boy, he was strong. Of course, he was, he was built like a-- 

“Bueno. Now you're settled. How can I help you?” 

Do that again.

“Me? Oh! I... Jess said you could help me need to pass a test,” you murmured. The four semesters of Spanish seemed relatively easy compared to being stuffed next to this Adonis in this tiny study room. Your legs settled over your skirt, hands working over one another to will down the pulse of your wily excitement. What was wrong with you? “To pass my language requirement.” 

You should have been able to do that alone but-- let’s say you weren’t the most applied to the language in your childhood. A tutor was a great alternative to embarrassment and thousands of dollars in classes. If only he didn’t look like… this. His large hand left the pasty back of your chair.

“Hm,” he paused. “¿Puedes hablar español?” 

“Sí,” you murmured. “My mami was-- well, I should have listened to her.” 

Hm. 

You want to know what Hm means. Your leg tremored on its own accord. He swept a leather bag by his side up and pulled out a thick folder, running across several tabs. Lab notes, diet plans, pruebas. 

“It happens,” he notes, sliding a page free. “Let’s see how much you know, princesa.” 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to know more, to hear the hum of Spanish bouncing off his lips. It was a world apart from your mother’s shrill screams on Saturday mornings to clean an already clean house. It held its own beauty and mystery when he spoke it. You took the page from him, setting it down on the bland tablespace by your phone, lighting up with a notification.

Jess When you meet Miguel, don’t do it.

"¿Princesa?" you asked.

"You dress like one. Don’t worry if you fail,” you plucked out a pink mechanical pencil, complete with little animated characters tightened around the wrapping. You perked at his words, choking a small smile. “I expect you to.” 

Why was he like this? You took another unfortunate look at him, his large forearm plastered over the desk, making the book he had to look like peanuts in comparison. God, he was hot-- you felt comparatively hideous, drooling over a man that was out of your league. Maybe he could be your piece of eye candy this year. Your phone buzzed along the table again. Miguel’s eyes shot to it, a frown pulling at his lips. 

Jess Don’t fuck him. He can’t keep his dick to himself.

He reaches over, flipping your phone down with an overworked smile sundering his expression. It’s almost fake. 

“Are you…” you turned your eyes to the questions on the page. “A student?” 

“Grad student,” Miguel answered. So, older than you then. “I graduated with a BA in Spanish and a BS in Genetics.” 

“Oh! A dual degree?” The man couldn’t be normal. He had to do both. “Did it… take a while?”

“No, it was accelerated.” 

He was unreal. There was no way this man was ordinary. It was physically impossible for the man to be that hot and successful. You scribbled across the page, nipping the back of your pencil at particularly hard questions.

“So you just do this for… a living?” you asked him. 

“I teach and train clients, yes.”

“Train?” 

“Gym,” Miguel set his cheek on his fist.

“I do cardio with Jess. No strength training for me.” Jess-- who suggested Miguel to you. You had some shit to bitch at her about the next time you saw her. Namely, why she didn’t warn you about Miguel. He was a boon for chaos in your life.

“I’d waste your time. I’m all marshmallow,” you pat your soft belly. “All pan dulce and burros.” 

He chuckled. 

“You have a beautiful body.” 

And that was that. You set the pencil down on a page half full of answers, glancing toward his full lips. They were quirked into an arrogant smirk. He knew the effect he had on women. He glanced to the page, then to you, his lips growing into a smile laden with arrogance. 

“Your hips--” he glanced down, “My girls couldn’t pay to get them.” 

He noticed. You supposed that the miniskirt wasn’t the best choice for meeting a new man.

“Do you talk to everyone like this?”

“No. Only the ones that look at me like you did." 

Oh. 

 If it were a game of whom ate whom up first, you had to be honest-- it may have been you. You couldn’t shoot anything back at that, angling your head down at the page guiltily. A sigh fell from his chest. His large hand came to the back of your head, cupping the thick bow on the back of your head. His fingers ran across the silk, teasing it between his fingers.

“Calm down, you’re not the first one to do it. You won't be the last,” he turned your head to look at him, large fingers combing through the strands of your hair. He chased the panic in your wide eyes, doe eyes blown wide. Your heartbeat soared into your chest, choking you there, looking for an outlet from your shame. 

“Breathe for me,” he leaned in, his warm breath tingling your ear. His cologne was clean, like the lapse of the waves on the shore back home where the tropical heat was a second skin. You listened, taking a weary, deep breath in, then out again. Again. 

“Go on.” His knuckles rapped on the sheet. Miguel’s hand fell away. You found yourself longing for it again. 

“He’s gorgeous.” 

“I told you not to fuck him," your superior, Jess said, her feet bouncing off the stairstepper effortlessly.

“I didn't-- I just, he called me beautiful.” 

“He would call anyone beautiful if it meant fucking them. Don’t fall for it.” 

You knew Jess wouldn’t say it unless she were serious. She always knew what you needed help with, where to locate a good solution, and had the right words to calm you down.

“How?” you said, louder than you intended. You were suddenly thankful for the pounding music that beat down on your ears in your school’s gym and the rush of people that came and went. “Jess, you’re a lesbian. You don’t understand-- he’s thick. Like, he’s luchador status big. Big, big.” 

“I’ve dated some thick women.” 

“And he likes me,” you said pointedly, rushing to the topmost step, remembering his words. The way he calmed you down from your embarrassment, seeming without concern for his own body. It was… sweet. “Men usually don’t like me, Jess. I’m too… soft.” 

“Okay, girl, whatever,” you were pretty sure she rolled her eyes. “Unless you’re going to be another one of his fuck toys, just ignore him.”  

“How?”

Her stare trained on the floors lapsed. Thirty and she was still going. “If you don’t want him, just fire him. What’s going to do? Come find you?” 

You stopped for the entirety of five… or ten seconds. Enough to consider her words. Enough to quite literally get plop off the stair stepper and onto the cold floor. Jess exhaled a stale breath, reaching over to jam the STOP button on your machine. Ow.

“Good job.” 

Miguel likes to tutor you. Not because you’re good at Spanish, no, for a girl that grew up with a Spanish mother, your skills are quite poor. But he likes the opportunity to have you in a room all by yourself, late at night. Wednesdays are great days for that. 

