#such as the mariachi skins

[dragxnflxwer]

[q-starhalo]

MIRA QUE LINDO ESTA <33

[eowynstwin]

NSFW Alphabet — Valeria “El Sin Nombre” Garza

Pairing: Valeria “El Sin Nombre” Garza x f!Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings: femdom. knifeplay mention. cucking fantasy. MEAN MEAN MEAN Valeria. Can be interpreted as lesbian Valeria if you like!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

One of the rare times that you get to see the soft inner world of Valeria Garza is after she’s rocked yours. She is the dominant, active partner in your relationship, through and through, but no one under the kind of pressure she is can go without some sort of relief. So when you’ve come down from the highs she’s brought you to, Valeria is curling up against you, stroking your face with tender, soft fingers, whispering in mingled Spanish and English that you’re the only person on the face of the earth that really matters to her.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Valeria is very proud of her looks from top to bottom. She knows she’s hot as fuck, knows it only takes a quirk of her brow and a twitch of her lips to have men and women alike falling over themselves for her favor. If she had to choose a feature specifically, she’d choose her hips. She’s proud that she takes up space, proud that her femininity has more power than all of the men under her command combined.

On you, she’s actually quite partial to your belly, breasts, and thighs—all of the softest parts of you drive her wild. The way her hands sink into you, the softness of all that delicate skin? If she doesn’t have a hand on you at any given moment, she’s thinking about how soon she can.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

A personal goal of hers, when your sexual relationship begins, is to figure out how to make you squirt. She’s very methodical about it, which is deeply unfair, because her experimentation with your body has you writhing and whimpering at the ends of her fingers while she, by comparison, doesn’t look affected at all.

Of course, that’s not true—you learn her expressions at the same time that she learns yours, and you know how to recognize as time goes on the flex of her brows and the angle of her chin as signals of her own arousal. When she finally accomplishes her goal—when you soak her arm to the elbow as you scream her name—she’ll carry around the high of that pride for a month. And use your wetness as lube to go again immediately after.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Valeria has no dirty secrets. She is not shy to express anything she wants of you, at any time. Every notion of shame she ever possessed, she crushed years ago, and she trains it out of you, too—she wants you open and naked in every possible way with her, eager to tell her what you want, eager to hear her own desires.

Is what she’d tell you.

In truth, there are things El Sin Nombre keeps so close to the chest that they live behind her sternum. She thinks of white dresses, of gilt-draped mariachis, of thirteen solid gold arras piling up in your cupped hands. She thinks of hands linked together and lazy walks along the beach, gentle waves lapping at your feet. She thinks of waking up beside you with nothing to do other than to admire you.

She’s already sized the rings. You will know none of this for a long, long time.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Valeria has a wealth of experience. She has always been charismatic, confident in what she wants out of life and not afraid to seize it by any means necessary. And she has no reservations about utilizing that experience in your shared bedroom, no circumspection about showing off for you. Knowing that she can wreck you like none other, and knowing that you know that, is a high she can’t get anywhere else.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Any position in which Valeria has you at her mercy is her favorite one. You tied up, a vibrator taped to your thigh, while she sits casually across the room with a remote in one hand and tequila in the other? The best kind of night, for her. Rarely does El Sin Nombre enjoy handing control over to someone else, even someone she trusts as much as you.

That doesn't mean she isn't fond of an old-fashioned scissoring, however. It simply depends on what mood strikes her in the moment.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous?)

MEAN. Valeria is mean. She learns you very quickly, learns the razor-thin line between good hurt and bad hurt, and loves to get right up to the edge of that line as often as she can. She can't help it—she loves your little helpless whimpering and crying, and will merely lick your tears off your face and give your abused nipple a twist. She's enjoying herself very much, and you'll be able to admit later that you are, too.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

Valeria strikes me as someone with a landing strip. Perfect way to show you exactly where she wants your mouth to be.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Part of the reason Valeria likes to overstimulate you so much is because it keeps you from seeing, she thinks, the real depths of her feelings for you. She thinks that if you could look into her eyes properly as she fucks you, then you would know exactly how much of her is yours, and she's not willing to hand over that much power to you. (It doesn't work, of course. She treats you too gently afterwords for someone who wants to hide her love so badly.)

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

She's always so busy. Keeping her empire under control does not keep her stress levels manageable, and so she will go long stretches between moments of self-pleasure. Then, when you enter the picture, she doesn't need to do it by herself; she's got a pretty little thing like you to boss around, upon whom to take out her various frustrations. Her lieutenants will gossip that her mood has much improved once she's taken you under her wing (NEVER within her earshot, of course.)

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

She really enjoys the roleplay of cucking her aforementioned lieutenants. A young queer Valeria grew up watching the girls she was hopelessly in love with go for boys she felt nothing but loathing for, and the sum total of those experiences wrote themselves indelibly upon her sexual psyche.

You, in virginal white or cream lingerie, supposedly waiting for Diego in the guest bedroom of Valeria's house. Her entering. Not leaving when she sees you, and cornering you. Eventually she winds you up into a confession--you love Valeria, you've always loved Valeria, you just didn't even think she could feel the same. Then she shuts you up with a brutal kiss and hungry hands forcing themselves underneath your bra.

She's especially sweet to you after, on those nights that you indulge her.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

She's never opposed to a bed, but the many plush couches in her lavish estate have a novelty to them that never wears off. Having sex in the living rooms of her house feels joyful and open, absolutely refusing to hide away from a world that still struggles to accept her, and it provides a pleasure that is heady and rich and addictive. She likes to fuck you on her couch and make you something to drink after, a dry bar or the kitchen only a few steps away.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Moments in which you show Valeria genuine and open affection plant seeds low in her belly. The touch of your hand to hers, a kiss to her shoulder, your soft caress through her hair. You could, also, be dressing up for her enjoyment, doing sweet little spins in pretty dresses that she buys you. Signs that you're happy, that she makes you happy, make her want you with a power that she works hard to hide.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Valeria has few qualms in the bedroom. If you need her to paddle you, she will. If you need her to slap you around, hold you to her pussy by the hair while she sneers at you for being a needy little whore, she will. She is happy to use clamps, chains, whips, and even knives on you to great effect, but the one thing she will not bring into the bedroom is her gun. She will not take even the slightest risk that someone sneaks a bullet into the chamber outside her line of sight.

Also, she will shut down conversations about her work and your possible participation in it. She's keeping you safe, querida, the filthiness of running an empire is hers to deal with. It is not allowed to touch you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill)

Giving for Valeria is so. much. fun. Especially in conjunction with her cucking fantasy. And she's sooo good at it too, the kind of lover who pays so much attention to your body language and reactions. She almost never has to ask things like "is this good" once she's had you a few times. She already knows. I think she likes to give and receive in equal measures, though; the thought of your head moving and bobbing between her thighs gets her through even her hardest days.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

It all depends on context. A romantic night in is meant to be savored; she will drag out the seduction and the pleasure she promises agonizingly slowly. However, if she’s trying to make a point, she’ll work you up faster than you can keep up with, and leave you dizzy with how quickly she can make you come. Usually this happens when she’s worked up, herself, angry about something from her work and needing to let off steam.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If it were up to her, you’d be at her side at all times, on call all day, available every moment she wants you, your mouth, your fingers, or your pussy. Brief little five minute diversions to take the edge off. She likes the idea of keeping you on a leash for this, something velvet and studded with diamonds.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?)

With your safety? Never. With getting caught? Absolutely. To be more specific, Valeria doesn’t give a single shit if everyone knows what’s happening behind the door she’s closed after pulling you into it. This is her empire, and she’ll do whatever she damn well pleases in it. No one gets to see, but everyone should know: Valeria’s got a soft, sweet little thing who sings for her and her alone. Even when she makes it hurt.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

As long as you wanna go, querida. She knows you’re a spoiled little brat. She made you that way. You can have her mouth, her fingers, whatever cock you choose from her frighteningly diverse collection of them. Just be careful what you wish for. You might end up satisfied long before she is, and she will get what she wants from you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or on themself?)

