#nena writes

[romione-trope-fest]

Title: Perfect Prefect Present

Author: Nena-96, Nena96 on ao3

Selected Trope: OOTP

Rating- T

Brief Summary: Ron is transfixed uwith the thought of being the New Gryffindor Prefect, when an idea of using his new Cleansweep entered his mind. However, Hermione who was wearing a pink robe and bunny slippers was there to stop him.

Word Count: 2,672

Relevant triggers: None

Ron couldn’t help staring at the scarlet banner that was hanging up above, he was surprised that his mum had somehow managed to create it in such short notice. He didn’t expect her to make such a fuss about him being the new Gryffindor Prefect, especially since he’s the fourth Weasley to become one. He had placed his prefect badge inside the pocket of his trousers, originally he was going to wear it on his jumper but the thought of Fred and George taking the mickey out of him made him think again. Besides, it was better that way, he was keeping it clean and out of harm's way, just like a good Prefect would do. It was truly unbelievable that he was selected to hold such a position at Hogwarts, maybe the Mirror of Erised wasn’t lying about him becoming Head Boy.

Merlin's saggy balls, that would be wicked. That would be better than the Chudley Cannons winning the Quidditch World Cup. The team did let go of its former coach, so it's possible that this year’s season would be better than the last. Blimey, that would be absolutely brilliant, but he didn’t want to be overly optimistic because things don’t always go as planned, but there’s no harm in manifesting a great year for his team.

Ron shook his head, as he slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers and brought out his badge. He traced his freckled finger upon the letter P, the hard ridges made him realize that this was in fact reality and not just another dream. He was chosen to be Gryffindor’s Prefect and damn it, he was going to prove that he deserves this more than anyone else. He might be the fourth Weasley to become Prefect but that only meant that he was going to be different.

Yeah, first it was his older brother Bill, then it was the second eldest Charlie, right after that it was Percy, which in all honestly wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Then it was him, Ronald B. Weasley, to say he was shocked was an understatement but he was also filled with immense pride. Ron didn’t want to overthink and enjoy this night, his mum had gone all out for the celebration and he wasn’t going to sit out the fun.

During the celebration that his mum had thrown, he was shocked when Mad-Eye congratulated him. Even though he was glaring at him with his normal eye, while his other eye was swiveling all around. Most likely keeping a lookout for anything that would go amiss, you know Constant Vigilance , Regardless of the awkwardness he felt proud that one of the greatest most ruthless Auror had congratulated him. Hell, even Tonks, another great Auror, all a bit clumsy at times if you ask him, was also glad he was selected to be a Prefect. She even gave him some wicked new tips to use on his brand fucking new broom that his mum had got him.

Fuck.

He couldn’t believe that his mum had brought him a new Cleansweep, if nobody was around he might have fucking cried. It wasn’t just because he got a brand new broom it was the fact that he could have something that was only his and not just another hand-me-down. Sure, it wasn’t a Nimbus, because he knew it was expensive and he didn’t want to have his mum waste her galleons on him.

His new Cleansweep was everything he wanted, the handle was made of Spanish oak and it also had built-in vibration control, which would come in handy when it gets windy up in the Quidditch pitch. Ron had to try his best to not rush outside with his broom and do a couple laps in the sky.

Hell, maybe he could go for a fly, while the others are asleep. It wouldn't do any harm, not like anyone would see him. He could try and nick the invisibility cloak for a few hours, not like Harry would mind.

Yes, fuck yes…that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Ron pulled away from his thoughts and looked around, he tried to listen for any movements upstairs, once satisfied with the quietness he walked over to where he placed his Cleansweep. He picked it up in the most gentle manner possible, his fingers closed over the handle of the boom and was ready to make his way out from the basement.

Everything was perfect, Ron managed to make it up the stairs so quietly that even Moody would be proud of his stealth. Once he got to the very top of the stairs, he turned to close the basement door slowly, making sure not to awaken the others. Once satisfied with the closed door, he nodded his head and grabbed his broom tightly. Before turning around and almost falling straight to his arse, in fear. Ron dropped his broom to the floor before clutching at his chest and trying to somehow retrieve his soul that momentarily left his body, when he was face to face with Hermione.

It wasn’t that his bushy-haired friend scares him ... .well come to think of it he is fully aware of what she is capable of doing. For crying out loud, Hermione had set flames to Snape’s robes, but then again that wasn’t scary, that was hilarious. Bloody brilliant, if he might add…he would pay to see that happen again as a matter of fact, but no that wasn’t why he almost woke up the entire Grimmauld Place. It was because the girl who currently had her hands on her hips and some kind of green junk on her face. Literally her entire face was covered in that gunk, he almost was going to say that she resembles the mountain troll that he had taken down in first year in the girl’s bathroom. Then again she was loads more beautiful than- wait, what the hell, Weasley you shouldn’t think Hermione is beautiful she’s your best friend, besides Harry of course.

Yet, he didn’t think that Harry is beautiful, the way he knows Hermione is…you know…beautiful. Harry looked, well he looked a bit like a brooding little git, while Hermione well, she didn’t look like a git. It was difficult to explain, shit- no he didn’t mean she looked like shit its just shit. He shouldn’t be thinking of how she looks, even now as she was wearing that green gunk on her face, he can’t help but see past that and see her beauty.

Fuck.

He did it again, damn it Weasley. Get it together.

Focus, he has to get a grip on reality and not fall into uncharted territory of thinking about how bea- no stop, pay attention. Fucking focus!

Think of something else, anything that can take your mind off of the short, yet feisty busy-haired girl who was wearing an overly fluffy pink robe and was currently tapping her bunny-eared slippers onto the oakwood floor. Ron looked around the hall and tried to focus his mind on anything, he tried looking out the window, yet it was futile since the curtains were closed. Yes, he could always walk away and pretend like she didn’t almost catch him trying to sneak out, but he knew that Hermione wouldn’t let him off the hook. He also wasn’t about to make tit out of himself and make Hermione pissed to the point she tries to hex his bollocks off. Yeah, he was quite fond of his bits, if you cared to ask.

Even though Hermione would talk his ear off about how underage magic is illegal, which he already knew but it’s fine, Ron let his insightful friend have her moment. Which had ended up being almost an hour and a half, mind you. However, the funniest thing happened, on several instances he caught the little know-it-all using magic to decontaminate multiple parts of Grimmauld. You should’ve seen the look of surprise on her face, it was downright adorable seeing her blush so hard. She could- damn it Weasley you’ve done it again. Honestly what is bloody wrong with you, tonight? It was like his thoughts were going haywire with just the sight of her in front of him. So, instead he did the one thing he knew best, shove his foot seven different ways into his mouth.

“Hermione, what the bloody fuck do you have on your face?” He asked after taking a couple of deep breaths, waiting for his heart rate to slow down. You know since he got frightened at the sight of her…no not of her just seeing her suddenly made him-

“Oh, honestly, you shouldn’t swear,” Hermione gritted out, even under all that gunk Ron could tell that Hermione's face was burning scarlet at this precise moment. "If you must know, this is a Muggle beauty practice to remove blemishes, its a thick paste that should remain on the face for roughly thirty minutes and....."

Ron stared at her in utter confusion, as Hermione was prattling on about how thick the consistency of the paste has to be before applying it onto her face. Ron couldn't help but wonder if all Muggle women partake in looking like mountain troll for a few hours a day just so they won't have any acne-

"Excuse me, did you say I look like a mountain troll?" Hermione narrowed her eyes so much it look like slits, and yes ladies and gentlemen he was royally without a doubt fucked at this precise moment. Unless, he plays dumb and can attempt to deny ever saying that because technically he was thinking it so it's completely different. Or, he could rectify the situation and not be at risk of getting hexed.

A long silence sweeps between the two of them, and Ron could feel the tell tale sign of his neck starting to warm up. It would be a matter of seconds before his entire face rivals the scarlet of the banner downstairs. He took a deep breath and realized what he had to do, “Well, I didn’t say you looked like a mountain troll, I said Muggle women and last I checked, you're not a woman. Not- not that I was looking at you in any way, I-erm, it's just that you're a girl.” Ron finished lamely, before picking up his broom off the floor.

“I am a girl, thank you for taking notice, and just for the record, both women and girls can enjoy a bit of relaxation every once in a while. That doesn't classify them as a mountain troll,” Hermione replied curtly, raising her chin up ever so slightly.

“Erm, yeah..I didn’t mean that it's just i don’t see why you need to wear any of that.You’re fine the way you are-”

“Oh, well, t-thank you. You also look fine the way you are, not that you’d need to wear anything on your face, since you don’t have any blemishes. You only have freckles and they’re rather nice to look at…not that I've looked at them more than an average amount of time of course,” Hermione hurriedly added.