Your soft buttercup yellow dress is short today, exposing your thick thighs that take up so much of the chair. He pretends that he’s listening as you go over a list of irregular verbs, your lip pouting in response to the irregular verbs. Some were simple in their familiarity like poder with endings such as pudiste; but the plurals and other irregular verbs, you pouted at. It was cute. 

“Miggy, it’s not funny, ” Oh, nicknames now. Miguel throws a glance at your glossy lips, undoubtedly sticky but oh so soft looking. 

“I never said it was.” 

“You’re smirking.” 

“Then don’t whine,” he said. “It’s cute.” 

“Oh--” As to be expected, you shifted your hands between your legs, drawing your skirt in between your legs. He faltered and took a glance, coasting his eye over its edges and memorizing the way it fell over your skin. You’ll ruin her, he remembers Jess saying. She wasn’t wrong, he sensed the bit of it now, how close you sat-- 

“Take a break, princesa. Vocabulary-- ascendencia.” 

Rather than take a break, you turned and caught the corner of his lips in what was a terrible, cherry-red kiss that would stain his skin. But the connection of your lips, puckered in a pouting kiss on his skin, caught him off guard. 

“Descent,” you took his red pen out of his loose grip, scribbling descent by the word. Fuck. Miguel took a sip of now cold coffee. A smile kept pulling at his cheeks, looking out of the window and catching the slight reflection of your lipstick smeared across his lip and cheek, he bobs his head into a nod.

“Correcto.” 

You’re with Peter the first time you see Miguel with another woman. 

It’s at lunch. Tuesdays and Thursdays are regularly spent running to the College of Arts, waiting for Peter to get out, and a picnic. Today, you forgot to bring lunch, running off to the union hand wrapped around his elbow as he talked to you about a bright new camera lens filter.

“These new pictures are going to come out perfect! Thanks for lending me the money,” he beamed. You loved the way he talked about his art-- stopping to show you his newest pictures of the camera that hung around his neck. Peter was always good with a camera, catching you in all the prettiest angles in your trade of photos for… sponsoring a lens or whatever. Or, at least, bringing down the cost. “Look at this one. Look how pretty you look in that dress, kinda like a pin-up! We should do some’a those next.” 

Feet thumping over the pavement, you failed to sense Miguel's presence until you smelled his peppery cologne carried on the air. There, on a bench, he sat next to a girl. She was pretty, with long dark hair and soft skin. Her hand was on his thigh and his arm around her shoulder, eating the last bit of a flaky empanada-- your eyes burned, the closeness of her head on his shoulder, clearly done and finished, waiting for whatever next plan he had. You don’t want to know what that could be.

“Huh? Oh. hi Miguel!” Peter waved to your dismay. You held onto him a little tighter, wringing circles around his sleeve. Miguel spares you two a glance, his eyebrows pushing together. But he waves, lazy and short. You stifle the hot prick of tears at the corner of your eyes and yank Peter away. “Wha-- I’m coming, I’m coming!"

Days later, Peter has a plan.

“I’ve got it-- the solution to your tea guy problem! You should have told me sooner that it was Miguel.” 

Peter was very excited. Why, you weren’t sure. He liked to feel helpful. That’s why he was a photographer. Photography lets others feel beautiful and seen. He picked at your lunch, his head flopped on your thigh as he worked through his camera. 

“I’ll be your boyfriend!”

“You want to be my boyfriend?” you offered him a grape. He opened his mouth with an adorable ‘ah’ of his his lips. You slipped the grape between his lips. He chewed appreciatively. “I don’t know, Peter. Isn’t it lying?” 

“C’mon, I know Miguel. He’s macho. The kind of guy you have to make jealous. And I can do it! I’m boyfriend material. Aren’t I?”

“Sí. But I don’t think I can make him jealous.” 

It was a sunshiney day, sprawled out at lunch on a cool picnic blanket, tracing the clouds when you heard his voice. Soft, smooth, inviting. Your head spun around, this time with a lean blonde-haired girl-- her legs were long, tummy nice and flat, blue eyes shining like little sapphires set in her pale face. She swooned on his arm. The perfect sorority princess. What if he called her princesa, too?

“--close lab with me--” 

“I can do it myself.” 

Miguel’s eyes caught yours, raising his hand lazily to greet you as he walked down the sidewalk, undoubtedly back to his genetics lab on the other side of campus. Over where brilliant boys and girls and theys were, rushing through accelerated scientific programs while you figured out how to fix broken artifacts. He lived in another impossible world. A realm far away from Peter and you: photography and the maintenance of culture and art.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Peter's eyes were glossy with concern. “It’s okay. We don’t have to-- did I say something wrong?” 

You shook your head. Peter sat up, his eyes bounced up-- from Miguel over his shoulder to your sudden sad eyes. Peter set his hand on your cheek, the fibers of his soft pink cardigan tickling your jaw. Your eyes tore from Miguel, whose pace became sluggish as if steps along took immense effort. Peter’s nose bumped against yours, clumsy and oh so Peterish-- his hand on the middle of your back, his warm but cracked lips swallowing the gasp that tumbled from your lips. He tasted of sweet fruit, the sloppy lunch you shared, and a silly comfort. 

He watching? Peter murmured against your lips. 

You nearly forgot to return the kiss, captured in the way Miguel stared-- something in his warm brown eyes was almost wounded. Peter shoved you onto the picnic blanket, a soft sorry murmured under his breath as his thin frame fell between your legs. Miguel stomped away, his bumbling blonde rushing to keep up. 

“Oh yeah,” Peter rolled over onto his back, crossing his legs one over another. You watched Miguel stomp past the tall hedges, out of your line of sight. “He’s gonna be mad at you.” 

“Peter!” 

Miguel was still in a bad mood hours later. 

“¡Qué surpresa!” he murmured, offering you your paper blotted with red circles. “You did remarkably shit on this test. Do you focus on anything? Or just Peter?” 

“Perdona me.” Your focus was shot with his consistent presence in your life. Not that he could appreciate that. 

“How long are you going to keep wasting my time?” 

“Are you talking about the Spanish or--”

Miguel set the red pen down, a sharp slam snapping the pen under his force. The fragile plastic snapped into shards of plastic. He flicked it away, paper and pen both, his large hand flexing in and out of a closed fist. You traced the tracks of his veins along his forearm.