Valeria collects sex toys like old white men collect baseball cards. Funny enough, the evenings in which the two of you experiment with whatever new contraption she’s bought turn out to be some of the most playful, innocent nights you spend together. She’ll have food delivered; you’ll share a bottle of liquor between you, eschewing the crystal glasses she’s got displayed somewhere near by. Valeria rarely giggles, but when you’re both trying to figure out what goes where and how many times you have to press a button and dios mio why is it shaped like that, she’ll laugh like the world has never once rested on her shoulders.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Valeria is synonymous with unfair. Why should she give you what you want, when it’s so easy to make you come, hmm? You can wait. She’s enjoying herself.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

Not loud at all, actually. In the throes of pleasure, Valeria’s moans are low, breathy, like she’s trying to hide them. This is your chance; murmur to her about how beautiful she looks, about how much you crave her when she’s away. Listen as those moans sharpen, heighten into quick, stabbing whimpers, as if she’s relaxing just enough not to think about how much noise she’s making. She’ll almost never scream for you, but every noise you can draw from her inscribes itself in your memory as if chiseled into stone.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Valeria’s into men the same way a vegetarian might be into burgers. She tried them, she liked them, and she doesn’t blame others for partaking. She’s just found that not only can she live without them, but she actively prefers her other options. If you like men, she sincerely enjoys indulging your crushes; she finds that she enjoys them more through you than anything else. Just remember—you belong to her.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

There’s no denying it; Valeria is fit. Gringa gymfluencers wish they could be her. A narrow waist, flared hips, the best fucking ass in Las Almas; if she bothered with instagram, her thirst traps would go viral every time. But more than this, Valeria is sturdy. You can pick out the individual muscle groups in her back every time she stretches her shoulders, the swell of her biceps when she curls her arms. She doesn’t quite have the height to manhandle you properly, but she can certainly hold you down if you start squirming more than she likes. Her grip strength is also something to behold; she only needs to cup your throat in one hand to remind you of it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

She’d have you every day if she could. Barring exhaustion or distraction, she always wants you. Every thought of you she has is woven through with thread of pure want, like a sweet tooth aching to be sated.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Honestly, Valeria couldn't sleep if she tried. When you fall asleep, she watches you, tracing the planes of your face with a gaze more tender than you will ever see. Valeria’s world is cruel and bloody; there is not a single soul she works with that isn’t eager to see her fall, to take her place. She can’t miss a single step. She can’t make one mistake. Her existence is balanced on a knife’s edge, every single day.

But when she looks at you, she forgets. Maybe only briefly, in the space between heartbeats. But she does, and in those tiny spaces she can think about the rings she has hidden away, the dress she’s going to buy you, the villa in Spain waiting for you to light it up together. This is why she wants you so badly; why you are the only goddamn person on this earth who matters to her. She is not El Sin Nombre with you; she is just Valeria, deeply in love, and—for once in her life—at peace.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Red Breath

Summary: Azula has been hiding that she has tuberculosis. Her secret comes out during the last Agni Kai.

For @the-mariachi-96 based on this post.

There is red on her pillow.

There is red on the cloth in her pocket. 

She tries not to dwell too much upon it. 

Today is her special day.

The mirror has no mercy. 

No sympathy nor compassion. 

It is a cold thing, and—had it a voice—it would speak clinically. Forward. Direct. Brutal.

In its own way it does have a voice and it speaks through images it reveals and the inner monologue that it inspires from the looker. Sometimes it is pleasant, mostly it is mundane and indifferent. These days it has been cruel; it shows Azula that she has been deteriorating steadily and rapidly. 

That something that was already well out of her control has spiraled much further beyond it. Either her skin has grown sallow or the palace’s warm lighting is making her complexion look more sickly than it truly is. For certain she has grown thinner, her robes had always fit rather large on her frame for comfort’s sake. Now they are too baggy for comfort. Sleep and illness have put bags under her eyes too.

She touches her fingers to her cheek, the texture of her skin is not quite right, but that could be because she hasn’t been drinking enough. Her cheekbones are more prominent beneath her fingers.

She wants to blame Mai and TyLee.

If they hadn’t chosen Zuzu…

If they hadn’t left…

Since finding out, they have always kept her fed and comfortable. 

She grits her teeth. It is her own fault for letting them care for her instead of learning to care for herself by herself. 

Even if they were there to feed her, she probably wouldn’t want to eat anyhow. The sickness is getting worse and it is stealing her appetite, her comfort, her strength, her motivation, and, most pressingly, her future. 

Her well kept secret is finally unraveling and she is glad that father isn’t around to witness it, that nobody is around to see it, she had made certain of that. And she starts to wonder…

She is always wondering, speculating, or overthinking about something or another. 

This time she ponders exactly what is to blame for her fraying mind, the fog within it, and the things that it shows her—the things that aren’t truly there. 

Can tuberculosis cause paranoia and hallucinations or was it the loss of Mai and TyLee that has put her mind of kilter. If the former is to be blamed then it might be that she is reaching her last days. And, by the spirits, it seems to have come about so quickly. She knows that she doesn’t want to be alone when she takes her last red, labored breath. 

Her chest hurts.

Her lungs burn. 

She is afraid to die.

But she is afraid to breathe.

.oOo.

To some degree, she wonders what the purpose is. Of the crown. Of this new title. Of anything really. Azula will be dead soon and she knows it. So why then? Why bother letting them fix the crown into her hair? A sense of duty, she decides, and to make father proud right to the very end. Her nation depends on her, especially now, with the comet barreling towards the world. Her firebending is charged, she can feel it in her core, but she is no longer certain that she could withstand its power. 

The Fire Sages hover the crown just above their head, they are just about to decree that she is the new firelord. She closes her eyes and when she opens them, Zuko is in front of her with the waterbender at his side and the bison behind him. 

Surely she is delirious with fever. 

But no, the Fire Sages are exchanging looks. 

Her already burning chest, flares with hatred. Resentment for the person who had taken her mother from her and then her friends. For the person who now wants to steal her crown—the very last thing that she has.

She is in no condition for an Agni Kai, but she will fight all the same.

She will fight to keep what is hers, fight for her nation, and fight for her honor. She will fight for her vengeance. She will fight for her friends—surely Mai and TyLee will understand then, how much they mean to her. 

She rises to her feet, her head is already spinning. 

Dear Zuzu has already accepted her challenge. Her fate, whatever it may be, is sealed. 

She closes her eyes and hopes that her coughing will subside just long enough for her to win this fight. 

She takes a labored breath and she takes a stance. She feels that breath, scratchy and searing. Like sandpaper dragging all the way down her throat. She holds herself rigid and ready in spite of it. 

Zuko makes the first strike, a powerful blast of orange flames that heat her face from well across the arena. She returns with a burst of her own blue and equally as scorching, if not more so. It isn’t a fair match; not in numbers, not with her state of mind, not with her state of health. She supposes that she has made her share of sneaky, honorably questionable maneuvers. A war is a war and it will not stop because she is feeling ill. 

And so she throws blast after blast until the chills start to wrack her body. Even then, she pushes onwards. Even then she wields her fire as she always had. But the more the smoke fills her lungs, the more agitated they become. 

She can feel the fit coming on.

“What, no lightning today? Afraid I’ll redirect it?” 

It is bait and she should know better. 

But it is an excuse; an excuse to end this match once and for all, before tuberculosis ends it for her. 

Perhaps this will be the last thing that she does. She wonders if Mai and TyLee will miss her. Or if they will be relieved to know that she is gone. The lightning crackles on her fingers and the fever crackles in her body. 

Both will be released, only one will claim its target. 

She sends the lightning off as disease rushes forward. Her lightning falls short, it splits the ground with a rumbling crack. It launches Zuko violently towards the other end of their arena. And it launches her body into a violent fit. Her coughs come on with such merciless furocity that it leaves her stomach aching and her body hunched forward. 

She can feel the blood behind her teeth. If she parts her lips, it will drip onto the ground. Perhaps not a dramatic spatter, but two or three little droplets. 

She glances at her right hand.

It is bloodied. 

She glances at the battleground. 

At two alarmed faces. 

And then she sees nothing at all.

.oOo.

Azula’s vision is fuzzy. There are figures around her bedside and she can’t tell who is who. She thinks that they are probably doctors. The same ones who have been attending her since she’d come home. The ones that Lo and Li had found for her.

Her throat hurts and her head is woozy.

Sounds hurt.

Bright light hurts as it streams through the window. A glorious light spills over her face but she has not earned glory. 

The comet has passed and so to has her coughing fit. But the tingling in her throat remains as a souvenir of her suffering and her lungs don’t seem that keen on expanding fully. For it, when her lips part, her breath comes out in a labored hiss. 

“Aang should be here soon, he can help with that.” It takes Azula a moment to recognize that voice as the waterbender’s. But of course. She might not be here if not for waterbending. And for the life of her, Azula can’t understand why Katara would help her. Especially when Zuko had also been harmed. Perhaps he hadn’t taken a direct hit but the lightning had fallen at his feet and the shockwaves had thrown him a respectable distance. 

Katara likes him better anyhow.

Everyone does. 

“Mai and TyLee?” Azula mannages. 

“They’ll be here soon.”

But she can’t imagine that they will want to talk to her. They are probably coming for Zuzu, to check on and comfort him. 

“I’m cold.” She mentions. But she is also terribly hot, her face has a thin film of sweat. 