Wait…he thought, does this mean that she’s been looking at him in a different way other than friendly. Sweet Merlin, he only hopes that she wasn’t also thinking about Harry in that way, just the mere thought made him feel queasy. Ron wanted to blame the sudden nausea that he feels on all the food he ate. Plus, the memory of how Moody had taken out his magic eye and placed it into a cup filled with water. Everyone saw the way in which the eye swiveled inside the cup, it was rather uncomfortable to say the least.

Shaking his head, Ron decides that maybe he should get some rest instead of going out for a fly, he wasn’t feeling well and being alone with Hermione is doing his head in. Hopefully this wasn’t a taste of how patrols would be at Hogwarts, then things would definitely have to change.

“Well, since it’s late we should head to bed,” he said with a fake yawn as he stretched his arms over his head.

“Oh, yes…of course,” Hermione replied quickly, yet it didn’t fool him. It sounded like she was sad and he hadn't the minor clue as to why.

“Hermione, did you need anything else?” He asked, watching as she began to toy with the sleeves of her fluffy robe. She huffed, before biting her bottom lip and…ok wow, even with a face covered in that Muggle beauty paste, Ron couldn’t help but feel frozen in place and stare at his bushy-haired best friend.

“I wanted to apologize from the way I reacted earlier,” Hermione mumbled so quietly that he almost missed what she had said, luckily he didn’t. “I shouldn’t have been so surprised that Dumbledore chose you, honestly that was quite rude of me and I-I’m glad that you’re going to be my partner during rounds. Also, I wanted to give you this, it’s nothing really, just a little thing that I made, it’s so you can keep your badge safe when you're not wearing it of course,” Hermione rambled as she thrusted a hand-knitted case onto his palm.

He couldn’t believe it, Hermione had knitted his initials across the top in black yarn, and right under it, the word Prefect was stitched in gold. He couldn’t believe that she had made him this, let alone found the time to make him a present fit for a prefect.

“You don’t have to say anything, it’s rubbish. Here just give it back and we can forget I ever gave it to you,” Hermione said as she tried to swipe it from his hands, yet he was much quicker than her and managed to move it from her grasp. “No, it’s bloody perfect, Hermione…I don’t know what to say,” Ron said sincerely.

“Don’t lie, it's hideous. I know I’m not an amazing knitter like your mum, but I tried my best and well…if you don’t like it I’m sure I can come up with something else-”

“Are you kidding? I love it, honestly.” He said as he looked into her brown eyes, hoping that she realizes he isn’t taking the mickey. The longer he looked at her the more he realized that moments like these makes him want to just lean down and-

“Hermione, what if I told you that I have a present of my own to give you?” Ron asked, as he leaned down closer to face.

“I would say that's a load of dragon dung,” Hermione replied, not noticing that they were both slowly eliminating the barrier between them.

“How about this, close your eyes and you’ll find out for yourself,” he said before swallowing hard, instead of a reply, Hermione only nodded her head as her eyes fluttered shut. Ron couldn’t help but look at the way her dark lashes fluttered as she was breathing so gently. “Ready?” He asked her, allowing her the time to stop this if he went too far, however instead he watched as she licked her bottom lip. That was all it took for him to close the distance and place his lips against her soft ones, it wasn’t the most practical moment, since his face was now being covered with the thick green paste. Yet, it was indeed the perfect prefect present that he could ever give, and he was beyond ecstatic that Hermione didn’t pull away. Instead she slowly slid her hands up, before letting her arms wrap around his shoulders.

They were lost in the moment, it wasn’t perfect at the slightest, he lost track of the amount of times she accidentally bit hit bottom lip, or the times his long nose bumped into hers. The amount of times he ingested the horrid green paste, yet….this was perfect and nothing could change this moment they had together.

[eddiestightywhities]

TU ERES MI NENE, NENE

buddie, explicit, 4025 words, pwp with feelings—so many feelings, wolfy-type themes (just kind of buck being all pack-like), insecure!buck, first time, mild kink, boys in love... (check the link for comprehensive tags)

.

When Buck finally gets his hands on Eddie—the first chance he gets to begin slowly peeling back Eddie's layers and have Eddie naked and pliant underneath him—he beelines straight for that triangular thatch of gorgeously dark hair that's nestled in the enticing divot between Eddie's pecs.

Buck runs both his palms over it, reverently, smoothing it down and then messing it up again, pawing away at it like some sort of feral thing, even though Buck is the one who feels like prey, here, what with Eddie's intensely sepia gaze one-hundred-percent fixed on Buck, only Buck, Eddie watching him like a hawk with his pupils blown-out all-black and hazy-lidded yet somehow still new-mint copper-sharp as ever, those unblinking eyes trained solely on Buck and Buck alone, just like they always are whenever Buck is close to Eddie.

And right now, Buck is closer to Eddie than he's ever been.

He wonders briefly how he'd managed to misinterpret the way Eddie only ever had eyes for him; only ever has eyes for Buck.

Dragging non-existent fingernails through the soft fuzz that is Eddie's chest hair, Buck thinks about tearing through Eddie's skin and crawling beneath Eddie's ribcage to get inside of Eddie and try clawing his way into Eddie's heart, hoping it might just be big enough for both Christopher and Buck to live in there, and he has to bite down hard on his tongue to stop himself from acting on the visceral instinct he has to begin marking Eddie up, to claim him (that will have to come later), needing to sink his canines into the thick, wet muscle so he can document the pain it brings and taste copper in his mouth, so he knows that this is real and not just another of the vivid wet-dreams he has most nights.

Buck finds himself snuffling and grunting as he buries his face in the centre of Eddie's chest—wanting more, wanting in—and a smile pulls uncontrollably at his kiss-swollen lips as his nose digs deep and tries its absolute damnedest to carve out a place for itself, in a special corner of Eddie's heart, somewhere that's just for Buck. He wants to create a home inside of Eddie where he can exist when it is just the two of them, just like it is right now, where they can both reside, someplace deep inside of Eddie's core.

A den, Buck thinks to himself, and another smile takes over his blushing face.

Brilliantly, Buck can feel Eddie's heart beating away like a trooper underneath his cheek and it's a tonic like nothing else Buck's ever known, or needed more.

Alive, alive, alive.

Happy that it is keeping Eddie alive, and that Eddie is the one keeping Buck alive—like he always does, always has, since practically Day One of their partnership—Buck laps away at the lush hair covering Eddie's sternum, licking both with-and-against the grain, tongue stretched long and flat and so fucking thirsty. He hears Eddie laugh a small huffy thing as Buck nips at the individual strands before he's trying to bite down on almost-nothing, driving himself fucking wild with this, with Eddie, the way he's always wanted to.

.

READ THE REST ON AO3 HERE

[eastwindmlk]

19) getting turned on by their partner’s new uniform for work and then roleplaying a bit

My OTP Romione

Please and thank you 🥺

This is something, I think. I wrote like 1/3 of it between 2 and 4am but we got there.

2.1k NSFW under the cut! Or on AO3

Prompt from this prompt list! Ask box is still open! As you can see, I will try any pairing at least once.

Hermione never had a thing for uniforms, not in the way she'd heard other people talk about them. Certainly not in the way Harry would talk about his wife in her uniform. 

It wasn't like she couldn't see it. Ron had always been fit in his quidditch robes. But it wasn't drastically different. 

Though, well, she supposed that she had thought Viktor had looked quite dashing in his uniform at the Yule ball. 

Still, Hermione did not see the appeal of pilots and police officers, until about ten seconds ago when she walked in on Ron fidgeting with his new Ministry-issue Auror robes. There was just something about it. 

Maybe it was the stretch of the fabric across his chest or how it, impossibly, made him look even taller. Should could even argue that the way the collar was cut complimented his jawline, but that would mean she'd given it more thought than she cared to admit. 

Hermione leaned in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She watched Ron tug and pull at the fabric and the way he adjusted his sleeve, looking proud and confident in a way she'd not seen him in such a long time. 

It was endearing, thrilling, and just a little hot. Well, more than a little hot. It was like being hit by a tidal wave when Ron noticed her and flashed a grin that could have knocked her over. 

"Like it?" he asked, his fingers brushing along the row of buttons on his tone chest. Hermione's eyes honed in on the motion that made her a little weak in the knees. "It's a little tight," Ron added when she was too distracted to answer. 

Hermione gave her head a little shake, trying to clear her thoughts while she hummed. "Mhm, looks good," she replied, her tongue swiping along her lip.  "Very- Uhm. Professional." 