“Are you mad that I kissed you?” 

“Stop.”

“Or are you angry that Peter did?” 

 “Don’t touch me.” 

Though he said that, you didn’t listen. You slid out of the chair and in between his spread legs, your hands trailing his handsome jawline. He jerked back when your lips caught his, the legs of his chair hitting the wall. Though he said no, his mouth opened to your kiss, and his palms flushed against your soft cheeks. You pinned him between your body and the wall-- and though you were sure he’d quickly whirl you off if he really wanted to, he didn’t. His tongue pushed into your mouth, owning yours. His hands skimmed your back, trailing lower and lower down your deep red dress until he connected with your ass. 

“You need to stop.” Miguel broke from his kiss. Though he said that, he brought you onto his lap. You felt little in his large arms, his hands guiding your hips over his crotch. “Before I do something you’ll regret.”

You listened to the sounds of the library’s floor. The scrunch of take out into the trash, the sing of a door opening and closing. It was dinner time. Most everyone had gone to get their snacks— and here you were, looking down at Miguel with rapt eyes. 

“Peter is just a friend.” 

“A friend who happens to jam his tongue down your throat,” he turned the word over on his tongue and found offense in it. “Now why do I doubt that?” 

“He only wanted to help.”

“By kissing you?” 

Your fingers trailed his jaw, dipping back down for another kiss if only to say you could. That Miguel couldn’t tell you what to do. A sound of frustration ripped up his throat. You felt him, his dick twitching to life behind those sweatpants. He felt big. You bit your lower lip— a movement that didn’t escape his attentive eyes. 

“By making you as jealous,” You slid off his lap and onto the dirty floor. But as you lifted a hand, cupping his dick through the heavy fabric, he couldn’t bear to stop you. 

His lips pulled in a wicked grin, your soft palm stroking along his length. He hooked his thumbs into his sweats, yanking them down over his knees and onto the floor. His cock kissed his belly, straining with droplets of moisture at the tip. Miguel set his hand on your shoulder and forced you to heel on the floor. His temperament evened out. “You were jealous.” 

“Yes--” you murmured. “Are.. those girls, are they special?” 

“Special? No, none of them are.” 

“I want to be.” 

“That so?” Your soft hands trailed along the dark hair on his calves, up his thighs, settling your nose where his muscular hand tightened around the root. He wrenched his swarthy hand along his length, drawing along his veiny cock shamelessly. "Let's see how much you do, princesa."

“Please.”

“Aquí se habla español.” Miguel teased. Your fingers dipped down, small tickles of your fingertips as his heavy balls. He watched you massage them with half-lidded eyes, his lips pursing in a pleased hum. 

“Por favor.” 

“Abre,” you did, sliding your soft mouth open, a well of saliva on your tongue. Miguel slid himself into your warm mouth, a ruptured groan fizzing in his chest. You didn’t want to be too loud— someone might look into the small window on the door, and see you on your knees between Miguel’s thick legs, sucking his cock down when you should be going over that test you just failed. 

You caught the salty beads at Miguel’s top on your tongue, sliding sloppily around his thick head, and lapping at his slit for more. Your soft hands stroked along his length, clumsy and shy. He hummed in approval, a sound you were more than thankful to elicit. Miguel took a fist full of your hair and drove himself into your mouth, your tongue stroking the underside of his length. 

“Pero mira esto,” Miguel wrenched his head in your hair, grabbing handfuls of it in his palm. “You can focus on something. Sucking my dick.”

Even if you wanted to look up, Miguel drove your head down onto his dick, the dark, trimmed tuft of his pubic hair tickling your nose. He drew his hips back. You nearly pulled off him, if not for his hand assuring that you wouldn’t move off of it. Drool coursed down from your lips, soaking your chin and neck, connecting to his cock as if it were a spiderweb. Your cheeks flushed with blood— you must have looked a mess. 

“Coño," Miguel tutted with his tongue, grasping his phone. Your lips pursed around his tip, eyes flickering up to catch the lens of his phone camera on your ruined face. A picture or a video, you weren’t entirely sure. Only that it sent thumps of pleasure down your core to know he wanted to record it, keep it close. You suckled along his sensitive head, working his moans free. He set his phone aside. 

Miguel stood and dragged your head along with him to pin you between the ledge of the desk space and his wonderful hips. His hands slipped behind your head, keeping you still and steady, driving himself deep into your mouth. Past your tongue, down your throat, it felt like he hit parts of you that you could only dream of. You struggled with his size, choking the urge to swallow him when he forced you to hold him there. As if your throat was just a hole for his pleasure. Your sad attempt to suckle him down was tempered by the rocking of his hips, his needy face fucking. Your eyes screwed shut, bits of color dancing behind your eyes, the easiest way to deal with this was to focus— on the way he tasted, the scent of his fresh body wash, the light judder of his hips as he came close. 

"Hah-- ay, qué rico," his nails scraped the back of your neck, sloppy and undefined thrusts filling your throat. He spurts thick ropes of his cum down your throat and mouth, withdrawing to jerk the last bursts of his cum over your lips. Miguel’s breath fell from his lips in heavy gulps, meeting yours down on your aching knees. Strings of coughed-up cum connected your sodden lips to his cock, globs of his seed slipping between your breasts. You ached. 

“Tate quieta.” 

You don’t know where you’d go, your palms catching yourself on the floor. He snapped another photo, humming appreciatively. Miguel reached into his gym bag, pulling a sweaty shirt free. Your fingers dipped into his warm cum that spattered across your warm chest, drawing it to your lips. He tasted salty, tangy, and just right.

"You look so-- so beautiful, princesa, just perfect," Miguel bent down, wiping the rest of his mess from your chest and face, gently stroking away all evidence of your face fucking before cleaning his cock and tucking himself away into his sweatpants. He chucked the t-shirt back into his bag, glazing his eyes over your hazy, exhausted eyes. He crouched down. 

“Rule one, I never share my women,” he settled his knuckle under your chin, urging you to look him in the eyes. Something told him you wouldn't be as easy as the others, but for some reason, he shrugged the thought aside. “As long as I'm fucking you, you date no one but me. If I find out you are, we're done. Am I clear?”