“You have a fever.” Katara replies. “But I think that you know that. How long?”

“How long, what?”

“How long have you known?” And then she elaborates. “That you were sick.”

“None of your…” she falters into a half cough. “Of…” another half cough. “your…”  And then there is the first full cough. Finally another fit comes on in full. Silent tears leak down her cheeks, more so the product of physical strain than any emotion.

Katara hands her a glass of water. “Drink that. After you swallow I’m going to bend that water and try to soothe the inside of your throat. It will probably feel weird, but it won’t hurt…”

It wouldn’t matter if it did, her throat is already sore.

“...And you won’t drown.”

Fleetingly it crosses her mind, that maybe she would be perfectly content drowning. She drinks the glass and Katara takes hold of the water. The sensation is terribly unpleasant, like nothing she has ever felt. Like nothing she ever wants to feel again. But then her burning throat cools and the sharpest of pangs taper off. 

Katara lowers her hands. “No more talking, okay? You’ll agitate your throat.” Katara says. “Just rest.” 

Azula nods. 

“Zuko is in the bed next to you. Both of his feet are bandaged and he’s got a concussion so he won’t be walking for a little while.” Katara informs. “Mai and TyLee and my friends are on their way. You can go to sleep, I’ll wake you up when they get here.”

But she won’t be able to sleep. Her head is too preoccupied with troubled thoughts; knowing that she had failed her people and her father, knowing that she has lost everything including Mai and TyLee, knowing that her carefully guarded secret is now in the hands of the enemy. The enemy that is fixing her blankets for her and putting a cool rag on her forehead. 

“Why?”  Her voice is so hoarse. Hoarse and whispery, nothing like the elegant silk it had been. 

“Because, you don’t deserve to die.” 

It is a simple and impersonal answer. But it is just as well.

“I think that things can be different.” Katara adds. “Now that the war is over.”

Different.

She doesn’t particularly like ‘different’.

She thinks that she might be afraid of ‘different’. 

Even if ‘different’ could be better for her. 

“Get some rest, okay. I’m going to keep waterbending and I’ll have Sokka reach out to this herbalist that we met in Taku; she’s very knowledgeable and she has this troublemaking cat.”

“Miyuki?” Azula grumbles. 

“You know Miyuki?”

Azula nods.

“Does that have anything to do with how Miyuki got in trouble with the Fire Nation?” 

Another nod.

“That’s a story that you’re going to have to tell.”

“You said no talking.” Azula dodges. 

“Later on.” Katara replies. “Right now, just get some rest. We’ll figure out how to treat your tuberculosis.” 

Azula nods once more. Perhaps she will get to live a full lifetime afterall. She just isn’t certain of what sort of life it will be. 

[strikersexhaver]

Diamond in the Rough 💎

A/N needed more Striker content, so decided to dedicate a whole blog for it. Mostly because especially with the new episode had a lot more ideas with our favorite cowboy!

This is more of ‘if Striker had an S/O that was on the same strength level as him’ making them equals, it has a bit of angst, some fluff here and there.

Striker prided himself on not needing anyone, not having anyone to lean on.

He normally refused having anyone having a more genuine relationship with him, due to having it all taken away within a blink and not wanting to deal with that pain.

He met you in Wrath, during a hunt for something to eat for dinner. Hunting for the wild hell hogs (or demon hogs) to take down and skin.

It was never an issue for him as he usually was able to, until you stole his catch. Either by stealing, or just simply fighting over it.

Striker was pissed, alongside his horse Bombproof, as he also had to feed his steed. But even though he was- he was… oddly amused. You gotta be real bold to steal from him, he’s one of the most wanted hellborns in wrath and you come outta the blue to steal from him?

Okay… He’ll bite.

He played dumb for a while, doing the exact same routine and waited for you. Letting you take his catches before he was able to have something to track you down.

He’s an assassin, a bounty hunter, all that good stuff and his name is literally Striker- he’d be able to find and strike you down it’s his thing after all.

When he did however… He felt something he did not like, he saw you struggling which every person was- but, here was different. You struggled like he did, it made him hesitate but he still went ahead to confront you.

“Ya’ must be pretty bold to steal from me…” He looked at you and bared his teeth, seeing the fear in your eyes before you ran off to grab a weapon.

He let you pick it up, he wanted to see what he was really facing. Because you might’ve been struggling like he was, but he was a diamond in the rough. He had to see if you were one too.

And he did, he saw- the fight between the two of you went on for a long while because both of you kept constantly besting the other. It was only until both of you were tired and beaten by each other did you both stop.

You could not even do anything when he crawled out and gave one last look at you before slipping away- he gave you a threat on to not attack his prey again.

He thought you would take the bait and actually go after his catches again, but when he when you didn’t he was baffled. The inner primadonna in him was irritated, but he wondered why he was so annoyed.

Then it hit him that he started to enjoy having someone on his level.

Because of this, and how rare he thought it was to find someone equal. He sought you out often, making you surprised on how he kept finding you every time, whenever and wherever.

He took the time to get to know you, to learn whatever he could about you because he started to genuinely like you.

Which eventually led him to care about you, and you started caring about him too. He no longer had to worry about his food being stolen! Maybe even you’ll get him food sometime… Probably as a gift when he’s busy.

Striker noticed his feelings rising, how he could stare at you longer than usual. He started wishing he could hold you.

He realized he started liking you in a not-so platonic way anymore and that scared him truthfully. For as much as he disliked people like Blitzø, his issues were similar as he dreaded losing someone he cared about again.

Dreaded someone would take you away from him, then leave him all alone once more. He didn’t wanna live that, so- he stopped visiting you and practically vanished.

It hurt you, because you started liking him too. Enjoying the close moments you two had together, you eventually decided to take up what he did to you and find him this time.

Finding him all the way back into his hideout, surrounded by railroads.

(Granted you got the help from the Mariachi imps)

You found him moping about, distracting himself by sharpening his knife.

You attempted to confront him calmly about it, but he responded to you coldly- something you were not used to. Even when you two met and fought, he showed some emotion like anger, cockiness, or confidence.

He tried pushing you away until his emotions bubbled out and he said things that he was meaning to say. Not a love confession, but admitting he cared..?

“I don’t wanna spend all this damn time carin’ about ya’-! All this time just to watch ya’ get stolen away from me, by Satan knows what-“ He huffed before looking at you, seeing the mix of hurt yet understanding in your eyes.

He felt bad, so he said nothing else and sat back down expecting you to leave until you sat next to him and leaned on him. That was the start of him realizing, even if he pushed you away- he wanted you around.

—-

(A/N the actual romantic headcanons)

It would never be said out loud, more of like an unspoken commitment to each other that deemed you both as each other’s partners. Either romantically, or sometimes business wise- as he asked you to help him on his bounties or assassinations.

If he really needed the help, he’s still a prideful man and asking for help can bring someone’s pride down.

Hence why he only does it when he really needs help.

He’s not a too vocal guy on genuine romantic feelings, he’s gonna say ‘I love you too’ when you say it but it’ll be much rarer if he says it to you first.

He personally prefers playful flirting.

Which he flirts a lot, in a more playful way than serious romance.

Only on special occasions, maybe like an anniversary he’ll sing you a song on his guitar.

He’ll give you rides on Bombproof (if you made up to the horse for stealing it’s food beforehand)

Striker’s a violent guy as everyone knows, so him being protective of one of the only people that cares about him is practically a given. And with what he’s experienced, in his mind it’s the best action.

His love language is mostly, acts of service, to physical touch either or he loves providing.

[legend-the-dumb-jock]

Anonymous: <p>I have this 18 year old preppy college roommate, and honestly, he’s a bit of an asshole. Always talking about how fit and perfect he looks, with his curly blond hairs and tall stature. Hell, he even like to tease the hispanic janitors in his college, lording over how tall and smart he is. You think you can teach him lesson? Perhaps make him into a fat, short, smelly Middle Aged Mexican dad? I’m sure that’ll change his perspective on life a bit.</p>

I agree with you. He should definitely become what he mocks to humble himself. And I believe everything you say we are going to make happen.