She shifted her weight from foot to foot and the friction from that was enough to heat her face. "Dammit," she muttered under her breath while she flustered a little. 

It had been a long few weeks, Hermione told herself. They'd had little time together and the time they did have Ron was tired and sore from training. It was normal for her to have some pent-up frustration. Something they could work out later, when he wasn't busy. 

Hermione pushed her hair up, out of her neck to release some heat. Once there, she thought she might as well keep it up, so she twisted the curly mess and secured it with her wand, like she'd done a million times before. 

When she looked up after catching a stray strand, she found Ron looking at her. His lips pressed together, eyebrows slightly drawn as he swallowed thickly. 

"You can't do that," Ron told her, arms crossing light over his chest, the words taking her by surprise. 

Something about his tone stopped her from bristling, something in his look made her toes curl in anticipation. "Why not?" Hermione asks, her head tilting and her brows raising, trying to figure out where this was going. 

Ron's lips pulled into a knowing smirk and the energy in the room shifted. A draw that went unnoticed before luring her into the room, closer to Ron. "It's illegal," he said matter-of-factly. 

"Illegal?"

"Yes, ma'am. Very much so," he said and she recognized the cadence, the sudden undeniable authority that she rarely heard. They'd joked, in the past, that it was his Auror voice. 

It doesn't take Hermione long to decide to brush the strap of her top down her arm and step forward, hips swaying a little too much. She enjoyed the way Ron's eyes travelled down as she folded he hands in front of her, pressing her breasts together, deliberately making use of her low neckline. 

"I'm sorry, officer. Is there anything I can do to make up for it?" Hermione asked, her voice low and sultry, her teeth caught on her lower lip. Her eyes lingered on the way Ron gulped at that. 

He closed the distance with two long strides and leaned down to whisper to her. His lips brushed along the shell of her ear. "What do I do, 'Mione? Is this a muggle thing?" 

Hermione clasped her hand over her mouth in an effort to stifle the giggle that threatened to completely shatter the tension. She drew a deep, shaky, breath through her nose to regain her compose.

"I think it might be," she admitted and let out a breathless laugh. "Just pretend that you want to touch me-"

"I don't need to pretend." 

"Good, then just be an Auror on a case," she said and for a moment they're just there, too close for nothing to happen. His heat radiated through the thick fabric of his uniform.

Then Ron nodded and straightened up. He stepped back and Hermione could see him snap back into his role now that he fully understood what was going on. “What are you trying to achieve here, ma’am?”

He once again stepped into her space but this time there was something different about it, making her inch backwards. Like she needed to get away from him looming over her, somehow taller than he’d been just moments before. 

“I-I just don’t want to get into trouble. I’ll do anything,” Hermione stammered, her fingers trailing down her neck and catching on her cleavage, pulling the fabric down a little more and exposing the lace trim of her bra.  She didn’t even notice the door swinging closed until she heard the click and felt her back press against the cool, smooth wood. Her breath hitched when Ron’s hand rested next to her head, caging her in. “Anything?” 

“Anything to not get into trouble, sir.” 

“And you think that is going to work on me? You flash me a little skin and bat your lashes and just like that I’ll let you go?” Ron’s face was right there, just inches away from hers, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine. 

Hermione shook her head quickly, blinking at him innocently. “Of course not,” she replied, finding it difficult to meet his intense stare. She averted her eyes for just a moment like it would grant her some sort of reprieve. 

“Right you are,” Ron agreed and he used his free hand to guide her face back to his. “Turn around and tell me if you have anything of note on your person.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked, not sure if the fluttering in her stomach was anxiety or arousal. All she knew was that regardless of what it turned out to be, she wanted to follow his instructions. 

Ron helped her turn around, gently guiding her hands over her head and pinning her wrists together effortlessly with one of his. His full body pressed into hers when Ron’s lips found her ear once more. “I’m going to feel for anything dangerous you might be hiding. Just stand still and follow my instructions.” 

Hermione swallowed and nodded, leaving her arms where they were as his hands travelled downward, curing around her shoulders and brushing along her waist. The gentle touches raise the temperature in a not-so-gradual way. If she’d been hot before, she was on fire now. 

The first sound he drew from her was a gasp when, instead of down, his hands moved back up along her stomach to cup her breasts. He took his time weighing them in his hands, thumb brushing along her firm nipples. Breath hitching when he squeezed them and she could feel his hips press into her arse. Feel the outline of his hardening cock press into her thigh. 

“Anything dangerous here?” Ron asked, his voice gravelly and hot. Teeth nipped at her earlobe as she shook her head no. “I must insist you use your words.” The words made her knees weak. 

Hermione swallowed and hummed before finding her voice sounding raspy and brimming with anticipation. “No, sir,” she answered, a soft moan falling from her parted lips when he tugged at her bra and let her breasts spill out. 

“I can’t wait to bury my face between these,” Ron muttered against her ear, peppering the soft, sensitive flesh behind it with kisses. “Nothing here, let’s see…” He drew out the last word while his hands wandered back down, making no prelude as to where they were going.  They were both starting to lose patience and interest in the little game they were playing. Too hot and bothered to keep up the charade. 

Hermione pressed her thighs together when Ron's’ fingers brushed along the expanse of her stomach and tutted in disapproval. “Spread your legs please,” he instructed when he slipped past the waistband of her trousers and dipped straight into her knickers. As if he knew he’d find a damp spot between her thighs. 

His momentum didn’t slow there, without hesitation he slipped one finger into her wet centre, making her clench around him in surprise. “Merlin Hermione, you’re so wet already,” he whistled appreciatively, slowly moving in and out of her. 

Her cheeks flushed, and she pressed her hips back into him, hoping for a reaction, to coax something more out of him now that he’d crossed that he’d broken that spell. Her name on his lips took them out of their play and into reality where she wanted nothing more than to—to put it frankly—fuck him. 

“Ron, can we?” Hermione nudged him with her hip and hoped to motion him to the bed. “I’m about ready to rip that uniform off you. So, maybe you should take it off before I vanish it,” she told him, turning around the moment he gave her enough space to move. 

He stood there, uniform askew, pupils blown out as he sucked her off his finger. Hermione thought to herself that if she wasn’t soaked already, that sight would have instantly done her in. “I need you on the bed,” Ron instructed and glanced at her trousers. “Without those.” 

Hermione did not need to be told twice and kicked off her trousers, tossing them in the corner to bother with later. By the time she sat on the bed, Ron was there too, tall and nude and hard. The sight of him making her mouth water. “Ready?” she breathed. 

“Ready,” Ron replied, his fingers brushing along her collarbone before settling on her shoulder, guiding her to lay back. One of her legs draped over his shoulder before Ron’s hands gripped onto her hips. 

He thrust into her in one smooth motion and she felt him bottom out, hips flush against hers. Both of them hissing and groaning. Hermione admired the stretch of his neck when his head tipped back. “Sweet Circe, you feel so good,” he moaned, starting with shallow thrusts, which turned into long strokes.

Hermione found the rhythm and started to meet his strokes with her own, his name falling from her lips over and over again. Never devoid of meaning or affection, never a mindless chant but a call from her soul to his, begging to be closer still. 

Ron leaned forward, his hands moving from her waist to rest against her stomach, fingers sliding up and trapped between her sternum and his chest when his lips found hers. Both of them sought more of each other. 

He swallows her moans and breathes into her, tongues sliding together, tangling in a now practised dance. Tasting the roof of each other’s mouths. Only breaking apart when she taps him. “Switch please,” she pants against his lips.

Then Ron did something she would never get sick of. He gripped her waist, knee planted firmly in the mattress as he effortlessly flipped her over, still buried deep inside of her. “Like this?” he checked, one hand massaging her arse while the other trailed along her spine.

“Perfect,” Hermione told him, rising onto her knees and moaning as she felt him hit a different spot inside of her, eyes rolling back in pleasure. “I need you fast and deep.” 

Her words were barely out of her mouth when she felt his large hands take hold of her hips, fingertips pressing into her flesh firm enough to leave bruises that she’d cherish for days. Ron set the pace, just as she’d asked, fast and punishing. He pulled her into him with every thrust, hips crashing together loudly. Every stroke hits the right spot, making her feel full. 

There was no time, no breath for words. Only moans and whimpers. She wound tighter and tighter, being dragged closer to her climax. Then the pendulum swung and she crashed, thighs shaking, stomach twitching as Ron chased after. 

They collapsed in on each other, him still filling her while his lips found the nape of her neck, sucking at the tender spot. He drew a strangled cry from her lips, a tired moan. Too blissful, too spent to speak.