He was a walking red flag. But for once, in your good girl life, you wanted that. You wanted to fuck in the library-- against the genetics building late at night-- to kiss him during a sunny picnic. More than you wanted a lot of things. His eyes went soft with your answer. 

“Claro que sí, Miggy.”

He loves it when he gets what he wants.

[killykstudio]

Melancholia

Miguel O'Hara x Cheated on!Reader

Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6;

Warnings: 18+, no minors, heavy smut, fingering , spanking , dom! Miguel, dirty talking, mention of mental illness, self loathing.

Summary: after taking care of you, Miguel decides that you deserve a punishment due to your behaviour.

Author's note: since there are a lot of Spanish sentences in this part I've put the translation near to them, so enjoy!

;

;

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"uno" Spank!

"dos" Spank!

"T-tres" Spank!

"cua-a-tro" Spank!

"c-cHinCO" Spank!

"chinco"(it's "chinco" (five))

Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank!

"m-miguel!" You moaned.

"Empecemos... De nuevo" (let's try it again). His voice was suave, sultry and deep. You whimper.

"u-uno" Spank!

...

You forgot for how long he has been torturing your delicate buns. You were still wearing his short , but their legs were pulled up enough to show your skin.He made you count all the slaps he gave you in Spanish. After all you were the one to ask him to teach you the language.Every time you inevitably got the numbers pronunciation wrong ,he would start all over again. at every hit ,you rewarded him with a moan from your plumb lips, that he has bitten to the point of draining blood. His name slips from your mouth like a prayer, but with difficulty , since he has put two fingers in your mouth. You were already a mess , drooling all over the sheets and feeling your slit becoming more and more wet at every slap.

"c-cin-quen-t-ta"(fifty) Spank!

"Bien..." His finger leaves your mouth with pop. A string of saliva still connects them to your mouth. He leans back, takes off his shirt, takes both of your wrists and ties them together. Then he props your ass higher and takes off his shorts from you.

"tan mojada... Solo por esto, muñeca? (So wet... Only from this, babydoll?)

You whine at the cold air on your slit. He takes with his huge hands your peach cheeks, opening them further , a string of cum leaving your cunt.

"esto coño es solo por para mí ¿Tengo razón? (this cunt is only for me , am I right?)

"what are y-" Spank!

You gasp by the sudden sting. Your cunt clenching at nothing.

"solo español" (only Spanish) his severe voice sending shivers to your spine

"s-í" you cry out

"bueña muñeca... Mereces una recompensa" ( good "girl"... You deserve a prize)

Immediately your cunt was filled by two thick fingers.

"ah! Miguel!"

He starts pounding into you with such a fierce speed, touching all your weak spots. Your mind starts going dumb. He doesn't seem to slow down. You present him with your cutest sounds.

"Miguel!....Fuck!" Spank!

Meanwhile destroying your body with waves of pleasure he takes his shorts stained by your juice and puts them in your mouth to ease your moans.

You are drooling all over the sheets. You nails digging so hard in your palm. You can feel it , your climax approaching. It feels divin-

"que maravilla"(wonderful).your eyes widen, your cunt clenching at nothing and your body squirming in search for him. He just pulled out his finger from you , leaving you desperate for your release.

He takes of his shorts from your mouth.

"Repite después de mí" ( repeat after me)

"Mi amor" (my love)

"M-Miguel pleas- Spank!

"Se honesta, ¿lo haces a propósito? Te gusta ser azotada por mí" ( be honest, you do it on purpose? You like being spanked by me)

"repite,mi amor" ( repeat, love)

"Mmi a-amor"

"Buena" (good girl)

He flips you over your back and leans down over your slit , just his breath almost making you cum.

"te amo" ( I love you) he rolls his tongue on your clit. The feeling makes your eye roll in your back

Slap!

You gasp in pleasure and arc your back . This time he gave you a less hard slap on your slit.

"te- te amo"

He does a long lick from your hole to your pulsing clit, then he sucks on it and release it with a pop ,only to continue doing cats licks on it.

"quiero que estemos juntos..."(I want us to stay together)As he saying it you feel his breath and his tongue playing on your nerves

"q-quieRo q-u-e estEmos jUntos" at this point you are a babbling mess.

"para siempre" (for ever)

"pa-pa-para siiemp-Ah!

Three fingers slip inside your folds, the sudden stretch making you see the stars.

"deja ese pendejo y quedate conmigo te tratare como te mereces..." (Leave that bastard and stay with me ,so I can treat you the way you deserve)

His speed increases more and more with you becoming more and more near your release

"Miguel! I'm cu- "Slap!

"FUCK!" slap!

Your vision is becoming more blurred, your nerves are on fire , your body it's starting to shake-

"Acaba para mi , muñeca" (cum for me , babydoll)

you raise your head and you meet his gaze...

"Fuck!" You cum just by his expression: full of lust , red eyes , his mouth and chin dirty by your juices, his curls in disorder. Fuck he looked so pussy drunk.

He carries you through your release, sucking your sensible bud and getting his finger out to plant his hand on your bladder. This makes your flames turn into an explosion of white pleasure. You scream his name again again

"Miguel! Miguel! Migue-

"¿Sí?"

Morning light hits your eyes , making you find cover under the sheets.

As your sleepiness was leaving your body and your brain started igniting your nerves back, you realised.

It was just a wet dream!?

"everything okay y/n?" You hear Miguel's voice from another room.

What the fuck? Why did I dream something like that... I mean...no,please... I can't be this stupid... Did I fall in love with him?! Just from an act of mercy?!Oh, God! I'm completely crazy! completely gone ! Also a maniac. He would think I'm repulsive if he knew. Poor Miguel being stuck with someone like me, he would be ashamed to have someone like me to like him. I feel so sorry for him, I mean...Wait...when did I fall asleep?... everything he said meanwhile he brought me to his bed...Him teach me how to say muNeCa...was... Me dreaming or...

Fuck! You feel... sticky down there... so you bring two fingers on your covered slit and touch it to check

You are soaking wet

"¿Muñeca?"

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Author's notes: Yikes!! It was so difficult to write smut , but here we are! I think it was time for something spicy after all the drama even though it's just a dream. Anyway part 5 has been released, so go catch it! And thank you for reading!