You’re room mate just want passing the janitor making fun of him. You came up to him right when he finished saying “I bet you’re so stupid you don’t even understand what I’m saying do you ! You dumb animal!” Abs the janitor was just smiling at him. He didn’t know what he saying. The janitor just arrived in the country a few months ago after fighting and putting everything on the line to be here with his family. He was the nicest man you’ve ever met and you’ve been working with him to learn English so he would be able to understand people but. You’re room mate walks away. You go up to the janitor and ask him in Spanish if he alright. The kind many simply explains that he could t be happier. People here are always so nice. He wasn’t expecting that. And there even that one guy that just walked away that always comes and talks to him. Making him feel welcome every day !! The janitors name was Rico. And you couldn’t be happier that his English wasn’t good. Because knowing what was truly being said would crush him. You get back to your room and your roommate is there doing some sits up. When you walk in he stops and says “making out with that stupid Mexican again? I swear you being so tolerant of them is making you weak! Hell you already speak to them !” You couldn’t take this ridiculous attitude anymore. And you tell him exactly what you think of him. You didn’t know why you expected but you didn’t expect him to launch himself at you. Punch you In the face and knock out a tooth. Right before you passed on the floor you could have sworn that you seen what would only be described as inhuman. Dark shadow. You felt the crushing weight on your hand and when you flinched it jumped back. And right before you passed out it was leaning over you. Horns long and sharp with deep red eyes. The door opened as your roommate walked out of the room and the shadows spirit darted out the door with him. Everything went dark.

You’re room was just sitting down to eat something at the restaurant right around the corner when his phone rang. His bros wasn’t going to be able to meet up for food anymore. They got stuck working on something for school and couldn’t make it. Your roommate just rolled his eyes. “Fucking figures. And now I’m stuck here !” He had already ordered food. It about to arrive and the mariachi band just started playing music for the couple a few booths down. He really hates Mexican food. As he look at the couple with hate in his eyes he didn’t even see the dark shadow glide across the floor. Attacking his own shadow. Destroying it. And replacing it. When his food came he only ate a few gates before he had to get the check. The food was too spicy. He knew he should have just went to McDonald’s from the get go. When he didn’t feel like his check was coming fast enough he just got up and walked out without paying. His new shadow mimicking every step he made.

When he got back to your dorm room he didn’t bene bother checking on you. Still passed out on the floor. He went to the bathroom and slammed the door. “Pathetic human!” He said under his breathe referring to you. He started his nightly skin care routine when he noticed something off. A dark hair sticking out of his face. Thick. Dark. Out of control. He plucked the hair and was surprised as joe strong the root of the hair was. He didn’t think it was going to come out. His stomach began to gurgle and he had the urge to vomit. Running to the toilet he began to heave. He knew he shouldn’t have had that Mexican food ! He sat d down on the side on the bathtub. Head in his hands looking at the floor waiting for the nausea to pass. That’s when he notified his shadow. Like there were horns coming out of his ? What is that. He looked up seen nothing there and then back down when he seen the horns on the shadow. Then it started ….

Started at his feet they began to cramp. Moving on their own as the tendons and bones broke and reshaped. Becoming smaller and much wider. Going from a 14 to a 11 ½ triple wide. Thick dark hair began to sprout on the tops of his feet and toes. He fell backwards into the tub his legs being in the airs as he seen the muscles begin to shake abs soon his calves began to inflate. Look like footballs were being stuffing is calf’s and his thighs followed suit. Soon thick dark hair was pushing out of his legs as well quickly covering them in a dark forest of foreign black hairs. Freaking out he tried to pull himself out of them tub and when doing so felt both of his hands breaks and reshape themselves. Forming thick fat fingers. Attached to wide calloused calms. While again. The same thick dark hairs covered his knuckles and the backs of his hands while then change travels upward to his forearms. Forcing muscle to expand out on his arms all over. He began to look like a man who spent all his time in the gym. The arms of his stripped hoodie began to get tight and he began to burn up as the hair piled onto his frame. He managed to get out of the tub. He needed his roommate to call for help. He was having some kind of allergic reaction to that Mexican food. When he stood up he was brought to his knees in front of the sink as his back gave out. Causing him to shrink going from 6’2” to 5’7”. Bracing himself on the floor he felt his should push out. Getting wide than ever before. Then he felt the weight. As his abs began to churn. Feeling as if his stomach was spinning in circles. Then when he managed to stand again he didn’t have tile to see his changes because he started feeling as if he was being pumped with sir. His sweater began to curve outward. He unzipped it frantically and he seen what could only be described as horror as he he seen his once toned stomach begin to push further and further from his frame. While his pecs puffed up more and sagged slightly looking like muscle tits on what was becoming a quickly rounding keg of a stomach. Tears were welling up In his eyes. He felt the dark hair traveling on up his completely formed keg and wasn’t long before he seen the dark hairs spread up the middle of his stomach. Then fan out. Connecting with the hair on his back. Coving just a full body sweeter as it wrapped up around his shoulders and across his chest. He looked in the mirror. Tears were rolling down his face when he could see his cheeks began to get fatter. A 5 o’clock shadow began to form which quickly turned into a beard so thick he couldn’t see his skin anymore. His beautiful blonde hair felt out making him bald save for the sides of his head where the hair turned her black. His nose broadened and stuck out a tightly and cubes while his cheek bones rose and set in place. The skin he could still see under all the body hairy began to dark. First a light sun kiss. Then quickly into a dark tan that you can’t get just by being in the sun. This tab was inherited. This tan was …..Hispanic. Your room at looked at himself in the mirror and screamed as he realized he was now an exact imagine of a middle aged Hispanic man. No one would ever thing he was a young fit jock looking like this. He didn’t even look American anymore !!!

He came stumbling out of the bathroom. You were beginning to stir awake. And he ran out the door before you could see him. Along the way sweat began to pour on his fattening form. All this added weight on his smaller hairier frame began to soak through his clothes with thick greedy Hispanic sweat. His thoughts raced as his mind changed making English a second language. He came to a corner and collapsed panicking. Crying in a deep baritone thay his body now had. Unable to stop the loud deep cries. That’s when the janitor came by. Abs just as if he was speaking English you understood him. “Hey big guy you play ?” You try to tell him what’s happened and he just looks at you puzzled. “Alright…. We’ll let’s try and get you some clothes.”

A week passed and you walk by and see that a new janitor has started working for the college. You talk to Rico and he tells you about the new man working there. “He’s just got here last week. Big ol fella. Crazy stories about being a young fit college student here but I’ve seen his phone. He has 10 kids at home. Maybe you can help him learn English ?” And as you approach the big bellies janitor you can’t help but see a horned shadow beneath him. The first that catches your attention about him in the smell of Bo. As if he hasn’t bathed in a while. The new janitor looks at you. As if he notices you and you can see the sadness in his eyes. And you ask “would you like to learn some English?” The man begins to cry as id you e offended him.

November 27th, 2021 6:20pm college hell

[verashalurks]

I know this is like dying but I’ve waited so long to post this cuz I wanted to get as much as I can but since I haven’t seen another alternate m*leven ship name in forever, I’ve decided to post all the alternate m*leven ship names I’ve seen.