[todaywasamaritale]

what if i give myself away, to only get it given back?

(neris board for @yaboieif and @jingledbell)

[sirbird]

I just needed to draw this scene cause it hasn’t left my brain 😭😭 I had to take 10 laps around my room cause I was freaking out 🫠

[seriousbrat]

Hello!

Hope you are doing well, I’ve been wanting to send you an ask but I want sure if you’ve answered this before, if you did already could you point to the post? I do love reading your responses and analysis of characters, it’s fun seeing things from a different perspective.

Question:

What do you think of the relationship between Petunia Evans and Vernon Dursley? Do you think there was a lot of love, or did it start that way and end up being more of a marriage of ‘convenience’.

Like, love dwindled over time and Petunia no longer feels love for her husband but she is headstrong and also doesn’t want to risk anyone knowing about how her sister was a witch, or the fact that she also was part of the reason that Harry was locked away in a cupboard. In divorces many times it can be messy, and I feel like the fear of losing Dudley (him being taken away and staying with Vernon) would just eat her alive.

I feel like we don’t see much of the dynamic between the Evans sisters (or the Black sisters for that matter but that’s a whole different ask for another day) and how they grew up so close together but then were torn apart so to speak and their relationship became almost nonexistent. And their relationship with their husbands, it’s just fascinating and I’d love to know if you have any thoughts on that. Or headcanons that you’d like to share about them.

Thank you, and as always I’m glad to see your thoughts/analysis ❤️

Sorry it's taken me so long to answer this! I don't think I have directly talked about Vertunia on here but I'm more than happy to because I love them/love writing about them! It's also fitting since their wedding featured in my most recent chapter. My problematic faves.

I do think there was actual love between them, but that doesn't mean it wasn't also convenient. There are several moments when Vernon, to his very small credit, seems genuinely protective of Petunia-- such as when he tries to 'shield' her against Arthur in GoF. Also in the first chapter of the entire series we see Vernon genuinely quite worried about his wife's feelings on her sister and trying to bring up the matter delicately. Honestly, given what a terrible person Vernon is in general, he could definitely be a lot worse as a husband.

Personally I don't see them as really even coming close to divorce at any point. They always seem to be a united front, to the point that it's seems unprecedented when Petunia disagrees with Vernon about kicking Harry out in OotP. Even on that occasion, Vernon accepts his wife's decision pretty readily. I think generally, if it weren't for Harry, the Dursleys would be perfectly content in their mundane little lives, and certainly content with each other and the perfectly lovely middle-class household they'd built together.

I definitely think what attracted Petunia to Vernon was his status in the company, his ego, and of course his stubborn ordinariness. I see Petunia as embarrassed about coming from a working-class town like Cokeworth, embarrassed about her 'freak' sister, and wanting to escape from her background. Vernon would have represented everything she wanted to escape to. This is from the Pottermore entry on them (one of my faves)

Petunia Evans, forever embittered by the fact that her parents seemed to value her witch sister more than they valued her, left Cokeworth forever to pursue a typing course in London. This led to an office job, where she met the extremely unmagical, opinionated and materialistic Vernon Dursley. Large and neckless, this junior executive seemed a model of manliness to young Petunia. He not only returned her romantic interest, but was deliciously normal. He had a perfectly correct car, and wanted to do completely ordinary things, and by the time he had taken her on a series of dull dates, during which he talked mainly about himself and his predictable ideas on the world, Petunia was dreaming of the moment when he would place a ring on her finger.

As for Vernon, I think there were a few reasons he'd have been attracted to Petunia. I've talked about this before, but though I think Petunia was plain (especially compared to Lily) I don't think she was bad looking, and the fact that she was thin and blonde and probably took great care of her appearance helped her at least meet normative standards of appearance. I had a scene where Petunia meets Vernon's family and they all gush about how pretty she is haha.

Furthermore, I think Petunia would have worked extremely hard to present in the 'correct' way at her job. Appropriately conservative clothing. Appropriately normative attitude and interests. She would have been flattering of him and an eager audience for his 'predictable' tirades about the world. I think Vernon would definitely seen her as 'wife material' haha. Also Vernon's such an unpleasant person I don't think he'd have been very popular with the ladies lol (unless they were exactly like Petunia) so I think he'd have felt genuinely fortunate to be with Petunia.

So there was convenience, because each provided the other the type of partner they wanted. Vernon a dedicated, blonde little housewife on his arm who would parrot his views. Petunia the comfort of middle-class status and her idea of a 'dream life' involving a fat engagement ring, a lovely church wedding, a house in the suburbs. But I don't think this means it was a loveless marriage; rather they just really worked well together, and it was a good partnership on many levels.

I think if Petunia was ever worried Vernon would leave her, it was at the beginning, before she'd told Vernon about Lily. When Vernon tells Petunia "that he would never hold it against her that she had a freak for a sister," it was probably a very important moment for Petunia and established a lot of trust between them. It probably didn't hurt that they then had something to be set against together, as a couple haha.

While Petunia's choice of husband likely caused further strain on the relationship between the Evans sisters, it was already heading that way long before she met Vernon. If she hadn't met Vernon she would have met some other Vernonesque man, because that's what Petunia wanted. Vernon validated all of Petunia's beliefs about her sister and her sister's world, thereby alleviating any guilt she might have felt over the estrangement, and Petunia could happily throw herself into the arms of her new and improved family, the Dursleys. Marge was her new sister, the Dursleys better parents in her eyes (more admiring of her, more respectable,) and of course Vernon himself, with his impressive job title and swanky car. I think Petunia would have latched onto that with great enthusiasm.

[buttdumplin]

Besties, imma need more of yall to fall in love with Golden Kamuy because I NEED to talk about it

[ecstarry]

hola preciosa! 🎶 💖🎨 🦅 for the ask game porfitas💕

holaaa nenaaa!! <3333

send me some writer asks

🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?

i do!!! i have to main playlists that i made and then @neaverse was lovely enough to make me one with the vibes that i had on my og playlist but sometimes i just want one specific song so i have that on loop for as long as i write

💖 What made you start writing?

that would be my bestie @amesandthestars mwuaaah <3 she believed in me and was the first person to read my stuff

🎨 How do you feel about fan art of your stories?

i would cry omfg that would be insane and i would love it

🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

longer fics i outline them!! so the current wips that aren't posted but are outlined are: dear sirius, time travel au and rival teachers au

but oneshots i just write and hope it makes sense asjhdbasd shoutout @malchai who has caught issues with continuity in my fics before oops

[kay-elle-cee]

Word

🤭

Hi Nena! Thanks for sending this in!

No one says a word as she leaves, reaching out and squeezing Sam’s hand as she crosses the threshold. Though the calming draught is working, her feet still move quickly through the halls that take her back the way she came.

Drop me a word and I'll post a snippet if it's in my WIPs

[romione-trope-fest]

Title: Not Another Statistic

Author: Nena-96, Nena96 on ao3

Selected Trope: Muggle AU

Brief Summary: After hearing four dreadful words, Hermione’s world had been turned upside down. The voices in her head mock her relentlessly, how could her body betray her? How is she ever going to go on? Was this a sign that motherhood turned its back on her? Most of all….why did it happen to her?

However, those demon-like voices are miraculously put to silence the moment she meets a nurse with the most captivating blue eyes that she’s ever seen. Nurse Ron Weasley, when she visits St. Mungo’s Women’s Health Center.

Word Count: 1,727 (multi-chapter)

Any relevant triggers: Miscarriage, Infertility issues

(A/N this dedicated to a nurse who helped me tremendously and I always think of her. Also, inspired by TSwift’s song Bigger Than The Whole Sky)

Chapter 1: No Heartbeat

“No words appear before me in the aftermath

Salt streams out my eyes and into my ears…”

🔹🔹🔹🔹

Laying on the hospital bed, Hermione stares at the paintings that cover the ceiling. She absolutely hates how the stick figures of children playing in the park, mocked her. How could an innocent painting cause such pain? Well, it’s simple, it felt as though fate was mocking her with something she couldn’t have. Something that was stolen from her, then again how can it be stolen if it was never hers to begin with?

As the time ticked past, all Hermione could do was wait, until the nurse brought her the discharge papers. Then she’ll be able to go back home and wallow in her own sorrow. It wasn’t anything she could do to change her fate, even if magic was real she doubted it could take the pain out of her heart. No, it wasn’t possible at all…it felt as if a magical dagger was thrown and hit

It’s ludicrous, knowing that she came into the emergency room because of stomach pain. Then after waiting roughly an hour and a half, to be seen and taken to a room. After roughly ten minutes, she was given the news that her wretched body had betrayed her.