[lxverrings]

Hear me out 💀

Miguel o'hara pinning over reader and sometimes calling them "Mi sol" or other pet names in Spanish thinking they don't understand.

However reader does understand them and finds it adorable.

So one day reader starts speaking Spanish to Miguel and he is like "You know Spanish?" And then realizes that they understood all the affectionate names he gave them 😭

Unknown Connection.

A Miguel O’hara fluff fic ♡

Warnings: N/A? fluff... I love... Fluff... Reader has no distinct role (Aka I didn’t know if you wanted a spider reader or a civilian reader, nonnie) Spanish Speaking G/N Reader!!!

A/N: NONNIE NONNIE NONNIE I LOVE YOU... you’re perfect, never change, this is my favorite ask and it will remain my favorite ask, thank you nonnie

Summary: Nonnie summed it up, mwah thank you nonnie

You two have always been close bound, even if Miguel would rather have his organs removed than admit it, however, he never really thought about why?

Perhaps it was because you were never scared of his angry spanish.

It was basically your dad telling you to shut up.

So?

Because he didn’t know you spoke spanish, our querido Miguelito* began coming up with little nicknames.

“Mí cielo*, how do you want your coffee?”

“Not that way, you hear me, Estrellita*?”

Or the occasional, “Ya, Ya, it’s time to go, Mí vida*.”

However, nothing could possibly prepare him for the knowledge that you knew what he was saying, what it meant, and that basically you had become his little sweetheart.

Again, not that he would ever admit it.

One morning, after staying in his room at the spider society, he was still drowsy, and probably couldn’t flip the switch to his english again.

“Venga, coño. ¿Me traes un café, dulzura? Con leche, 7 cubos de azúcar, me lo mezclas bién, ¿sí? Gracias solecito*.”

So you can imagine how you came back with his coffee, as he wanted it, just fine.

At first, it didn’t register in his brain, but after a short while of his work starting, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

The drowsiness was gone, the memories were back...

And you understood him perfectly.

Slamming the door wide open, he arrived, usually well mannered hair, some loose strands came flying down, as he puffed.

“¿Y tú? ¡¿Cuándo chingados me ibas a decir qué hablabas español?!*”

You, of course, just gave him a slight giggle, smiling at him coyly, but not so much. His expression was priceless.

“Yo creí qué yá sabías...*”

“¡Pues no! ¡No sabía!*”

Giggling as you smiled at him, and he stormed off to his office... Yeah, you definitely knew about all those nicknames, and he was foolish for not noticing the little spark in your eyes when he called you them.

...

That beautiful little spark.

Su pequeño destello... *

The worst part? It made his crush on you ten times bigger. And of course, Lyla thought it was so fucking funny... Despite now how he would live embarrassed for calling you all those little names without even having dated.

Oh well.

He might as well change that.

Translations:

My Dear

Little Star

My Everything

Fucking Hell. (But cooler) Can you bring me a coffee, sweetie? With milk, 7 cubes of sugar, can you stir it well for me? Thank you, Little Sun.

And you?! When were you going to tell me you spoke Spanish too?!

I thought you knew...

Well no! I didn’t know!

His Little Spark...

[casuallyawkardd]

hello dear, how are you?, could you write a picture where miguel discovers that you are learning spanish to show that you care about him, if it doesn't go well. thanks for the attention ☺️☺️

After my trip, I'm a little tired and sunburnt, but it was all worth it! Ngl, imma be needing to write something wholesome after the shit I've been writing so here you go 😂😭

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x GN!Reader

Warnings: fluff that is all, also I'm still not fluent in Spanish so feel free to correct grammar/spelling

For Miguel, he thinks you're ignoring him. You're blowing him off to go do something else and when he tries to pry you tell him to 'quit being so nosy.' He's already annoyed, so he doesn't pick up on your teasing tone.

In reality, you've been trying to learn Spanish to surprise him. You don't expect to be fluent anytime soon, but some simple phrases and a few terms of endearment are a good start. Those moments when Miguel is talking to you and thinks you're ignoring him, are actually you listening to your Spanish lessons. Whenever you're 'blowing him off,' you're just sitting in your room practicing your pronunciations.

Lyla catches wind of what you're doing before him, overhearing you at HQ when you thought you had found a quiet place to practice. She even offers to help you out and you gladly take her up on the offer. You had had one too many dreams of the Duolingo owl in the corner of your room as it was. Little do you know that your nightmares only now come to life, though that could just be you being dramatic.

Unlike the little, green owl app, these lessons talk back. Sometimes it feels like she critiques you too harshly, especially when you practice writing in Spanish. You wanted to be able to put cute, little notes around his platform. Her shrill voice reminding you when and where to put the accents on letters and that you have to add upside down exclamation and question marks at the beginning of a sentence wakes you up in the middle of the night. However, Lyla is also extremely helpful at the same time. Teaching you the more 'casual' way to say certain things, as opposed to the generic, robotic responses you had been learning. Even some swear words because why not?

The day finally comes when you're ready to reveal your little surprise. Miguel is reluctant, back to you as you try to get his attention.

"Oh, so now you have free time?"

It's a bit endearing that he missed your presence, you say as much. 'Yo también te extrañé, mi amor.' I missed you too, my love.

His head snaps in your direction, confusion written on his face. Slowly, he steps towards you, eyeing you as if expecting you to say something else. Which you do. 'Quería sorprenderte aprendiendo español. ¿Es eso mala?' I wanted to surprise you by learning Spanish. Is it bad?

Everything clicks into place and he's sighing in relief, grasping you by the upper arms to pull you in for a kiss on the forehead. He holds position, letting the kiss sink in before pulling away, running his hands up and down your arms.

"Agradezco el gesto, de verdad. Gracias amor." I really appreciate the gesture. Thanks love.

You ask why he was giving you the cold shoulder moments ago, Miguel sighing heavily before explaining his side of things. How he had assumed you were ignoring him and that he might've gotten a little bit salty about it. You laugh, realizing your mistake. '¡Soy embarazada!' Miguel's smile drops a little after that, looking like he's trying to keep it just for you.

"Yeah, you definitely have some more practicing to do, cariño."