milkvan

macarena

mumble

miley cyrus

melvin 

milkshake

mitochondria 

Keke waka 

milkdud

Misaligned Fallopian Tubes

machine gun

milkcurd

mildew

milkman

moonshine

menstruation

midleven 

Macroeconomice

microwave

Macadamia nut

monkeyvenom

masturbation

mythology

Minotaur

malware

malnutrition

Minecraft mobs

moon landing conspiracy

margerine

murmers

milkyway 

mcchicken

monsoon

melted marshmallows

mango

maroon 5

Of Mice and Men

Madagascar

Marty McFly

melville

Milk of Magnesia 

Milkwaukee

Milkchocchip

M-1 Rifles

Meerkats

Mlvn

M&Ms

McDonalds

McVans

Milehighclubs

Mitskivans

Mychemicalromance

Monsterhighs

Millennials

Malnourished Skin

Mona Lisa

Mushroom Raviolis

MK-16

Mascara

Monoclonal Antibodies

Mamma mia

Mealworm

messenger

mentoses

milkweed

microbe

mimetite 

morsels

mozzarella sticks

milkchicken

minestrone

macaroni

Methamphetamine

Markiplier

milkbag 

machine gun kelly

zoo wee mamas

Milevensies

molotov

mismatches

mandalorian

mildred

magdalena bay

milulu

Milkmaids

minimum wages

mailman

malt vinegars

moshimonsters

mids

mocha monsters

Marley and Me

Mitosis

three musketeers

milkshit

Miranda Sings

motorola

mobility exercises

Malnourished Foreskin

miscellaneous

McNuggets

microfungus

minnie mouse

millipede

milkmonsters

monkey ooh ooh ah ah

martians

milquetoast

Manicure

milkbone 

Meryl Streep

macadamias

Maple Syrup

mildew

multivitamins

mascarpone

mikeisdefinitelyisdefinitelyahetrosexual

magnesium

magician

mickey mouse clubhouse

Macaulay Culkin

Molotov Cocktail

meatball choppers

milky cereal cup

monkey see monkey do’s

meth lab

millyrocks

Milklovers

midvans

mac and cheese

mindflayer

Marvin martians

malteesers

minivan

MilkTit

milk and cookies

milklords

Tickle Me Elmos

minnions

mad mothers

mariposa

Milkbag

mitskivan 

Mucinex

mixed signals

Milkytitty

mighty morphin power rangers

🥛🚚

Milkvillains

Mosquito bites

Mug cakes

Moldy milks

micropenis

maggots

Machupichu

mephistopheles

malted milk

musculoskeletal

Mcdonald's happy meals

moose mooses

macaroni n cheese

maternity leave

moustache mountain

mocha cake a la goldilocks

Mcstuffins

Mcmuffin

Nickleback

MonkeyBall

mistletoes

moo moo

microphone

master of puppets

middleman

Monster of Men

Melted Cream Cheese

milkythooth's

meltdowns

mosh pits

Mikinam 

Megatron Titty

MontyPhyton

malaria

michigans

malibubarbie

Mockingbird

Machine Gunner

Milkbone

Milftits

Mcflurry

mangos

metric system

milkydudes

milk cartons

milklevel

Milan champions league

mcladdles

mustard

malfunctioning minotaurs

moaning myrtle

meep city

mount vesuvius

millyrocker

mango salsa 

milkspill

Mitochondrial Disease

m'leven

michigan

Machine Gunner

Maybelline

Mascot

Moldy Mozzarellas

malt powder

machine gun kelly

Manila papers

Merlin’s Beard

mackerel

Moldymilk

mariachi

mein kampf

melevenene

Miku

mediocre meat loaf

Mambo Jambos

Microscope 

my little pony

Menstrual cup

Mothman 

Megamind

Msg

Marvins 

Mesopotamias

Meralco

misanthropic villains

Mishawaka

Moldy bread

Marsupials

Marvin

Melon rinds

Moondance

Moldy macaroni

Magical miscarriages

Mauled maggots

Machine gunners

Moscova

Mondays

Momento Morí

mitochondrion

Megatron

Misused toilet

meeting micky mouse

melatonin deficiency

Minions

Milkovitch

Manly-man

McLovin It

Mexico

milkytruck

molars

Married Salamanders

mister mustard

Mario Kart

Mouse rat

marshal mathers

militia

milebin

Mewtoo

Margaritas

Mick Jagger

Elr 

Milkwaffers

Milkweven

Mud Stain

Mileperson

milerescent

Milanese

Manatee Turd

Magistrate

Mario run

Mint-chip icecream

Milkwaffers

Microsoft

miléveune

Mesothelioma

Moomoos

matchstick

malteser

morallysus

Macronutrient 

Miel

Milanese

milkies

Microsoft11

mineral water

multiplier

Mario Kart Wii

mild salsa

Minnesota

motorcycle

Minecart

Maltodextrin

muffin mans

Midlife crisis

Mortadella

Matcha

Microdickvan

Mac & cheese

Middle aged vans

Super Mario 64

Metamorphosis

Malcom in the middle

Magic Mike

711

Marijuana

mozzarella

Microbial virus

MySpace

Materasso Eminflex

microsoft software protection platform

Micheal Jackson

Mistyped

Miscarriage

Magnetic dipole

Marble Countertop

Michelin star

Milkkawaii

Mathematics

Microgodzilla

Milkchunk

milktruck

malooban

Masachussets Institute of Technology

Mango Juice

Mary had a little lamb

Menthols

Mark of Athenas

mendocino

milwankas

[unbrydledfury]

                                                          - - -

    The world's largest celebration of an ex-corpse turned Hollywood Boulevard into a teeming sea of cheering crowds. Countless arms pumped and snatched at the rainbow of confetti snowing from the flawless blue sky. Excited screams punctuated the trumpets blaring from mariachi musicians stationed on rooftops like heralding angels. The day was seventy-five degrees with forty percent humidity.

    The doors of the Chinese Theatre burst open and Bryan Fury stepped out into Southern Californian paradise. His audience roared with praise as he tugged the lapels of his suit jacket, his grin gleaming like the sun off his designer shades. Flanked by a cadre of slim supermodels in slimmer dresses, the cyborg descended amongst his adoring fans.

    Arms spread wide, hands brushing and being brushed by jittering, shrieking devotees, he approached the blank concrete square in the sidewalk. Kneeling before it, he thought about what to inscribe. Simple was best. With a finger he drew his name, all caps, bigger and bolder than life with underlines like missile trails.

    The crowd exploded, bodies bobbing in seismic waves as the music swelled to a crescendo. Bryan rose to his feet and thrust his fist skyward, a triumphant cry tearing from him that hundreds echoed back. Cameras flashed like starbursts while cannons cascaded streamers and silver glitter and a glowing warmth he hadn't felt in ages filled his mind. He was seen. He was known.

    A pair of arms curled under his own, hands resting on his sternum. Bryan could recognize their scars anywhere. A face pressed briefly, affectionately, into the back of his shoulder, and lips softly brushed his ear.

    "Well done, darling," Dragunov murmured.

    Despite the postcard weather and rock concert crowd, the pit of Bryan's stomach turned to frost. Never once had he heard Sergei speak. That was not the soldier's voice. That was his own.

    Pale fingers trailed over his throat.

    Fury swung a punch behind him, and the vague shape there broke apart into streams of navy mist. The sounds and smells of the Walk of Fame felt as distant as his plummeting mood. What the fuck was that? He tried for steadying breaths, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

    A heartbeat he did not have.

    He looked to his entourage. They were nothing but smears of peach and tan, brushstrokes emulating hourglass figures and beehive wigs. Whirling back around, he saw his audience was a wall of faceless blotches and stains, an endless LSD trip projected on suffocating wildfire smoke. The music stuttered and skipped. Impossible. Wasn't it playing live?

    Trying to blink the insane mirage from his eyes -- no use, it was still there, its cheers warped long and low into funerary wailing -- Bryan reached to remove his shades. Something larger than lenses stopped his fingers. Bulkier. Pulling on it, he felt it press against the back of his head. He grabbed the crown of his head, arms straining to rip his skull apart.

    CRUN--

                    -

                        --nch.

    Still breathing hard, it took Fury a moment to gather himself. He was in a small white room, standing on some sort of small round treadmill. Mechanical arms attached to the machine and hanging from tracks on the ceiling lashed cuffs around his ankles and wrists. In his hands were two pieces of some sort of helmet, cracked down the middle with technicolor wiring exposed.

    Two men and a woman in white coats stared from an observation window, eyes wide and mouths agape with fear. A fourth researcher stood in the room with him, frozen in place, laptop clutched to her breast.

    Bryan looked himself over. Left arm and right leg devoid of synthetic skin, check. Camo pants, check. Ocular HUD reporting normalizing respiration rate, adrenaline levels, and latency between brain and limbs, check, check, check.

    He couldn't help but chuckle.

    It had been a whirlwind, even by his standards. Receiving word from a Hollywood studio that wanted to tell his story was unexpected but interesting. He remembered walking into their office and shaking hands with the director -- yeah, that was him in the observation room, wearing a nametag from a private military company -- mindful not to crush his bones. They wanted to try a new technique, he said, a type of VR AI that captured and generated visuals from memories. Always willing to play my greatest hits, Bryan recalls saying. They'd strapped him in and turned it on. The next week had been a tour de force, carnage reimagined: gunning down insurgents in Middle Eastern deserts, plowing through waves of Zaibatsu even as his flesh tore like fishnets, a second extinction of the Manji clan.

    Grinning, he loosed a nostalgic sigh. The little black box between his lungs was worth its weight in diamonds. He sent it a kind, simple query: where would I be without you?

    He interpreted its response as followed: here, where you've been for the past one year, four months, and eleven days.

    The researcher inched toward a door in the corner.

    Still smiling, Bryan craned his head toward her. "Oh, you clever bastards," he muttered, and threw the broken helmet through the window, impacting the director's face with a spray of blood.

    As he slumped to the ground, the others bolted. Seconds later the room was shrouded in red as an alarm blared. The woman with the laptop had her hand on the doorknob.

    Pain exploded down her side as Bryan grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her close. She could feel his breath, hot and humid, on her neck. "No you don't," he snarled, "You have some explaining to do. Looks like I've been out of the loop for a while."

    Guards are coming, she thought, trying to contain her panic and her bladder, It's okay, it'll be okay. The guards had guns. They'd take him out.

    Yet he held her in front of him, his grip like iron. She had seen for herself Bryan's opinion on collateral damage.

    Jackboots thundered closer.

    His words like beetles in her ear: "Start talking."