Sorry there’s no heartbeat.

Hearing those words was nothing compared to what was said next, six weeks.

It was six weeks.

It was forty-two days.

It was her personal hell.

For someone who could talk a mile a minute, Hermione had no words to say, it was as if every vocabulary word she knew was completely wiped away from her mind.

No words, just tortured thoughts. Just an ache in her heart that she will never overcome, no matter the days, months or even years that pass.

She wondered how long it would take the nurses to come back with her discharge papers, she wanted to leave. Yet, it seemed like everyone were taking their sweet time, while she dies on the inside. Things shouldn't have happened this way, the empty seat a few feet away from the bed shouldn't be empty. Yet, that's what happens when she makes a mistake and having a night of rendezvous with someone she meet at the dental gala that her parents were invited to. It was too good to be true, he was the perfect gentleman that night but he didn't have the capability of staying the next morning. Neither, did he explain that he was married, oh no...she found that out after receiving a phone call one morning that almost made her lose all hearing in her right ear.

How could she have been so careless that night, if only there was a way to back in time and prevented herself from going home with that junior dental assistant. Then she wouldn't be all alone, fighting the voices in her heard that's mocking her and laughing at her pain. She would be at home preparing Crookshanks' dinner for the night, instead of listening to the annoying beeping of the monitors around her.

Not having to wear a light blue and purple stripped hospital gown, all alone in a room that felt as if the walls were ready to close in on her at any given second.

Instead fate had decided to make a move and completely turn her world upside down.

Yes, she could always call her parents and let them know what's going on, but two things were stopping her from acting on that urge to hear their voices. The first reason, is her parents had just left on vacation to Australia a few days ago, and the second reason was simply not seeing the disappointment in their faces when she tells them she failed.

That...somehow motherhood gave one long look at her and said, nope she isn't dignified to hold the title as a mum. How could her body betray her in this fashion? Yes, she'll admit that motherhood wasn't in her plans for another few years, since she's trying her best to...to what actually? Keep a job, no..she already has a job that pays her well enough to buy all the things that she needs. So, what exactly was she waiting for?

It wasn't like she was a struggling college student that was barely making it through take-away meals.While constantly having going to the cafeteria to "borrow" utensils and plates because the closest store was an hour away from the campus. She wasn't irresponsible, so why couldn't the gentle arms of motherhood welcome her into a warm embrace? It didn't make sense at all-

Light tapping on glass of the sliding door, causes Hermione to break away from her thoughts as she turns her head. Dr. Slughorn was waiting on the other side of the door and gesture for her from if it's fine to enter the room. She only nodded and watched as slid open the door and walked into the room."Excuse me, Miss. Granger, sorry for the long wait. We're a bit short staffed, but here's your discharge papers, we recommend making an appointment. I've heard that St. Mungo's has an excellent Women's Health..."

As the Dr. Slughorn trailed off with praise of another clinic, Hermione simply felt as if everything was just white noise. It didn't seem real, even though she was staring at the papers that the doctor had given her...it just wasn't real. It couldn't be real, oh how she wished this was a cruel nightmare, in which she can wake up from. Yet, the words that graced the paper in her hands was the cold-hard truth that this was her painful reality.

She traced the words on the papers that held the horrid truth that was her reality.

After Visit Summary Hogwarts Emergency Center

Hermione Jean Granger

Reason for Visit: Miscarriage at 6 weeks

Hermione stared at the discharge summary in hatred and disgust, she couldn't stop herself from seeing the words that emphasized how her body had kept a secret from her for six weeks.

Six fucking weeks.

She sniffled and noticed how droplets of her tears began to fall, soon enough there were far too many splotches of water that now decorated the documents. She tried to keep herself from choking out a sob, yet it was proving to be far too difficult. Her world was spinning and the voices in her head, mixed with the aggravating sound of Dr. Slughorn's voice was causing her to get an headache.

This wasn't how her discharge papers should've been, she only came to Hogwarts ER, because of cramping...not....because of this.

At least you're young

A disgusting thought poisoned her mind, while mocking her with loud and obnoxious laugh. Wait wait...that wasn't her thoughts, nor was that even how she laughed. Those words came from Dr. Slughorn.

Hermione clenched the papers in her hands and looked up at the man wearing a pristine white lab coat and a pair of stethoscope around his neck, as he continued talking almost as if she wasn't there. It was as if he was treating her as just another statistic in the world, just another whimsical women who has gotten her life thrown into an abyss of despair.

"I beg your pardon, what did you just say?' Hermione gritted out as she tried to restraint herself from yelling at the doctor in front of her.

"Oh, I was simply saying that make sure to set up an appointment and you are free to go," Dr. Slughorn said with the most aggravating smile she has ever seen in her life.

"No, before that. You said, 'at least you're young.' Hermione glared at him with such fury, that if looks could kill, Dr. Slughorn wouldn't be standing wearing that ridiculous smile on his face.

"Oh- well yes. I did, I just meant that since you are still relatively young-"

"Excuse me, but why the fuck does it even matter that I'm young? A loss is still a fucking loss, how can you even say that?" Hermione forced herself to say, as she watched the man's face turn bright red in embarrassment, it was as if he realized a little too late what was spoken.

"Oh- no, I-I erm, I'm sorry...let me, oh heavens, I just realized," he tried to check the time on his watch, except he wasn't wearing one at all. This made him become even more nervous than before, "I uhm, another patient needed something. If everything is alright, you are free to go, make sure to uhm... set up an appointment at St. Mungo's," and with that half-arsed response, Dr. Slughorn left the room quickly. Hermione watched as Slughorn walked quickly down the hallway and out of her peripheral vision, and once again she was alone.

Except now, instead of her mind taunting her, Hermione wonders if she was just another statistic in the medical world. If she was just another statistic of a women who lost before having the chance to even love. Another statistic in this cruel world filled with deception and atrocities.

Was she just another statistic?

Now instead of being known as Hermione Jean Granger, a dedicated librarian...she had simply become a statistic in the world. She had become just another, one out of four women who experience miscarriage.

No. She wouldn't allow that to happen, she wasn't just another statistic in the world, no... she's Hermione Granger. She's going to prove to idiots like Slughorn, and the world that she wasn't just another number, and with that Hermione grabbed her belongings and marched over to the sliding door. Flinging the door open with such force that the noise had caught the attention from the nurses at the circulation desk. Hermione watched as the nurses looked at her with pity, and she tried her best not to shed a single tear. No, not right now....she'll save her tears once she goes home and cries into Crookshanks bright ginger fur.

Instead, she raised her chin and ignored the stares and proceeded to walk down the hallway and soon enough out of the building. She's going to prove that she wasn't just another statistic in this world and she knew exactly what she was going to do.

[binch-i-might-be]

I'm cleaning out a dresser thingy in my room to break it down and. I found the song parody about our former economy/geography teacher I wrote in tenth grade that our class literally displayed on the wall of our classroom. someone hold me

[i-luvsang]

everytime i listen to and dance to my latin pop i can't help but think of wooyoung (who is an honorary latina btw i get to say so (also yes latina he's so baby girl i meant what i said there)) because i just think he'd be so obsessed with that like he loves his s/o no matter what and he'd adore any dancing that his s/o would do whether its shit or whatever genre of dance. but you can't tell me he wouldn't be obsessed with you dancing to latin pop i'd make him fall in love with me with just one shakira song. i'm thinking loca maybe chantaje this maría becerra album would be perfect too aNYWAYS i love being a latine dancer <333

[boo-moved]

Man.

[fanficwriterwondersandwoes]

Hi, you’ve never met me before….technically I’m not lying 🤷🏽‍♀️

Not sure if you are still doing banners but can I request a banner something based writing a fanfic sports romance even though I have no freaking idea about any sports and yet here I am writing a figure skater/hockey AU

Please and thank you

Please send help these ideas are consuming me and I can’t escape 😭

Hi stranger,

Oh haha this was me writing about curling and now having more knowledge about curling then I'll ever need

If you want to do figure skating, have you seen Yuri! on Ice? I'm afraid I can't help you much with hockey.

Don't resist, the ideas will consume you either way

[honestsycrets]

mío | baby-fever!miguel o'hara x wifey!reader

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x wifey!reader, starved prequel

❛ type | oneshot, explicit

❛ summary | after watching mayday, miguel develops a bad case of baby fever, longing for a family of his own.