Tags: @prettylittlebrowngirl @khaleesihavilliard @leahnicole1219 @edgycatx @graysonshaven @qiaipia @3zae-zae3 @melovetitties @jebsoxnoshansk @thedevax @erissco @its-carlerrr @muimui06

[mikaelao28]

Espero que les guste el capítulo y me ayuden dándole mucho amor ❤️

El sabor del rojo

Capítulo 2

Precedida por un linaje real en donde los hombres siempre tenían el trono asegurado desde antes del nacimiento o de demostrar ser dignos, fue sin duda una frustrante noticia para tu padre cuando el sexto embarazo de su esposa resultó en ti: otra mujer. Ese día de invierno te sostuvo entre sus brazos mientras gimoteabas al sentir el mundo por primera vez y no pudo odiarte por no cumplir sus expectativas. Estuvo conmocionado ante la noticia de que su sexto primogénito era otro fracaso por conseguir al primer varón que pudiera heredar su trono, pero simplemente se rindió y abandonó todo deseo por un hijo muy en el fondo de su ser antes de acabar con esa tradición que desde más de una decena de generaciones atrás había sido el deseo de todo rey. Terminó por aceptar que en un futuro su hija mayor fuera la que heredara el trono y a ti te trató como su padre lo trató a él, para convertirte en una guerrera no le importó enfocarte en el arte de la guerra ni que ignoraras la delicada etiqueta de una doncella. Prefirió entrenarte con la espada desde el alba hasta el ocaso y ese recuerdo llegó a ti mientras yacías profundamente dormida: las llagas en tus manos tras blandir la espada mil veces contra el más fuerte de sus soldados y los impactos en el suelo tras haber sido mil veces derrotada. Recordabas el dolor en cada músculo de tu cuerpo tras entrenar hasta el cansancio, planificar tácticas militares que en principio se derrumbaban como las delicadas hojas de un árbol en el otoño al ser tocadas por una débil brisa y educarte en la guerra donde no se te permitiría ser delicada ni débil cuando la vida de tu pueblo dependía de dar la tuya a cambio. No era un secreto que eras la favorita de tu padre, pues era en ti en donde él entregaba sus más grandes esperanzas y merecido orgullo., pero no podías evitar envidiar la vida llena de lujos de tus hermanas.

Despertaste pesadamente. El sol entrando por el ventanal atormentó tus ojos cansados antes de que decidieras abrirlos, como si la intensidad de sus rayos lograra atravesar tus párpados con tal de hacerte recuperar la consciencia. No quisiste abrir los ojos de inmediato, pues esperabas encontrarte en la peor de las situaciones posibles; siendo una prisionera de guerra en las catacumbas del palacio de Kaliz o en el reino enemigo, atada con cadenas en tus tobillos y muñecas a una pared llena de humedad y musgo. Esperabas oler el penetrante olor del agua estancada y la orina de otros prisioneros, pero para tu sorpresa te encontrabas acostada en una mullida cama con el olor del jardín infiltrándose a la habitación junto con una refrescante brisa. Estabas en tus aposentos y eso te confundió aún más. ¿Había sido un sueño la brutal lucha contra el soberano de los dragones? No, no lo era. Sentiste una punzada de dolor cuando levantaste tu hombro izquierdo y vislumbraste bajo tu camisón las vendas que cubrían la herida aún cicatrizando. Un momentáneo recuerdo llegó a tu mente con forma de esa arrogante sonrisa y esos orbes carmesí que brillaban como dos hogueras crepitando. Estabas segura que fuiste incapaz de detenerlo y aún así… ¿Cómo seguías viva? Fue fácil llenarte de preguntas, pero no resolverlas.

Inspeccionaste tu habitación. La chimenea mantenía la ceniza de la madera junto con unas moribundas ascuas que de seguro te calentaron durante toda la noche, los libros estaban ordenados en la biblioteca empotrada en la misma pared que la chimenea, los sillones se encontraban en el mismo lugar frente al fuego, tu armadura colgaba de un soporte en la esquina de la habitación. Todo parecía estar tan normal que te preocupaba. Te sentaste en el borde de la cama y en ese momento una de las sirvientes del palacio entró a la habitación.

“Princesa, me alivia ver que ha despertado. Su padre, el rey, requiere de su presencia en el salón del trono”, anunció la sirvienta con una reverencia para ti. La mujer mantenía su mirada en el suelo antes de dejarte un recipiente con agua para que te lavaras el rostro. “He pulido su armadura lo mejor posible para la reunión, pero ha quedado con abolladuras luego de la batalla a las afueras de la muralla”. Ella le dió un breve vistazo a la armadura en su soporte.

“¿Cuál es el motivo por el que mi padre me ha llamado?”, preguntaste antes de levantarte. Tu tono denotaba algo de cansancio, pero siempre amable con ella. “¿Qué sucedió con el Ejército Rojo?”

La sirvienta, toma la jarra con agua y la vacía en un recipiente sobre tu mesa y deja una toalla tibia al lado. Clavas tu mirada en tu reflejo en el agua antes de verte al espejo. Las marcas tenues de unas manos en tu cuello se notan lo suficiente para recordarte quien las provocó y entonces trazas el moretón suavemente con la lleva de tus dedos, luego lavas tu cara.

“El emperador del Ejército Rojo tuvo piedad de usted, majestad. La dejó inconsciente en el campo de batalla, pero sufrimos muchas pérdidas durante el combate”, su voz tembló con una obvia amargura y tristeza, aunque claramente agradecía por la vida tuya que había sido perdonada. “Dejaron a unos pocos soldados Adnianos vivos y los tomaron como prisioneros en sus campamentos a orillas del río. A usted la trajo el mismo emperador dragón entre sus brazos y accedió a devolverla al palacio como una ofrenda de paz. Su padre ha proclamado una audiencia oficial para el acuerdo de paz en unas cuantas horas. Por eso requiere su presencia”.

Apretaste tus puños en el borde de la mesa. El coraje ardía en tu sangre al recordar todas las vidas humanas que viste ser arrebatadas por aquel hombre y sus soldados. Una parte de ti quería negarse rotundamente a aquella búsqueda de paz, querías acabar con su vida de una vez por todas y vengar todas las muertes de tus soldados y hermanos, pero te contuviste. No eras alguien para tomar ese tipo de decisiones y aún quedaban otras vidas que se podían salvar. Eso era lo único que lograba apaciguar tu rabia.