[dontcryminecraft]

For clairty's sake, i'm gonna jot down q!phil's recent lore-

q!phil was given a book in a chest that lured him to a birdhouse where he was trapped for a week. The next time we see him, he's waking up from a dream. He was dreaming of his hardcore world. When he woke up, he was in his original skin, not the mariachi skin we last saw him in. The box he was given the message that said "a cage for a cage" AND the kid's items were gone. He finds a new door on the birdhouse, allowing him to leave, only to find cucurucho in a weird "replica" of a federation office. He asks for his kids but gets laughter in return. He is handed another cryptic book, and after yelling at cucurucho, he blacks out and wakes up in his basement below the egg's room. He's still processing things when Antoine finds him. He is back to wearing the Mariachi outfit, a poppy and a potato in his inventory, and he does not have any idea about how long he was sleeping. The box where he got the original letter with the coordinates was gone.

When he and Tubbo talk later, he throws around the idea of a "food coma" (which he takes vaguely more seriously than being possibly drugged by the federation? lol). He shows tubbo the poppy and potato, which tubbo recognizes as symbols of tallulah and chayanne, while he brushes off.

He tells Tubbo about his dream, but he starts the dream when he gets to his basement below the egg's room. He thinks his dream BEGAN with leaving for the birdhouse trap, and tells Tubbo that once he was trapped in the house he started having different dreams. he lists his hardcore world as only one of the things he was dreaming about, and it feels like he was sleeping for WEEKS. He and Tubbo talk about how lucid the dream was, the two suggest that they go look for the birdhouse. tubbo thinks it's suspicious that phil remembers things so clearly, but when they arrive at where the house was it was gone. Sure, the trees looks weird, but phil insists that natural worlds can generate like that so it's fine.

Later, renames the poppy to "Poppy (real?)" and the potato to "Potato (or not?)" He says that he has never experienced something that vivid and he's never had dreams within dreams, but he can't prove anything happened so it HAS to be a dream.

So, we're left to believe that it was a dream.

or was it?

[mysteryideasgroup]

My MSA X Coco (Musician)

Full Name:

First Name:

Last Name:

Age: 21 or 22 

Gender: Male  

Skin Colour: Tan 

Eyes Colour: Brown 

Hair Colour: Black 

Clothes: Mariachi 

Shoes: Mariachi 

Accessories: Mariachi Ascot 

Hair Styles: (Hector's) 

Eyebrows Styles: (Hector's) 

Beard Styles: Goatee (Hector's) 

Alignment: Good

Likes:  Dislikes: Framed, Evil Spirits Souls, Villains, 

Hobbies: 

Species: Human with Skeleton Ghost Skeleghost hybrid Calavera Sugar Skull

Status: Dead/Deceased later Alive/Active 

Weapons: 

Powers and Abilities: Like Skeletons Detach-ability

Skills and Abilities: Songwriting Skills, Guitar Skills 

Paraphernalia/Belongings/Holders: His Guitar and Songbook 

----

For @laurasanchez36

___ ___ belongs to my new MSA X Coco (Disney and Pixar Movies) 

[tylerxm]

Mil Y Un Recuerdos. — A Short-Fic (Ernector).

Two children playing mischief in a simple pueblo like Santa Cecilia. The dynamic duo of yet-to-be-released musicians scampered through the sparsely populated streets of the small pueblo, laughing and enjoying the warm breeze.

There was the younger of the two, 14-year-old Hector Garcia Rivera, and the older, 18-year-old Ernesto Herrera Cruzado.

Both were running from an angry fruit vendor who was chasing them through Plaza del Mariachi for stealing a small bag of fruit.

Well, no big deal.

They lost sight of him as they both ran into a dark alley. Ernesto covered the younger man's mouth and Hector did the same with Ernesto's mouth, watching as the fruit vendor continued to run. Apparently, he turned around and went back to the fruit shop. They smiled mischievously.

- Did you see his face? It was as rojo as a tomate with anger. - Rivera let out a light laugh as he sat down on the dirty floor. Ernesto followed him and sat down in front of him.

- Not even his seasonal tomates are as red as he is. - Ernesto drew a laugh from Hector that made De La Cruz smile.

- Your place or mine? - Ernesto added, trying not to get the guitar on his back dirty.

- Yours, you know how my madre is. -

Ernesto nodded as he stood up and offered Hector his hand to get up. Hector took it to walk to Ernesto's house.

How lucky Ernesto was and at the same time how unlucky he was; the poor man had lived alone since 6 months ago.

His mother passed away and his father left them when he was 10. He still suffered silently for the death of his beloved mother. He prayed next to her precious soul every night, even though he wasn't super religious.

Hector knew how affected Ernest was on the subject, and he wasn't very present when his mother died because of his family, but he did send him letters and small comforts from a distance.

He patted Nesto's back before entering his house, empathetic. He knew how affected he was still.

Ernesto left the bag of fruit on the nightstand he kept next to his double bed. He closed the door behind him, letting out a sigh. He had a bed like that because it was where he and his mother slept after his father left them.

He took the guitar off his back, leaving it on the bed as he reached into the drawer of that same bedside table for his diario ideas notebook. Héctor sat down next to Nesto's guitar, looking at him curiously.

Ernesto found the notebook, setting it on top of the bed as he sat down in front of Hector. He smiled slightly as he felt his heart shrink slightly at the song he was about to sing to Héctor.

Héctor finally connected the dots, grinning from ear to ear with an excited gleam in his eye.

- Have you composed a song? Déjame oírla, por favor!! - He said between pleas as he lightly moved Ernesto eagerly grabbing his shoulders. Ernesto laughed, soothing him.

- Okay, pero no te rías. - He said as he looked at the smooth-skinned young man, feeling his own dark circles under his eyes.

- I'll try not to. - He said attentively to the stranger as he watched him grab his guitar. Ernesto positioned himself to sing in a soft but melancholy voice.

The opening guitar melody began, so that he could sing along.

"I stumbled upon your gaze

And I still can't get up

If it were up to me, believe me by now

I would have left.

But it was my heart

Who took possession of this illusion

And even though it's suffering

It doesn't give up."

Hector seemed to be really attentive, looking at Ernesto with surprise and some confusion. Was that melody for someone? Did Ernesto have a secret passive love? Or perhaps a lack of love?

"You have reasons I know

To find someone better

But something deep inside me

All this ignores.

It tells me that you're for me

That if I thought I lost you

I was wrong

That I'll start again from now on."

Héctor's frown was sad, as the older man's closed-eyed expression expressed pain, a lot of pain and suffering. Poor Héctor was really getting into the song, for it was depressing.

"Accept me into your heart

Just as I am, don't you see that I am

That I no longer have room in my soul for suffering.

I'm dying to leave

Somewhere my sorrow

And run after you without further thought."

The youngest's eyes crystallized, settling down as he tried not to cry. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes as he let himself be carried away.

"Understand that I am now at a disadvantage

at a disadvantage if I leave

I've already looked for you and I have no other way out.

Than your contempt to bear

Until you manage to tear away

The last drop of my cry in this life."

A few last notes faded into the air from the guitar. 'Nesto opened his eyes to behold a smiling Héctor without showing his teeth, slowly weeping for the song.

Ernesto's crystallized eyes were still there, now with a somewhat broken voice trying not to fall apart in front of his friend.

- So... What do you think? - He said curiously after all, then asking him if it was okay. Hector let out a small chuckle through his tears, nudging the older man lightly.

- Chinga, who hurt you so bad bud'? -

Ernesto let out a laugh, while looking with bright and emotional eyes at Héctor. A very, very subtle blush was on his cheeks, unnoticeable because of the poor light in the room.

- You'll find the persona indicada. - Hector said, laying a hand on the older man's shoulder.

What Hector didn't know is that he had already found someone he knew he would never be able to have.

Tuyo por siempre, -Ernesto.

might say! this fic was heavily inspired by some content creator that used to upload things about Ernesto and Héctor, credits to them. ;) → @/appatary8523

[writernopal]

Manuscript Search Tag

ALRIGHT this is going to be a FAT post because I have quite a few of these to catch up on and I didn't want to spam lol

Tagged by the following lovely peeps!