❛ tags | explicit, miguel has baby fever, babysitting, talk of family planning and contraception, f!reader, breeding, pregnancy kink, much fluff, some angst, starved!reader, miguel being frustrated and cute, clean that kitchen, one stereotype of latina women, Spanish is not translated, best friend!peter, self edited.

❛ request fulfilled | could you possibly write an imagine in which Miguel and his wife take care of mayday? + multiple requests for more starved reader/miguel.

❛ sy's notes | written to fulfill some requests. i do have another daddy miguel blurb to fulfill, but my future works should be nice and angsty.

Peter has it out for him.

It’s the only logical reason why he’d do this shit to him.

Miguel stood in his dark room in a pair of scratchy jeans, dragging a belt loop to loop when he heard the door to his room draw open. A resonant schwap, schwap, schwap.

“Mi reina?” Miguel cocked his eyebrow up, extending his claws.

“¿Sí?” you called back from the bathroom, the distant scent of his favorite perfume wafting into the air. Miguel threw a look to the bathroom, reaching for the bedroom door. It burst open before he could open it. 

“Hi, Miguel! Where’s your wife?”

Peter dragged his feet into the room, whirling around with a sloppily put-together backpack that leaked diapers onto the floor. An exasperated breath left his lips, dripping in the way he looked at Peter.

Unfortunately, his little wife liked Peter a bit too much for his taste.

“I should have known.” Miguel ran his hand through his hair, strands of mocha brown flyaways wisping along his tawny forehead. “Why are you here?”

His normally disheveled appearance was a little more disheveled. It wasn’t his appearance that bothered him but how it reached his eyes. Shocked, confused, tired. Peter pat his deltoid, awkward laughter choking in his throat. It bubbled on the edge of an overwhelmed sob.

“Well, you see, your wife said she’d watch Mayday because I have a date, and I haven’t had a date in a really, really long time. Like, a really long time—”

“Is Peter here?”

His head snapped to your bathroom where you came out, threading a golden hoop earring. You probably already knew the fight that was heading your way-- but for your part, you couldn’t be bothered to care any less.

“Got it, you need this date.” Miguel cut Peter off, standing behind you with his massive arms crossed. “¿Por qué no me dijiste?”

“¡Mi nena! Muévete Miguel,” you giggled, shoving your way past Miguel to Peter’s child carrier, sneaking your hands underneath her little armpits and whirling her around. She cackled, a glittering warmth to her mischievous eyes. You came to a stop, settling Mayday against your chest, nuzzling your foreheads together in some secret pact that the two of you shared.

Oh no, no, no, no. Not this. It hits him at once.

The sight of his wife— beautiful and cuddly with a very young baby in her arms. The only sight more beautiful was at the altar on his wedding day, your shy smile behind a sheer veil. It had been a long time, too long, since he had someone to call him father. He can still picture her glimmering eyes, the way she looked at him in nothing short of admiration, looking past the things that he’d done to see him and only him. Glimpsing at Mayday, remembering Gabriella’s soft, small face, it took him a moment to snap free. 

He's so fucked.

“You would have said no, amado mío.” 

You’re a natural at this, scooting by both men to set Mayday on the bed. Your tiny fingers spiraled out from her belly to change her diaper. Peter jittered uncomfortably, looking as though he wanted to jump in himself. You cleaned her, replacing the dirty diaper with a clean one. “We’re going to a market with Tío Miguel--” 

“Don’t bring me into this.”

“Are you sure it's okay? I’ll be back at five, it's just a few hours, really--” 

“¡Vete! A ratty house robe and a dirty spider suit aren’t sexy. Look at mi Miggy,” now you’re just buttering him up. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, inspecting the ground. “Wear something nice.” 

They’re sexy to her, he might have murmured. Not on a date, you bopped him. Mayday’s bright eyes tracked the space between you and Peter before you broke away to wash your hands. Peter’s clammy hands cupped Mayday’s sweet face, littering at least a dozen sickly daddy kisses over her tiny face. But Miguel what if--

“Adiós, Peter!” You returned to force Peter out of your room. Miguel peered at Mayday whose head snapped to the side, cheek against her fiery hair as the door clicked shut. He braced himself for the shrill that would inevitably come with her realization that her daddy was gone. She whined, grabbing her toes and tipping nearly off the side of the bed. Miguel begrudgingly hovered at her feet, blocking her from rolling off the bed. He could do this, he told himself, he could resist those giant baby eyes staring up at him.

He didn't need a baby, he didn't.

He blames Peter for having such a good baby.

She doesn’t ask for much other than requiring chest-to-chest contact with Miguel. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hold her, he finds himself aggravated by how much he likes to be around her. In a market full of things to look at food trinkets such as necklaces, body scrubs, and empanadas, it’s all her. Miguel props her up with an arm just under her bum, her tiny finger peeking curiously into his fangs. He snapped his teeth playfully at her, a nip, nip, nip, missing playfully every time. It rips ping a toothy grin across her face. 

“No biting Miguelito,” you called out, sliding your fingers in a teasing ring around his muscled back to chest. You leaned up on your tippy toes, placing a small little kiss on his lips. You ran off to go get her a pineapple whip after her tiny fist yanked your hair over and over again. You relented, staring at what she was cooing at. Sweets-- obviously, sweets. All the little ones loved sweets. 

“She likes it.” 

“Ya sé,” you said, “But we don’t need anyone noticing you’ve grown fangs.” 

“Tch,” he clicks his teeth in protest. She does too, throwing you a mean look for interrupting her fun. You plucked up a bit of the whip on your spoon, cutting through her displeasure through the power of sugar. 

"There's a lot of people here, Miggy, let's go to the park." You point toward the park, pointing away from the mounds of fresh produce and locally sourced goods toward a healthy patch of green grass. Miguel is glad-- he’s sick of being stared at for his huge frame. Despite the ring on his finger, people still seem to try their luck. He couldn't be more disinterested.

You lay a picnic blanket as Miguel holds Mayday's treat. Mayday sprawls across his chest, trying to take just one more bite-- then another-- Miguel looks down, chin level, eyebrow raised. She offers a bit on her tiny index finger to Miguel. A peace offering. “She’s not going to wait.” 

“Give her to me.” You kicked off your sandals on the edge of the blanket, dropping your things on another corner. You pluck Mayday from Miguel’s arms and set her down on the blanket in a way that is too easy. As though you wouldn’t have much of a learning curve in becoming a mother. No, no— you never mentioned anything about kids. Did you even want kids? He couldn't bring his heart to ask, to hope again.

“I didn’t know you were so experienced with kids.” 

“Mami had six,” you noted, plopping down with the whip by Mayday’s side. She sat with a small slant, reaching out toward the sweet treat again with those chunky, adorable hands. You brought her into your lap, at last relenting. “When you’re the oldest, you have to learn a little something to help out. Can you imagine-- being pregnant six times? Ay no.”

“How many times do you want to be pregnant?” he blurts out. Usually timed and precise, the question causes him to pinch his brow as he sits beside you. “Si quieres,” 

Your other hand comes on top of his and shifts it away from his face. 

“As many as will make you happy.” 

Shock. He chews on that response, his eyes glued to Mayday lapping at the last spoon of sweets you are willing to give her. She falls into a fit of complaints, a conniving look at the sweets, just as you lift her onto your shoulder.

"I never thought about it."

"No more, your papa won't forgive me if I bring you home all sugared up," you tsked your tongue at her. You patted along her back in small, tight circles until her angry huffs faded away. He reaches for the baby bag, slipping free a soft yellow blanket with white spiders strewn across the front. Miguel slides the blanket on top of Mayday’s small body, her groggy eyes sliding closed.

The more he watches you with Mayday, holding her so close, swaying as you held her, the deeper this ache burrowed in his chest. You would look beautiful all swollen with his child. Never mind Mayday or Peter, he can nearly see it, feel it under his fingers, the feeling of your taut belly under his skin, or the kick of tiny feet against his palm.

“We’ll see, Miggy.” 

We’ll see-- the answer seems too noncommittal, too distant to be a satisfactory answer. With Mayday sound asleep, you settle her between your plush thighs. She expelled bursts of energy that milked her energy dry.

A little old woman passed by, her cane pierced soft grass as she moved closer with a bag of tomatoes and green beans. Her face, aged by time, pulls into a wide smile. He doesn't like her smile.

“You two are doing a great job. How old is she?” 

You blink, looking up into the woman’s cool blue eyes, her dark hair peppered with thick grey and white strands. You tuck Mayday in her soft blanket, sparing the woman a kind smile that Miguel doesn’t quite have the patience for. 

“Oh, oh. Thank you-- um, a couple of months,” you recount, perhaps thinking of Peter’s anxious pacing or his delighted shouts about becoming a father. 