“Está bien… Te agradezco…”. Suspiraste antes de hacer una cuenca con tus manos para tomar algo del agua y así mojarte la cara, luego te secaste con la toalla.

Con firmes zancadas caminabas hacia el salón del trono. Te habías vuelto a colocar la armadura, pero te frustró encontrar esas impactantes abolladuras en el metal platinado por más resistente que era el material. Sin duda él era una bestia… y aún así te había dejado vivir. ¿Por buscar la paz? No te tragabas ese cuento.

Cuando finalmente llegaste al salón tu mirada se fijó de inmediato en la imponente figura del emperador enemigo; vestía su armadura negra que resplandecía con grietas enrojecidas como el fuego que subyace en las escamas de un dragón, su cabello corto estaba pulcramente arreglado hacia atrás con unos cuantos de sus rizos coronándose a sus costados, mantenía sus brazos cruzados sobre el pecho y sus fieros ojos permanecieron inmersos en el dueño del trono antes de fijarse en ti y no se apartaron durante un gran rato. Lo miraste de soslayo antes de entrar al salón y hacer una reverencia a tu padre, luego te plantaste junto a tus hermanas a un costado del altar donde se ubicaba el trono y esperaste a que la audiencia empezara sin más.

“Yo, Gerald Grandwind, rey de Adnis, le agradezco por haberle perdonado la vida a la menor de mis hijas”, dice tu padre desde su trono mientras le ofrece una reverencia a Miguel. “Y por supuesto que también le agradezco por haber tenido piedad del resto de mis soldados”.

No aceptabas ver a tu padre inclinándose ante aquel asesino, era simplemente indignante y manchaba su nombre, pero te quedas en silencio mientras mantienes tu mirada fija en cualquier otro lado que no fuera el dragón.

“Fue un acto de buena fe, esperando que logremos llegar a un acuerdo que nos beneficie a ambos”, respondió Miguel y su voz retumbó en el salón como un suave rugido que hizo temblar a todos sólo con el poder que lograba ejercer ese leve tono. Apretaste tus labios y deseaste con toda tu alma poder dirigirte a él para golpearlo.

“Por supuesto… Y como un ofrecimiento por mi parte para llegar a ese acuerdo pretendo que logremos establecer conexiones diplomáticas y comerciales entre nuestras naciones. También con el fin de recuperar a los soldados que mantiene cautivos y cultivar una unión entre nuestras razas, le ofrezco la mano de mi segunda hija”.

Tu padre no era tonto. No le iba a ofrecer a su hija mayor en matrimonio para que tuviera tal poder sobre el trono, por eso prefirió darle a su segunda hija: Isolda. Miraste disimuladamente a tu hermana quien quedó inmediatamente impactada y que miró a su padre con sus ojos aterrados en una silenciosa súplica para revertir ese trágico destino, pues ninguna princesa deseaba comprometerse con su enemigo.

Miguel se percató de la intención del rey humano por no darle a la mayor, pero su reacción fue más calmada de lo esperado. No pareció ofendido, aunque su mirada se mostró fría y desinteresada al fijarse en la princesa Isolda. “Su oferta me es sin duda tentadora y no me niego a liberar a mis prisioneros a cambio, pero espero me permita hacer una pequeña objeción al respecto”.

“¿Acaso no le complace la mano de mi hija?”, respondió tu padre con la voz algo tensa.

“Ella… Simplemente no es de mi agrado”. Imaginaste a tu hermana bufar ofendida ante el comentario, pero seguramente también estaría aliviada. “Tengo a alguien más en mente”.

Tu corazón tembló al escuchar esas últimas palabras y entonces sentiste esa mirada hecha de fuego y sangre enterrada en ti. Rogaste al cielo, a los dioses y a cualquiera que pudiera escuchar tu silenciosa plegaria para que fuera una simple alucinación tuya, pero entonces te atreviste a mirarlo. Sus miradas se encontraron y todo el aire de tus pulmones escapó por tu boca como si el emperador hubiera decidido apoderarse de él. Era un hombre aterrador y arrogante al no llevar ninguno de sus guardias consigo, pero ciertamente era el dueño de ese aire que respirabas, el aire que tus hermanas, tus guardias y tu padre respiraban en ese instante. Él no tendría mayor problema en deshacerse de todos en ese salón si le viniera en gana.

“Deseo la mano de aquella mujer que guió a sus tropas en la batalla y que no titubeó al enfrentarme. A la letal mujer que osó dirigirme su espada al cuello. Deseo la mano de la menor de todas”, exclamó con una voz sedienta sin apartar la mirada de ti ni un solo segundo, posaba su mano sobre la barbilla con su dedo índice sobre sus labios tal vez para disimular su leve sonrisa. Sentiste un vacío en tu estómago antes de girarte para ver a tu padre.

¿Te sentiste traicionada cuando tu padre no puso excusa alguna o cuando su mirada te evitó a toda costa? No pudiste soportar en silencio como Isolda y exclamaste embargada por tantas sensaciones al tiempo; miedo, rabia, frustración, decepción. “No lo permitirías. ¿No es así, padre?”, tu voz tembló en la garganta mientras dabas un paso hacia adelante. Tus cejas se fruncieron por el temor y pequeñas lágrimas humedecieron sus ojos sin llegar a derramarse. “No lo harías… ¿Verdad? El es un asesino…”. Mantenías la esperanza de que tu padre te favoreciera. No sería capaz de comprometerte con el hombre que casi te arrebató la vida, ¿cierto? ¿Cierto? Tus hermanas permanecían en silencio. Ningúna quería ser la moneda de cambio en ese tratado. Habías sido tú quien luchó en el campo, no tus hermanas. Y por más egoísta que resultaba esa forma de pensar, creías que alguna de tus hermanas podían sacrificar un poco más de sí mismas con tal de salvar su reino.

“Vaya forma de dirigirte a un emperador”, dijo Miguel, aunque ya no podías sentir la misma diversión en su tono. ¿Había cambiado su humor?

“No eres mi rey ni eres nada de mí”. Apretaste el puño. Recordaste el momento en que trataste de matarlo y deseaste haber sido más rápida, sólo un poco más ágil para haber logrado tu cometido. “Para mí sólo eres un monstruo y un asesino”.