@talesofsorrowandofruin, here

@oh-no-another-idea, here

@justnerdy15, here

@sam-glade, here

@ellatholmes, here

Thank you all so much! 💙

Tagging (gently): @duckingwriting @acertainmoshke @callahanscorner @lorenfinch

Your words will be: savor, energy, camp, and fortune

From @talesofsorrowandofruin

bandages

The words tangled in my throat as the open door revealed the lavender lizard pirate standing there, bandaged and supporting himself on a cane. I clutched my hand to my chest and nearly bit my tongue to avoid screaming. Of all the guests I might have expected, he was not one of them. But I suppose I should speak, shouldn’t I? I couldn’t simply stand there looking at him.

crawling

He departed, and while I did my best to temper my anger, it got the better of me as I seized one of the paperweights from my desk and threw it across the room, shattering some glass thing wherever it landed. Mar-Dur knew we would not follow him into waters crawling with the Pale Navy. It would be suicide. Though if he was going willingly into those cursed seas, it must mean that he was searching for powerful allies, heavy artillery, or both.

dull

I missed him more than I could put into words, and much as I tried to deny or convince myself otherwise, I loved him. The dull ache in my chest grew, and I started to cry. I’d missed people before; in fact, I’d spent most of my life yearning for the company of those I could not be with, but these feelings were different and altogether more painful.

extraordinary

Perhaps it was silly, but it reminded me of his grandmother’s story about the Kingdom of Frogs, hidden under the humble visage of a well, just as this place was hidden within him... A wonder unlike any other took over me, and with it came an overwhelming need to protect...to protect what? Him? This place? I got the sense that it was extraordinary despite his writing it off as ordinary.

From @oh-no-another-idea

black

I sat up and reached over to the small end table beside the tub to retrieve my soap when I saw a strange black smoke creeping in from outside my tent. A panic entered my stomach. Was this the Third Prince’s magic? I choked back the scream in my throat and watched it closely to see what might happen next. It began to grow thicker and started to crawl up the air, coalescing into the form of something.

gauze

I don't have this word, so have an AASOAF fun fact instead! In the original telling of AASOAF, Wilkes attends a formal event dressed in Lizardfolk robes heavily inspired by Mexican Mariachi dress because I think he'd really like the style IRL!

skin

She was leaning against one of the masts and somehow managed to look imposing and enchanting at the same time. Her face was long and elegant, each feature upon it well-defined and distinguished. Her eyes were a golden color that stood out against her skin and hair; both appeared the color of rain-dampened soil, rich and dark.

paper

She’d traveled in nightclothes, a cloak, and bare feet; even I could admit that probably didn’t feel good despite not personally needing to wear shoes myself.  Humans had paper-like skin on their feet, so they could hardly withstand things like pebbles and small branches, unlike my kind, who stepped on things like cactuses without issue.

fabric

The fabric of her dress rustled as she produced the pouch of treasure I had snuck into her bag the night before. She wasn’t here to return it, was she? She couldn’t be that stupid, right? Though I suppose she could be. Intelligence was not a credit she could be so confidently assigned, at least not in the same way one could with her honesty.

From @justnerdy15

heart

“Do you think they’re alright?” I asked softly. She laughed. “Child, don’t tell me you are still soft-hearted after being in my service for two years. Very little should concern you about society now; you should see this as nothing more than mere entertainment. When you get to my age, things such as these are commonplace.”

rain

It seemed one of the ropes of my makeshift tent had come loose from the branch I’d tied it to, freely letting in the rain as a welcomed guest. I frantically gathered my things, but it was no use. They were ruined! But what about—?! I gasped and dropped the blanket I’d been holding and patted my pockets hurriedly, sighing relief upon feeling the card tin safely inside one of them.

sound

As I chewed, I looked over the landscape and marveled at how peaceful it was. There was a gentle breeze, the sound of tall grasses sliding past one another, bugs flitting all throughout the air, and birds chirping, hidden in the boughs of their chosen trees. I might enjoy it more if I wasn’t in the company of an absolute tyrant.

bold

I wouldn’t be bold enough to say it looked comforting because it didn’t, but it was a relief to lay eyes upon, if only because it was the last remaining gesture of kindness being shown to me. I reached up nervously and took it. He pulled me up with ease and then quickly replaced his steady grip with my bag’s handle instead.

From @sam-glade

wing

The woman began to approach with slow, deliberate steps. Wrong again. Miss Frère walked with a bouncy urgency that swished her skirts ever so slightly to make the most gentle rustling sound. Perhaps to sound, well, like the beating of a dove’s wings. Yet another thing this woman was not.

want

It was an odd way to sleep, but I didn’t want to question it if that’s how she was most comfortable. I shifted ever so slightly, and then it was silent again. The low crackle of the fire in the hearth and the occasional firework outside punctuated how uniquely awful this lack of sound was. I wanted to take her into my arms, but she didn’t seem to share the desire, or else she would not be so far away. But she was cold, right?

win

“If’n her type be tall and handsome, she will forget ‘bout him entire when she claps eyes on me. Landlubber be right squat.” I declared smugly. She laughed. “Well, let’s make this interesting then. If you don’t manage to win her over, then tomorrow night, you must wear a corset.” I eyed her for a moment, then glanced back at the woman in the starling mask. Perhaps I was a little out of practice when it came to charming women, but surely I was not so useless. Pulling a woman away from a man like that should be easy for someone as dashing as me.

wait

I expected her to come back after that, but instead, she stood there until the vessel disappeared from view entirely. Would she wait like that for me if I ever sailed someplace without her? And would she be awash with tears as she was now? I hissed quietly, trying to shake the image from my mind. I didn’t like it.

From @ellatholmes

iron

I took a few deep breaths and cursed my hands for being so uncooperative as they failed to strike sparks with the flint and iron that had been sitting on the mantle. After several attempts, I gave up and decided to use matches instead. Though I wasn’t sure why I thought that would be any better. Upon opening the box, several tumbled out and onto the floor, and I even snapped a few as I tried to light them.

ache

Okay this word is in the snippet for dull somewhere up there and since I don't want to put it here gain, have an AASOAF fun fact! Axtapor was original a blue Lizardfolk but then I realized that I had like four other Lizardfolk characters who were blue and decided that I needed more variety so I chose to make him lavendar instead.

ice

Her voice was smooth and cool, like a piece of ice upon the back of one’s neck on a sweltering day. Still, her tone did nothing to take the annoyance out of paying for setting foot in here. I eyed Hartim with a frown as I fetched the advertised twenty-five pieces from my pouch.

bone

I watched as she carefully sliced the meat away from the bones of a desert hare I hunted earlier. The meal would be that and roasted potatoes. A far cry from the handsome meals she was cooking back when we lived in a proper house, but it was better than starving.

[postalvalhalla]

Mariachi

Marcel the ranger stared at the collection of green-skinned musicians in sombreros.

"You hired a goblin mariachi band?" he asked.

"I did!" replied Anika the thief. Flat squeals and squeaks accompanied an off-kilter beat. "They're terrible, I know."

Marcel stared. "Why?"

"First," said Anika, "because people will pay me to make them go away. Second," she added, "because they wrote a song about me - an outlaw ballad in the goblin-tongue. What other brigand has that?"

[literatureatthebowofnails]

A/N: Apologies for another long wait. I thought I was going to post a few days ago, but my muse insisted the final scene I'd written was insufficient. It has since been remedied. I love you like Cap loves America!

Series masterlist

Pairing: Loki x reader

Warnings: Smut, drinking

Summary: Our couple takes their first trip together

Cherry blossoms drift lazily downward as you nibble cheese and sip champagne from lemonade bottles. Lounging on your picnic blanket, you watch goslings paddle after their parents beneath Bow Bridge. A scurry of juvenile squirrels dashes up trunks and around branches, disturbing a woodpecker in search of his lunch.

"I have something for you," Loki says as you bite into a slice of apple. A wrapped box appears near your lap with a green glow.

"Oooo," you pull back the paper, opening it to reveal a black and green bikini. "What's this for?"

"I've booked us a trip to Cozumel for your Memorial Day weekend," he grins.

☕

You step off the plane and into the warm Mexican sunshine. A salty breeze toys with your skirt and hair as you follow Loki down to the tarmac. Within an hour, you're checked-in, unpacked, and carrying your beach bag to the shore.

The picturesque Caribbean laps at the white sands and you settle into a lounge chair. A mariachi band plays on a low wooden stage, accompanied by the occasional trills and squawks of vibrant birds.

You methodically apply your sunscreen as the dark-haired prince stretches his long limbs out beside you. A cabana boy takes your order and returns with fresh margaritas and a plate of lime-caressed papaya.

"Could you?" you ask, looking over your shoulder at the lounging god.

"Of course, darling," he takes the bottle. "Why don't you lie down."

You adjust the seat to rest on your stomach, cradling your chin against your arms. Loki kneels beside you in the sand, his fingers expertly searching out every kink and knot as he massages the creamy protection into your skin. "Mmmm," you let out a pleasured groan. "That feels good."

"This is nothing compared to what I have planned for you," he grins, giving you a kiss before recapping the bottle.

☕

As the sun slips below the horizon, you return to your room. Flip-flops kicked off at the door, the beach bag tossed on the bed, and Loki is at your back as you reach the shower. He tugs the string around your neck, revealing your chest as you switch the water on. You turn to face him and untie the other bow, letting the top fall on the tile.