“Adopting is a great option. Back in the day, my husband was a bodybuilder too. Had a low sperm count don’t you know. Steroids shrink things. Oh, but these days you can do all sorts of things like IV--”

A what-- Miguel’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull at the suggestion. Was this old bitch’s suggestion that he couldn’t do it-- couldn’t get you pregnant? He could easily do that. If he wanted you pregnant, you would be shocking pregnant. He’d be damned if some old woman put it in your mind that he couldn’t.

“We’re babysitting for a friend,” he blurts out. “I have--” had, “a daughter.” 

“Oh, do you? I’m sorry. I thought-- well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, have a good day."  

She’s saying that, but it comes out slanted. You don’t bother correcting Miguel, not on this. Rather, your hand inched toward his, picking up on the energy that was pluming from his body in waves. Irritation-- annoyance-- the little old lady hobbles off. You’re in your mind well enough to bid her goodbye. But you know better than to say anything more, slumping your cheek on Miguel’s firm chest. It makes the ache of Gabriella's memory a little more bearable. 

 Low sperm count his ass. 

It bothers him long after Mayday is gone. Peter, for his part, looks refreshed. He supposes that’s what happens with a full day of opportunity to empty your balls after weeks of no relief. It bothers him long after you come back from the kitchen, his favorite dark red slip plastered to your perfect body. It would look beautiful, full of his children— he just knows it. 

“I may have hijacked the kitchen a little bit,” you teased, the waft of warm chicken and brewed spices filled his nose. He had no appetite. “But I made you some pollo guisado.” 

“Hm,” he grunts into a pillow. “Later.”

Beside the bed, he has a bowl of brightly colored condoms. With your sensitivity to birth control, it is the best option available. It wasn’t, however, something he was ever happy about. He should be able to feel your body. Not once had he felt your body pure and unadulterated, warm and perfect for him. He was your husband. He wanted that moment— to fill you up just once, watch his cum dribble out of your cunt. It would be perfect. You set the food away, bowl and spoon clinking together.

“Miguel.” 

Forget your warm body. This room is too quiet. It is almost stifling in its silence. Mayday’s sweet huffs, the memory of Gabriella’s laughter. A proper home full of a child's giggles. He’s going crazy-- he has to be-- this isn’t normal. This isn’t Miguel. 

“Mi vida, don’t pout,” you reach out, rolling your fingers through his long brown hair. Your fingers tease along his scalp, turning around his ear. Your fingers tickle his lobe, your voice cemented in a concern that he wanted nothing more but to fix if it were anything other than this. “Miggy. Miggy, what is wrong? You look sad.”

“I’m not sad,” he says with a whine on his pillow. How silly he must look with his broad arms wound around the body pillow, squeezing its fluff for life. If he said the words well enough, you might believe them. 

“I know you are,” you nudge the pillow loose. He takes you instead, the air thickening with the closeness. You fed off the tension, sliding your leg over the sheet that covers his naked hip. “Tell me why.” 

He turns his hands over your thighs, traveling past your hips to ghost along your belly. 

“Sí, Miggy?” 

“I need…” he trailed off, finding the words nearly impossible to admit. They grow into a ball and cement in his throat, present but stubborn. Rather than break the words free, he swallows a bolus of desire and frustration. “It’s nothing. Let it go.”

The issue was— you loved him enough to let it do so. 

Miguel doesn’t want to press the issue. He knows you. All you want is Miguel’s happiness. Sometimes, he worries it is at the price of your own. The distance he places between you and him is intolerable. It bothers him every time he finds you babysitting Mayday.

Today, while Peter goes on a small date, you and Mayday make his favorite empanadas. She’s covered in a dusting of flour from head to toe. Peter would have fun with that. 

“Miggy you’re back?” you called as Mayday’s chubby hands shot out, nearly plopping off the counter if not for Miguel’s quick reflexes, setting her back in place. 

“Empanadas?” he settles the words in a small kiss to your lips. You glance at him over your shoulder. 

“It's... it's Gabi's birthday, isn't it?"

You’re too good for him. Despite the day coming and going, no one else notices his grief today. Not even Peter who came in alongside him, reading the room, and snatching up Mayday off the countertop. He’s babbling something, a thank you, see you later— you kiss Mayday with only the sweetness a mother could know.  

“Peter! Mayday made these for you,” you reach out to a box of uncooked empanadas. “Take them home!”

Her first empanadas— the delight is palpable. Peter may have snapped a photo, or ten, of his little flour girl on the way out, empanadas in hand. Then there’s silence. Miguel returns the nearly forgotten bundle of empanada dough and filling to the fridge in the space of unspoken tension. Miguel dips down to your neck, caramelized perfume warm on your neck. His lips trace the warm pulse of your neck. 

“Mami,” his voice mesmeric, warm like the filling you used to make him happy when no one else could. Your doting attention, even in the face of real issues like work and babies, was always on him.

"Sí, mi vida?"

His hands coast around your waist, using his strength to gently turn you around. It isn’t important right now. What is important is how he lifts you up onto the floury surface, purring his need into your slight ear. “I want a baby.”

“¿Qué?”

“Una niña,” Miguel leans his fingers along your collarbone. 

“Oh, Miggy.” You puff the words. They come out almost wounded. You know him so well, the vulnerability of the words causing him to look down. Your warm palms cradle his cheeks, forcing him to look into your eyes. “You miss being a father, don't you?”

You’re not stupid. Neither is he. He thought he could wait— watch Mayday grow up and not feel this sundering longing. As though he could stomach never feeling a child in his arms again. The ghosts of the past that came with Mayday’s longing haunt him day by day. 

You devour his insecurity, winding your legs around his waist and forcing him forward. He stumbles into your embrace, as though he were not a man who could decimate villains and spiders alike. When he was here, in your arms, he barely felt like the weapon of a man that he is. 

“Miguel. Speak to me.”

“You’re right,” he can’t lie— can’t hide the longing that comes with the thought of his own child on his chest. Not Mayday, no matter how many times she cuddled up to his chest. At the end of the day, she would never be his. You drew your lip into your mouth, nipping it fat and red, a bob in your head. His heart beats faster, strumming as though it would break free from his chest. Whatever it is you’re thinking he’s not sure. Only that it’s been so long.

“I just want to make you happy, will this make you happy?” you nearly whisper, knowing that there’s no one but him to hear the words. It’s what he wants for you, too. As he stands there, coursing his fingers along your thighs and hiking your dress up your hips, he can’t help but feel the foggy discomfort of forcing you into parenthood before you were ready. 

“It will.”

As well as it could. It would never erase Gabriella-- and, in the vulnerability of begging his wife for another child, came the guilt. Not only the guilt of failing to be a proper father or to protect her but moving on without her in his life to a beautiful family she would have loved. The feelings surge in his chest, a well of uncomfortable emotions in his eyes, threatening to fall. 

“Miguel,” you’re whispering, your fingers cutting across his sharp cheekbones. You cup his face, drawing your lips together in a commanding kiss. You never liked being ignored or forgotten. He’s not sure how he could now, with your tongue flicking between his lips, begging him to come back with a sugary sweet whine. “Stay with me, Miguel.” 

“I am,” he says, gripping either side of the counter by your hips. He feels your eyes on him, soft and careful, pressuring him to meet your gaze. He searches for an inkling of an answer in your gaze. "¿Qué piensas?"

“We can try,” you bite your lip, sliding it free between your teeth. “If you don’t have a low sperm count,” you tease. “Maybe it’ll take.” 

“¡Por dios!” He throws a curse to the side as if he believed in such a being, throwing a look back at you. “You don’t actually believe that vieja.” 

“Ay Miggy, of course not.” His lips work into a budding smile. You leaned up against his stubbly jaw, setting soft kisses there. Your lipstick stains his neck, dragging down to his prominent adam’s apple. He looks down at you with heady eyes, tracing the way you suckled a mark on his throat. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like them a little more when others noticed them, little marks of possession. Miguel’s fingers come up to the straps of your dress, easing them over and down your slight shoulders. You pull back, words forming puff against his neck. 

“Not right here,” you inhale a soft breath. “Someone could come in.” 

Miguel eases his finger over the small bud of your breast, rolling his thumb along the silken skin, His hand comes up, encompassing your neck and shoving you back into the cabinets. It isn’t comfortable, not by far. He works the nub to its peak before turning his attention to the other. His mouth covers your breast, fangs grazing your nub as he suckled and tugged gently. Miggy, you pull him back up, stripped of your touch. Your hand slide across Miguel’s chest, tracing the taut muscles of his chest. 