“¿Acaso no eres igual de asesina que yo?", te reclamó de inmediato. "¿No han sido tus antecesores igual de asesinos que yo? ¿No ha corrido la sangre de mi gente por tu espada y por tus manos, en las de tu padre y en las de tu abuelo?”, su voz denotaba un profundo rencor que se le escapaba en medio de sus preguntas retóricas. “...Aún así te escojo a ti por sobre tus hermanas. Siéntete halagada”.

El discurso de Miguel enmudeció a todos los presentes, incluso a ti. El silencio gobernó por unos segundos hasta que el rey se acomodó en su trono para anunciar su veredicto: “La mano de mi hija menor, T/N Grandwind, ahora es suya, emperador de los dragones, Miguel O´Hara”.

Esas palabras te atravesaron el pecho como una espada. Huiste con pies pesados a cualquier lugar que estuviera lejos del que se suponía sería tu prometido a partir de ese momento luego del mandato de tu padre. ¿Lo perdonarías por ofenderte de esa forma? Sabías que él sólo hacía lo mejor para su reino, pero no habías deseado escuchar a un rey protegiendo a su comandante, querías haber escuchado a un padre alejando todo mal de su hija.

Estabas tan llena de pensamientos que no te diste cuenta del momento en que llegaste a la armería del palacio. Sentiste el calor de la fragua en la habitación contigua a la armería y en seguida el estruendo del martillo contra el metal. ¡Tan! ¡Tan! ¡Tan! Te acercaste lentamente a la herrería y te quedaste apoyada en el marco de la puerta mientras veías a tu más íntima confidente trabajando con una moharra de acero que ardía en un hermoso color naranja sobre el yunque. Chispas incandescentes brotaban del metal con cada golpe y recordaste tu espada siendo derretida. La espada que ella te había forjado con tanto trabajo y pasión se había perdido por completo en la mano del emperador dragón.

Alondra te daba la espalda y parecía totalmente concentrada en su labor hasta que finalmente avanzaste para quedar frente a ella. Lucía tan fuerte e imponente en aquel lugar, que con aquellas herramientas firmes en su gruesa mano, el prominente músculo de su brazo al ser flexionando y estirando, y el sudor brotando de su piel no creías que esas canas en su cabello cobrizo ya indicaran los estragos de la edad.

“T/N…”, dijo ella al levantar la mirada y encontrarse contigo. Su piel dorada brillaba por el sudor, y unas cuantas gotas caían por su frente y sienes. Ella dejó a un lado su martillo y colocó de nuevo la punta de la lanza en el fuego de la fragua, luego se acercó a ti y te abrazó. Sus fuertes brazos te rodearon y te sentiste protegida entre ellos, sabiendo que con ella finalmente podrías ser un poco vulnerable. “Me alegra saber que te encuentras bien… Escuché que fuiste herida durante el combate, pero que los invasores te perdonaron la vida. Los dioses habrán obrado por tal acto de misericordia”, dijo antes de apartarse y mirar tu rostro algo magullado por las heridas del combate.

“Tal vez hubiera preferido morir allí afuera…”, murmuraste mientras volvías a ocultar tu rostro y ahogabas tu llanto en el hombro de Alondra. Sentirte cerca de ella te recordaba tantos años de tu infancia, cuando te escondías de tus obligaciones en la herrería y era ella quién contaba las historias de sus obras maestras como si fueran mucho más que simples armas. Cómo si tuvieran alma. Y creciste con esas historias mientras te escabullías de tu padre, viéndola forjar espadas, lanzas, mazos y crear escudos por horas durante años hasta que en algún momento empezaste a sentirte como una nieta mimada junto a ella.

“¿Ha sido por la audiencia? No se me ha permitido presenciar la reunión, así que cuéntame qué sucedió”. Alondra llevó uno de tus cabellos detrás de tu oreja y te miró con atención.

“Me marché a la mitad, pero fue más que suficiente para mí…”. Sentías la garganta seca y no sabías si se debía al calor de la herrería o a lo incómodo que resultaba mencionar el amargo veredicto de tu padre. “Aquel monstruo sólo está jugando conmigo. Pudo haberme matado, pero me ha dejado viva para divertirse a costa de mi sufrimiento. El rey accedió a un acuerdo de paz con él y… también a … ofrecerle mi mano como ‘acto de buena fe’…”. No te atreviste a llamarlo padre.

La cálida mirada marrón de Alondra te vió con ternura mientras te acariciaba el cabello y apretaba suavemente el abrazo para colocar tu cabeza sobre su pecho. Escuchar el latido de su corazón era como escuchar su martillo contra el acero; tan potente y lleno de vida. La abrazaste con fuerza y apretaste tus manos en su espalda, calmandote en el sentimiento de sentirte segura entre sus brazos.

“No quiero hacerlo… ¿Por qué yo?”. Te odiabas por haberle deseado tu destino a cualquiera de tus hermanas, pero fuiste tú quién más sacrificó durante la guerra. Fuiste tú quién dio el cuerpo y el alma desde la infancia para luchar por todos los demás. ¿No habías entregado ya demasiado?

Esperabas un consuelo por parte de ella, querías escuchar lo que tu padre no dijo cuando te ofreció a aquel hombre. Querías sentir sus callosos dedos limpiar tus lágrimas mientras te juraba cualquier cosa que pudiera darte algo de esperanza, pero eso no fue lo que esa mujer te entregaría. Nunca te sobreprotegería ni te mentiría, pero a su manera haría que la chispa en tu alma volviera a arder. “T/N…”, dijo para luego suspirar. “¿Permitirás que eso te detenga? Tú, mi pequeño terremoto andante, dejarás huella por donde sea que pases y nada impedirá que logres lo que deseas. ¿Que si te vas a casar con alguien que no amas? Ningún hombre te dirá que hacer ni mucho menos determinará quién eres. Ni siquiera un absurdo matrimonio logrará detenerte”. Alzaste la mirada y entonces sus ancianas manos limpiaron tus lágrimas. “Además el amor no es único dentro del matrimonio, porque nadie te amará tanto como yo te amo, mi linda guerrera”. Sí, ella siempre lograba sacarte una sonrisa.