He cups your breasts, grazing over your nipples as you back him into the vanity. You shudder at the sensation and lean in to suck his lower lip between your teeth. Your thumbs slide beneath the elastic at his waist. His cock springs to attention as his trunks join your top on the floor.

"Mmm," he nips your neck. "I do love it when you're needy, darling."

"Oh, do you?" you roll down your bottoms, kicking them free of your ankles. "Prove it."

In an instant he scoops you up, pinning you against the cold shower wall. Hot water rains over you, dousing your hair and running rivulets along his chest and abs. A large hand protects the back of your head as he crashes against your lips, groaning when you grasp his pulsing need.

He thrusts against your palm, a hand kneading your breast. Sinking down, he takes a nipple in his mouth. Your back arches, one hand against the marble, the other in his hair.

He pinches your nipples, rolling them between his digits and continues his trail of kisses down your front as you keen. His head shifts lower, his mouth reaching the crease of your legs. They part for him without thought and he nuzzles against your mound, inhaling the scent of you.

He pulls a leg over his shoulder and grips your thigh, delving ravenously between your folds, lapping at your juices, sucking at your lips and clit until your knee buckles. A whine of his name builds in your throat, the hand on your breast the only thing keeping you vertical as your fingers wind tight in his raven locks.

You buck into him, and his digits find your entrance, slipping past and curling until you give a stifled scream. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves. As it subsides, he keeps them buried in you, slowly pumping and scissoring.

He stands, spreading long fingers to guide his girth between them. You gasp as you stretch around him, the slick of your release easing his entrance as he gives a few shallow thrusts.

He pulls your knees over his elbows one at a time, each defined muscle flexing under his glistening skin has you fluttering around him. You slide your hands around his neck and up into his hair, pulling his head back to nip his collarbone. He hisses at the sensation, setting an emphatic rhythm as you moan against his neck.

Heat floods your core, and you feel the tug like a rollercoaster drop. You press your head against the tile, cunt pulsing and spasming as another orgasm rolls through you. His name topples from your lips over and over until you're out of breath, shuddering and babbling.

"You're so..." he gasps, "...beautiful when you cum for me, darling." He continues to pound into you, letting down one of your legs to thumb circles over your clit. "I've never heard a prayer as sweet as the way..."

"Lokiiii!" you scream as another high crashes down upon you.

"Ex-exactly," he stutters your name, jutting into you erratically as his jaw clinches.

You feel the satisfying swell of him just before his seed coats your walls. He gives a few more thrusts and lets your leg down to pull you into a fiery kiss. With a last, sharp tilt of his hips, he pulls out. "Thank you for coming down with me darling. I can't imagine a better way to spend the weekend."

Taglist: @peaches1958, @javagirl328, @loopsisloops, @goblingirlsarah, @buttercupcookies-blog, @lovelysizzlingbluebird , @cakesandtom, @ladymischief11, @km-ffluv, @coldnique, @glitterylokislut, @eleniblue, @lokiprompts, @lokisgoodgirl

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist

Next part

Main masterlist

[maypearlss]

𝐨𝐜 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚

i have genuinely no idea how to properly introduce may without being absolutely feral about her, so we're keeping this part brief: this post is all about the main character of the nona incident!, may costa! and i'm completely fucking obsessed with her by the way! no joke, i think about her and my heart goes crazy and then i get sad that she's not a real person. anyways, moving on to the rest of the post—

oh, may. nobody quite knows what to make of you, do they? least of all yourself.

may is the protagonist of this story. she is witty, affectionate, highly protective over her loved ones, and wildly electric and talented with a guitar in her hand, but most people tend to be more acquainted with her wry, sardonic side. having spent her entire life acutely aware that she is "the other" in more ways than one, may has become accustomed to being disliked, and to fighting any battle that gets thrown her way. but there's only so far fighting can get her when the biggest issue is her own internalized hatred of herself. may's lifelong dream has always been to play guitar in a professional band and live the rock 'n' roll life—and to live her life side-by-side with nona.

at least one of those things is possible. she's very good at guitar.

𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⋆｡°✩

full name: mayra daniela costa herrera

age: 20 (1985)–tbd

birthday: july 23

pronouns: she/her

sexuality: bisexual

ethnicity: mexican-american

occupation: music store clerk, guitarist

love interest(s): nona darnell, tommy salem

likes: nona, playing guitar, rock music, performing, big dogs, mariachi, leather, pinball, spending time with her abuelo

dislikes: duke, talking about her feelings, people posturing, being alone, neat rooms/spaces

height: 5'7

build: lean, rectangular

hair: wavy, ginger, reaches her chest

skin: light bronze-brown

eyes: hazel (primarily brown and amber with green around pupils)

noticeable features: has a very intense stare no matter her mood

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋆｡°✩

⋆ bad obsession - guns n' roses

⋆ rocket queen - guns n' roses

⋆ magic touch - aerosmith

⋆ get in the ring - guns n' roses

⋆ heaven's on fire - kiss

⋆ you're crazy - guns n' roses

⋆ mr. brownstone - guns n' roses

⋆ estranged - guns n' roses

⋆ detroit rock city - kiss

⋆ since i don't have you - guns n' roses

⋆ i'll fight hell to hold you - kiss

⋆ bad apples - guns n' roses

⋆ heart's done time - aerosmith

⋆ patience - guns n' roses

𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 ⋆｡°✩

one of her longest-held nicknames is mayday, which she got from her dad, who was an air force pilot

her playlist used to consist of entirely guns n' roses and literally nothing else. needless to say, their music and the band in general was the single biggest source of inspiration for her character

she plays the bass on top of the regular guitar

she inadvertently caused nona and duke's first meeting, something she's been mentally kicking herself for ever since

she's absolute shit at verbally expressing her feelings

physical affection is her biggest love language, she's very physically affectionate with all of her friends and loved ones—her second biggest love language is "staring at you until you understand that you matter to her"

there you have it, may costa! she's probably the biggest reason i'm so excited about this wip, i know i'm going to have a blast writing her <3 also, thank you for all the reblogs and love for my last post! you're all so lovely and cool and i really appreciate all the support <333

[hunterofdeer]

Family Dinners (They're the Worst)

I hate family dinners. My family is made up of conservative Christian pain-in-the-necks, and that could be somewhat excusable. However, that sociopolitical group lends itself to be incredibly fucking boring. After a meaningless prayer that takes precious seconds off of my life, I turn to our middle-class smorgasbord for hope; but, alas, my family can hardly put butter in a pan. 

I think the whole prayer aspect has a lasting influence over the meal, as well. When these people pray, they believe the presence of God is surrounding them in a Big Brother-ly way. You better hold that fork correctly or else lightning will strike you down! Make sure to use your napkin, or He’ll skin you alive, then and there! The greatest example of this can be found in the fully disemboweled conversation: “These pork chops are delicious!” or “Did you see Gerald’s picture on Facebook?” (No, the pork chops are dry, and they’re drowning in Sweet Baby Ray’s that is too, well, sweet. And no, I don’t use Facebook. Fuck Zuckerberg.)

Interesting conversations are not illegal! God doesn’t care what you talk about; He’s too busy playing poker with Satan and letting children die. The whole act of a family dinner feels horribly rehearsed—so that any moment could be snapshot for a bargain bin Rockwell. 

Yet I should be grateful and lick my plate clean. The broccoli was roasted in the oven, but it came out miraculously mushy. If I don’t eat it, though, it’s like I’m spitting in the face of some starving African child. To circumvent any arguments that may arise around my leftover scraps, I intentionally give myself tiny portions. It’s easier to say “Oh, I’m not that hungry!” instead of “I would rather eat dog shit!”

Me being the only young person in the house, I tend to be the center of attention at the dinner table. (Not necessarily like a celebrity in the spotlight, but more like a pornstar in church.) I get asked the stupidest questions, and, as of late, I’ve started to play a game where I try to use the least amount of words as possible in my response. If there are exactly five, I yell “Yahtzee!” 

Trust me, I’m not some brooding cynic filled with angst toward the System; I have attempted to spark up discussions in the past. Perhaps everyone at the table is playing my game, because all I get are stale replies. I’ve tried, I’ve tried, I’ve tried—and I’m sick of it.

Maybe your family throws parties and parades for each meal, toasting drinking horns full of mead. A mariachi band busts down the door, and confetti explodes from the ceiling. Auntie Sue spikes the kids’ mocktails so they can get to bed sooner, and everyone stuffs their faces. The food is made by a handsome Greek gentleman that spent years working at Michelin-star restaurants, ultimately deciding to go back to his roots and cook for the people he loves. There is laughter and even tears, and a burgeoning poet jots down some notes that will end up turning this scene into a Pulitzer Prize-winner. All is well for you; but, for me, not really.