“Who would come in?” 

“Peter,” you answer. 

It’s always Peter. He supposes that you wouldn’t want your friend to see you here, cunt stuffed with Miguel on the very same counter you earlier made him empanadas on. Miguel snatched the dress that fell along your hips laxly, utilizing it to yank you off the counter. You fell forward into Miguel, a heavy wall of muscle, your lips failing to form anything of use. You looked at him, cheeks flush and eyes doting, he’s the only one you see. 

“The balcony, then.” 

“Dianche, Miguel! Do you want all of Nueva York to see me?” 

“Maybe.” 

No, but see Miguel breeding you? Undoubtedly yes.

He couldn’t simply choose the bed, that would be too easy. Miguel set a kiss on your forehead, soft and scratchy with his stubble. You return it by dragging him down for another kiss, a wave of warmth coming over him as you force your hips back onto him, rolling your hips against his, teasing him. Miguel doesn’t appreciate the tease and gently pushes on your hips, motioning you to face the counter. 

“Bend over.” 

"Can't we go to my room?" you complain but comply all the same. Miguel’s palm ghosts your spine, dragging his fingers smoothly over the middle of your back and past the dress that gathered around your hips, He strips you of the little cover the dress gave, eager to have you bare and rid of the thin clothing that served as a veil from prying eyes. Miguel can cover you from the prying eyes of others if necessary. Not that he cared if others saw him fucking-- he’s all the more eager to have you all to himself, here and now. 

“No panties,” he notes, his warm hands on your inner thighs. “It’s almost like you knew.” 

“I might have,” you return, spreading your legs obediently for him. He palms your vulva, your hips shifting down over his hand. Sticky and wet, he wonders if his need to breed you has rubbed off on you too. His fingers shift, sliding over your soft hole. “Apúrate Miguel, you’re so slow.”  

“Can’t you be be good for once.”

You were always bossy. He likes it, most the time, being led around by what his pretty little wife wants. Today he wants to take his time, curving his broad fingers into your glistening cunt. Your wetness drips over his knuckles, fingers teasing the velvety soft walls he has never felt without a condom. A pleasured cry wracks in your chest, turning your head over your shoulder to watch Miguel’s fingers stretching you out. No matter how much your walls gave under his fingers, you would still ache when he penetrated you. It was the favourite part, the rich pull of his dick into your hole, bottoming out as best he could in your stomach. He soothes your complaints by grazing his other hand against your perky clitoral hood, finding the soft nub there for relief. You settle your arms on the floured surface.

“I never-- ah-- am,” you threw back.

Miguel slipped his fingers free, cupping your cunt with his palm for a teasing slap. You want to be good-- it’s just so hard, your cunt pulsing in the abswnce of his touch. He drags his sodden fingers to your lips, glazing them in taste of your lubricant. You suckle your tongue around his thick digits, savoring your own taste, his soft grunt of approval spurring you on. You feel like such a good girl with his fingers crooked in your mouth. 

“Are you ready?” Miguel stands fully upright, dragging your hips to his. He’s hard as the counter you were pathetically clinging onto. His hipbones ground into your plush ass, dick pulsing in his immediate ache to feel your cunt. He backs up, fiddling with something at the waist. You don’t need to ask to know that it was his big cock grinding between your cheeks, smearing fluid over your slit.

“No condom?” 

“No condom,” he affirms. You bow your head, nodding gently over the countertop. The head of his cock drove into your wetness, pushing past bundles of nerves. It’s impossibly different without the bag over his dick. It’s been so long. His world blinks out, savoring the feeling like he was an inexperienced teenager again. 

“Carajo, you’re so good,” he finds himself cursing, leaning over your back. 

“Now he says I’m good."

“Shh,” Miguel clips with a mean nip at your nape, lining it with soft kisses, encouraging you on to take him. Warm and wet, Miguel can only describe the slide into your cunt as untethered delight. Released from the bondage of his usual condom, he’s a mess against your soaked cunt, gripping you for a semblance of stability. 

I just want to make you happy. For all your needy complaints and little quips, he knows you do. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, with your hands cupped on top of his, squeezing for more closeness. Miguel laces your fingers together in a needy weave, drawing back to stroke his cock right back into your wet body. You lead one of his hands between your legs, urging him on to stroke your clit. Your walls clamp down on him, teasing out bursts of pleasure with how deeply he was buried. Miguel’s lips part into a whine of his name, skin slapping against skin. He sets a kiss in the crook of your neck, breath nearly unbearable. 

“Mami,” he gasps, the word coming out between his unstable thrusts. Your eyes shut hard, sparks of pleasure winding and building in your core. “Give me a baby.”

“Sí papi,” you heave, “I”m trying to.”

Miguel knows what you like-- and you like him desperate. His voice so low and rich that you gush around his swollen length, falling apart below him. He catches your body from dropping in an instant, his thighs shaking as he works you through the fibers of gentle pleasure. Hot pressure builds low in his stomach. 

“Qué bella eres. I’m going to finish, fill you and knock you up,” he whispers, drawing himself free and admiring the hazy space of pleasure and reality. Miguel turns you back to face him. You think you may complain-- you didn’t cum, or something of the sort. He shifts you to sit on the counter, spreading your vulva for inspection. Miguel spat on your cunt, rolling his fingers over the swollen folds to spread you apart. He slipped into the space between your shaking legs. You felt him thrust into your body hard and sharp. Your hands reached out, dragging Miguel’s shoulders forward, clinging onto his body. 

It comes all at once, Miguel’s stuttering thrust forward, a deep groan filling the kitchen, his hand clasped onto your thigh so hard you know he’ll bruise it. You catch his moan in a kiss he doesn’t reciprocate, buried so deep in your body that all he can think to do is to force you to take all of it. He shakes himself free of the web of pleasure that he’s enveloped in, looking at you past the thin rivulets of sweat you wiped away with your loving thumbs. 

“I think there are better positions for baby making,” you lean in, kissing him gently. He returns the kiss this time, eyes light of the strain and stress of the last few days.  “Like… not this.” 

Miguel pulls back, his soft cock slipping free from your warm entrance. Miguel watches as his seed dribbles from your hole, grunting in acknowledgement. He swipes your mixed fluids and rolls it between his fingers. 

“I’m open to suggestions.” 

He loves his wife. More than anything. What he doesn’t love is how Peter seems to know that you’re trying for a baby.

The thing about having a woman from his same cultura was this: you loved to talk with your best friend. Who, just so happened to be Peter. He doesn’t even have to say anything, just staring at him with a quirk on his lip and a terrible glitter in his eye after he’s resolved another meeting.

“Hey, Miguel.” 

“Don’t start.” 

He’s crowded with work at his desk-- he has no time for Mayday’s curious little eyes to glitter at him, Peter to be doing that shit he did when he wanted to be helpful. He offered his hands up, shrugging. 

“I’m just saying! I’m a man, you’re a man,” he mumbles, inching a little closer and closer. “If you want a baby--” 

“Let me guess. She told you.” 

“Mayday could use a spider buddy,” he held Mayday up, out of her carrier. Miguel glanced down at her wild hair, exhaling air out of his nose with a little huff. “Sooner than later?” 

“I’ve done it before,” Miguel throws back. “I know how to knock up my own wife, Peter. I don’t need help.”  

Peter is offering help as if Miguel hadn’t tasted the changes in your body when he ate you out. Never mind that he saw you nauseated this morning, too sick to handle a call that Miguel promptly answered. He knew his seed had stuck-- you wouldn’t feel so miserable otherwise. It doesn’t matter, he’d answer them all if it meant another little one in his arms at the end of it all. Just so long as you and the baby were safe. 

“Are you sure? I know--” 

“I’m damn sure.” Miguel turned around, his head in his hand. “I’ve had enough of you. Why don’t you do something useful? Bring her something for her morning sickness.” 

“Oh,” realization fell over Peter like a hammer, looking down to Mayday who looked right back up to her father. For all that Peter knew about his love life, he was shocked that you hadn’t told him how awful the smell of breakfast meat made you feel. His hand fell away, a film of pride slipping from his practiced features when Peter spoke. “But... She’s already pregnant?” 

He leers. Peter scuttles away. 

Privacy is important to Miguel. You knew the damn rule. No telling Peter about the inner workings of your bedroom. For that, you were going to fucking get it. You likely knew you were going to get it-- even if you were likely already pregnant.

He can’t wait.

[buttdumplin]

If I ever don't read a fic of yours, please don't think I hate it or am disinterested. Chances are that it's in tiny font and I'm fucking blind and literally cannot read it.